Reyna's Revenge: Ceiba Cartel, #2

By Michelle Cornish

Since my mother died, I've told myself love always ends badly . . . Then Elliott came into my life. Bad can be good, right?

 

It's the twenty-fifth anniversary of Reyna Ceiba's mother's murder, and as nightmares about what happened that night plague her, Reyna decides it's time she learned the truth. 

 

She quickly discovers the road to the truth is a dangerous path, and when her brother goes missing, she teams up with undercover DEA agent Elliott Monroe. 

 

As they get closer to finding her brother and uncovering family secrets, Reyna's faced with the painful realization that the end of her family drama means the end of her time with Elliott.

 

Will Reyna come to grips with her feelings for Elliott before it's too late, or will Elliott end up another one of her painful memories?

• Language: English
• Publisher: SolVin Creative
• Release date: Feb 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777094577

Book preview

Chapter 1

Reyna

I wake in my dark, humid room, my throat scorching. I need water, but if Madre sees me, she’ll be angry. But I can’t sleep like this, so I toss my sheet aside and tiptoe to the hall. The tile is cool and welcome on my feet. Scents of carnations growing outside fill the moist, warm air. 

I step gingerly down the hallway, like I’m a cat walking on a fence, and pause when I hear voices in the kitchen. I’ll have to get my drink from the bathroom instead. Can I pass the kitchen without them seeing me? 

How could you do this? I hear a man’s voice as I approach the kitchen. I stop before the entry. Will they see me if I keep going? I peer into the kitchen while remaining as concealed by the wall as possible. The kitchen is dark, lit only by the light above the stove, and the fan is vibrating audibly overhead.

I see a man then pull back tight against the wall before he can see me. My heart races and my throat is so dry I can barely swallow. Uncle Carlos. It has to be Uncle Carlos, but why is he here so late? Who is he talking to?

Answer me, he says, rage taking hold of his voice. 

I was never going to hurt him, Madre says. Please, you have to believe me. Madre cries as she speaks. Why is she crying? Madre never cries.

Horse shit, Uncle Carlos says. "I told Ricardo to stay away from you years ago. Why he’d want to marry a gringa is beyond me."

I peek around the wall again, hoping to see Madre, but the back of Uncle Carlos is blocking my view. 

Come on Carlos. You’ve been drinking, Madre says. Let’s talk about this tomorrow. Why did Padre have to work tonight? He’d know what to do. He always takes care of us.

Uncle Carlos raises his hand above his head. I lose my breath and cover my mouth with my hand. He’s holding a gun. 

"Puta!" he shouts as he brings the gun down. There’s a loud cracking sound, and I scream for Madre as she lets out a yelp. I cover my mouth and run back to my room as fast as I can. 

No, no, I say, in barely a whisper, tears already running down my cheeks. Madre’s okay, she has to be okay. I climb back into bed and pull the sheet up over my head, trying to quell my sobs. A stream of light lands on my bed, and I freeze. I sense someone’s at the door, but I don’t dare move. 

Reyna? I hold my breath at the sound of Uncle Carlos’s voice and lie as still as possible, pretending to be asleep. Reyna? There’s a long pause then the light from the doorway disappears, and the door clicks.

Reeeeeeyna. Something’s not right. His voice is different, like a woman’s. 

Reyna, wake up. There’s a hand on my shoulder shaking me back and forth. Reyna! The voice snaps, and I crack my eyes a little. It’s bright, and I squint. Is it morning already? Your alarm didn’t go off, Jessie says.

Holy shit, I say, sitting up in my bed in the apartment Jessie and I rent together. My heart is thumping like it’s trying to jump out of my chest.

Come on, woman! You’re going to make us both late. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a loose bun, her usual work style.

Thanks, Jess, I say, jumping out of bed. I owe you one. I search my room for some clean clothes and Jess hands me a shirt from my closet. She makes work at the TC—La Tinto Café—a little more bearable.

It’s more like twenty-two you owe me, but who’s counting? Jess says, applying some lip gloss then tucking it away in her bag. 

Apparently you are, I say, punching her in the arm as I toss my wallet into my backpack. My heart is finally slowing to a more normal speed.

Don’t forget your bus pass, she says, pointing to my nightstand. 

Right. I grab my pass and the phone that lays beside it.

You had that nightmare again, didn’t you? she asks. That’s my Jess—straight to the point, as always.  

I freeze then look at her. She knows I don’t like talking about the night my mother died. How did you know? I ask, without making eye contact.

You were trembling and mumbling when I came in.

I look at the ground, not sure how it’s possible that I can love and hate that she knows so much about me. 

It’s the anniversary of her death in a few days, I say, finally.

I’m sorry, Jess says, and she gives me a quick squeeze.

Thanks, I say, flinging my backpack over my shoulder as I walk past her out of my room and down the hall to the bathroom so I can brush my teeth. 

It’s okay to miss her, Jess says, following me. She always says these mushy things when my mouth is full and I can’t argue. I raise my eyebrows and nod at her with my toothbrush in my mouth then spit and rinse. 

Let’s go, I say, hoping we’re done talking about my mother. Are we going to make it?

Jess checks her phone for the time. We will if we run for it.

I groan as I lock the apartment door. I’d rather be late but run to catch up to Jessie anyway.

Chapter 2

Reyna

We get off in the walled city and sprint two blocks to the TC—La Tinto Café. It’s early enough the tourists haven’t crowded the streets yet, and the warm Caribbean breeze from the nearby beach tickles my skin.

Oh, look who it is, Jess says in her best sourpuss voice, as we round the corner to the TC. She can’t stand my younger brother Miguel. He’s always asking for money that I happily hand over. Jess doesn’t understand how things work in my family. She walks right past Miguel without acknowledging his presence.

I’ll see you inside, she says over her shoulder then flings open the door to the TC and marches in. 

You’re up early, I say to Miguel, raising my eyebrows and questioning his presence.

"What do you know about when I get up, mi hermana? Maybe I haven’t been to bed yet." His tone is smug, like he thinks he’s God’s gift to women. I roll my eyes. Miguel’s all talk. At five years my junior, I don’t doubt he could party all night, like I did a decade ago, but he looks well rested this morning.

I’ve got to get to work. Why don’t you stop by the apartment later? I ask, hoping to go a little longer without draining my wallet for the favor I know he’s about to ask me. Between him and our younger sister Tia, I’m constantly tapped out. Ever since my father cut them off, it’s like they think I’m their personal bank. Tia’s been north in Santa Marta finding herself for the last few months. That’s what she says anyway. More like finding a rich tourist to sponge off. At least Miguel pays me back . . . most of the time. 

"Just a little plata to get me through the week," he says, his voice entitled. I look away and into the street, buying myself some time. The warm ocean breeze is replaced by the exhaust from the cars passing by. I cough into my elbow while I consider whether I want to keep doing this dance with Miguel. 

Come on, he says with tension in his voice. 

I don’t have time for this crap, so I grab my backpack and reach inside for my wallet. As I flip it open, a smile spreads across Miguel’s face and he holds out his hand. 

This is all I have, I say, purposely avoiding his outstretched palms and shoving all the bills from my wallet into his chest.

Miguel clasps the money to his chest and tries to grab my wrist as I step back from him. He glances at the bills. 

This it? he asks. I can’t make it through the day on this.

I’m sure you’ll figure something out. I turn towards the TC.

Maybe Leo has a job for me, he says to my back knowing how much I’d rather cut off my own arm than have him work for his drug dealing roommate. I freeze then spin on my heels and march back to him. 

Don’t you dare, I say, my voice lowered. Come back after my shift. You can have my tips. Miguel knows how generous gringos at the TC are with tips. Especially the Americans. Just promise you won’t work for Leo, I say, stabbing him in the chest with my pointer finger. I’ve been trying to get him to move out of that place for months, but he tells me he can’t afford anything else. 

He holds up his hands, my plata still clutched between his fingers. All right, he says. I promise. What is it with you and Leo, anyway? 

He’s a drug dealer, Miguel.

He shrugs. So. Drug dealers always have money.

I let out a growl, clenching my jaw. Then why don’t you borrow money from him? The minute the words fly out of my mouth, I regret them. That would only mean more trouble for Miguel. Never mind. Just come by after my shift. I’ll figure something out.

Miguel turns to leave, and I let out a huff, causing him to face me again. Jess isn’t going to like this. She tries to protect me, but she doesn’t have any family here—she doesn’t understand. She came to Colombia on a backpacking trip to get away from them years ago and ended up staying because she liked the freedom from their demands and pressure. I don’t even know if she talks to any of them anymore.

Remember, you promised, I said, my cheeks burning. 

Miguel nods, his eyes wide. "I’ll see you later, hermana," he says. 

I walk backwards toward the TC and reach behind me for the door. But instead of the door handle, I feel warm flesh, and a static shock strikes me. I jerk my hand away and turn toward the door. 

"Lo siento," I say, looking up at the stranger smiling down at me.

He shakes his head. It was my fault, he says. I was looking at my phone instead of the door. He has a strong American accent. He puts his phone in his pocket and holds out his hand.  

Elliott Monroe.

Reyna, I say, taking his hand. It’s surprisingly smooth and warm but not sweaty.