Blood Money (Dark Cartel Romance) (Dinero de Sangre Book 1) Read online

  Blood Money

  Dinero de Sangre Book 1

  Lana Sky

  Also by Lana Sky

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  Blood Money

  Blood Money By Lana Sky

  Copyright © 2021 by Lana Sky

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design and Interior Formatting by Charity Chimni

  Editing and Proofreading by Charity Chimni

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks so much to everyone who supported this draft along the way, including the many beta readers who provided encouragement! Please keep in mind that this story includes dark, graphic and explicit content matter that is not suitable for readers under the age of 18—or for readers who are uncomfortable with the following subject matter: explicit sex, mentions of sexual abuse, mentions of child abuse, mentions of eating disorders, graphic depictions of violence, and mentions of self-harm.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  A Word from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Lana Sky

  Prologue

  People always laughed when they heard his name, Domino. Paired with his unique attire and penchant for straw cowboy hats, the moniker attributed to his unique allure as a bodyguard. As a result, people rarely took him seriously upon their first meeting.

  Who does this motherfucker think he is? Skeptical men would sometimes ask that very question while strolling from my father’s office—all while Domino himself would watch quietly from the sidelines of the sprawling boardroom they’d been summoned to.

  The next time they were ever seen again would be in pieces, grimly documented by a medical examiner called to investigate the cause of death. Most determinations were just guesses, of course—wood chipper accident, bear attack, and the average sky diving mishap.

  My father controlled the police commissioner, so the official reason didn’t really matter. It could be as outlandish as “tiger mauling,” and no one ever batted an eye. So was the hold the Pavalos family had over Terra Rodea—at least until the day my family was upended and Domino, that faithful soldier, set his sights on me.

  Killing me would have been merciful on his end. Even a supposed wild bear attack would have been a better ending than the one he had in mind.

  I never knew the extent of the hatred such a man could harbor.

  I never knew the violence one human soul could be capable of.

  I never realized that, when it came to destroying my father and toppling his million-dollar empire, Domino’s price would have been relatively low in the grand scheme.

  To betray my family, Domino Valenciaga requested only one thing.

  Me.

  Chapter One

  He’s late.

  I try not to dwell on the potential explanations, or the fact that every passing second he delays risks us losing the reservation it took months to secure. It’s just ten minutes past our scheduled meeting time of six. So what if he hasn’t been answering his phone since then, either?

  I know what—he has his dick in someone else.

  Though, I shouldn’t dwell on that. Utilize your coping mechanisms more, my therapist liked to harp. The main one she touted was counting to five whenever the anxiety started to build. Ground yourself, Ada. Think of one positive to go along with every breath.

  One.

  I’m wearing the new Alexander Marenti summer design from his exclusive collection, and it shows off my body well.

  Two.

  I hate this stupid dress.

  Three.

  Daddy got it only as a pity offering for missing my birthday dinner—and only on the say-so of that cunt bitch secretary of his who handled all of his afterthought social obligations these days.

  Four.

  Tristan’s fucking Alexi again.

  Five.

  He’s balls deep within that whore, and that’s why he’s late. If he shows up now, it will only prove me right. Again. The bastard can only last exactly six-point-seven minutes with an extra wasted to button-up his shitty chinos—

  “Hey, baby!”

  Someone grabs me from behind, sliding their hands along my hips, and I smother a hiss of disgust. Tristan. His cloying cologne gives him away, and I force my lips into a smile. “Hey, baby.”

  My nostrils flare as I spin to face him, and I nearly choke. He reeks of that signature cologne—more so than usual. As if he dumped half the bottle over himself to disguise the stench of Alexi’s shitty perfume and their eight-minute sex session.

  I note that his pink lips are unusually wet as well, his dark hair playfully tousled.

  Fuck him.

  He’s smiling, but it’s strained around the edges. Alexi was always a biter from what I’ve heard, prone to leaving marks that made him wince for days whenever we kissed. It was one of his telltale signs.

  I promised not to take him back after the first time.

  It’s the tenth. Maybe eleventh, but I’m still here, letting him plant a chaste peck on my lips. The way he kisses me when Alexi’s taste is on his tongue, and he hasn’t popped a breath mint yet.


  Fuck. I cross over to the bubbling fountain near the restaurant’s entrance. Overall, the courtyard attached to the venue is beautiful enough to justify its long waitlist and hefty prices, with a Spanish design and a manicured garden. The fountain itself is large enough to swim in, sporting a statue of an angel in the center. Briefly, I consider what might happen if I sank to my knees and dunked my head beneath the water’s surface. Perhaps for “five minutes” of calm.

  Then I imagine how better it would feel to hold Tristan’s head down instead.

  Objectively, I know how it looks from the outside. For the daughter of Roy Pavalos to chase after some bottom-feeding lawyer who can’t keep his dick in his pants where the town whore is concerned.

  It’s pathetic.

  It’s strategic. Said bottom-feeding lawyer just so happens to be the one pawn standing in between my father and a potential federal indictment.

  I don’t love Tristan. He’s merely an assignment. My duty to the family.

  Fucking me gives him a reason to drag his heels, greasing up the wheels of justice just long enough for Roy Pavalos to find a way out of the mess he created for himself. As thanks, Daddy keeps my debit cards well-funded and pays my car note. Though hell, it’s not like I have a choice.

  I’m not allowed to seek out my own employment.

  I’m not even allowed to book a gyno appointment without his say-so.

  Why? Because we are Pavalos. Pavalos. Pavalos…

  From the day I was born with that goddamn last name, I’ve been cursed. My life has never been my own. Everything I do, down to the clothing I wear, is with my father’s approval. So is the responsibility of being born a Pavalos. At least with a mother like mine who lacked the will to divorce my father for the sake of her children like his prior two wives did. We’re both no better than dolls, placed beautifully on a shelf for the world to admire.

  “Ada? You okay, baby?”

  Tristan slides his hands around my ribcage, ghosting my breasts. It takes everything I have not to cringe from him.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he says, flashing a smile that displays the mouth of beautiful teeth he bought last year with one of my father’s bribe payments. “I got held up by work. You ready for dinner? I know this is important to you.”

  Important. As if he would ever know what truly matters in my world. I don’t even have that privilege.

  Still, I smile and preen the way I’ve been taught my whole life. If I’m a marionette on strings, my mother, Lia Pavalos, is the expert porcelain doll. By the time she married my father, the woman had refined how to present a vision of perfection to the public. How to lie. How to sleep with a man who regularly fucks another and how to look amazing while doing so.

  “I’m fine,” I say. In fact, I never stopped smiling. “Let’s go eat,” I add, linking my arm through his. “I’m starving.”

  In reality, I haven’t eaten a solid meal since Monday. It’s Friday. That’s nearly a full week, but nowhere near close to my record. The hunger gnawing at my stomach is a constant distraction, battling with everything else fighting for my attention at the present—and ignoring it might be the one damn thing I’m allowed to do without input from anyone else. I can pick when to silence my twisting, growling stomach, and when not to.

  Tonight, I’ll make myself try some crackers, at least. Maybe some fish.

  I’m fine.

  In a place so beautiful, how could I not be?

  The restaurant’s interior is lavishly furnished with walls an emerald-green and black marble floors. I forget the establishment’s name, but it’s something gloriously Spanish, and it’s a perfect setting to serve as the stage upon which I’ll play my role in the Pavalos family tonight.

  That as the perfect daughter with the perfect boyfriend, on a perfect evening without a care in the world; it doesn’t matter that every damn aspect of it is a lie.

  “You’ve barely eaten your food,” Tristan says once we’ve been seated and served. It all passed in a blur; I don’t even remember what I ordered.

  Soup, it seems, a nice contrast to Tristan’s perfectly seared steak.

  “What do you mean? It’s delicious!” I make a show of prodding at the dish before me, composed of chunks of carrots and potato—Porrusalda, I think it’s called—but I’m too preoccupied to even put on a convincing act. The press and the paparazzi are watching. After all, tonight’s guest list has been coincidentally tailored so that everyone in this city who matters happens to be dining right here and right now. My father planned it this way, I’m sure. Even something as simple as a date has been carefully crafted to his benefit.

  And that’s the catch.

  By tomorrow he will be arrested for murder, and no fancy dinner will be able to change that narrative. What a way for it all to end. For decades he spent his life playing the city as a chessboard, but this is one game that he won’t dominate. We’re already in checkmate.

  “I know I haven’t been the best lately,” Tristan declares, reaching over to grab my hand. “I can tell you’re upset.”

  I force a laugh. “I’m fine, really.” Inside, I’m shaking, wondering what gave me away. I’ve spent six months of this relationship faking and faking and faking. I don’t think he’s ever caught on once, or maybe I’ve just been too wrapped up in myself to notice.

  Now, he’s eyeing me in a way he hasn’t before, with his blue eyes narrowed over my face. Ironically, he looks like a lawyer, and I guess he must be a damn good one considering how badly my father wanted to extend his influence over him.

  “I know I fucked up.” The intensity in his voice catches me off guard. “I know I did. I promise that next time I’ll be better. I won’t let it happen again.”

  “You mean you won’t fall into Alexi’s bed again,” I say, snatching a piece of bread from the customary basket resting between us. It’s some fancy, flaky artisan style, and it tastes like ashes as I choke down a bite.

  “Ada…” Tristan’s cheeks flush, eyes widening with guilt, but I don’t feel like having this conversation right now. In the grand scheme, I’m not even that upset. I was never invested in this relationship. Tristan isn’t my type, but there’s still the principle of the matter. The man is lucky enough to date the daughter of Roy Pavalos, and yet he still can’t stop sleeping with a trailer trash whore.

  “You should eat,” I say, smiling wider. “I’m sure you can’t stay long, what with your busy schedule.”

  “You always do this,” Tristan says, setting his silverware down noisily.

  I raise an eyebrow, and he continues, “Shut me down. You never talk about anything, not even yourself. Sometimes it’s like dating the wall.”

  A wall or maybe a doll? It’s simply the way I was raised to be. To always perform my pretty perfect role.

  Until now. I could blame the wine, or the fact that I’m drinking on an empty stomach. Regardless, words bubble up before I can hold them at bay. “I’m not quite as stupid as I look, you do realize.” I don’t recognize the hard tone—or maybe I do, just in a very different pitch. My father speaks this way. Bluntly and cold. “I know you’ve been fucking her. Frankly, I haven’t cared, but if you could be a little more discreet about it, I’d appreciate that.”

  He blinks. “Baby, I—”

  “I think I want the flan for dessert,” I say with my best smile, snatching a leather-bound menu. “We can pose for a picture of you feeding me a bite—”

  “This is something we should talk about, Ada. You know, like a real couple?”

  He has the nerve to sound so earnest. As if he doesn’t know damn well what this really is. Not a relationship, but a business transaction.

  “You were promoted to partner a month after dating me,” I point out absently. “Don’t tell me you believe that was solely on your merits as an amazing lawyer.”

  He frowns. I’ve insulted him. Good.

  Wadding up my napkin, I set it aside and make eye contact with a passing waiter. “More wine,” I tell him.
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  “Baby, I think you’ve had enough.”

  “I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough,” I say, grabbing my near-empty glass. I drain it with one hard pull and relish the liquid dripping down my throat.

  My father enjoys the same vices. In reality, we’re far more alike than either of us would care to admit. It’s why he kept me close, long after he’s shoved Pablo and Demelio—his two sons from a previous marriage—from his life. They challenged him. They took offense to his vicious actions and tyrannical ways with money. They had morals.

  Souls.

  They also had two different mothers from mine. Mine, Lia, is Roy’s third wife and least impressive. The modest, religious daughter of a judge, she gave Roy a softer public edge than his previous debutante bride or the beauty queen with a penchant for charity he left her for.

  Lia humbled me, he likes to say. Humbled him the way fire humbled the Devil. She merely gave credence to his more self-deprecating attributes. Before her, he blamed his problems on liquor and cocaine. Now? He blames God, disguising his viler acts behind a repentant sinner’s façade.

  “…don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Tristan is murmuring, once I bother to pay attention to him again.

  Into me. How would he know? He’s never known the real me. I’ve always been a grinning puppet on his arm, or a perky sex doll.