The Queens: Scarred Queen

Chapter 2

Casey Hernandez, the beautiful and untouchable wife of Ignacio Hernandez, did not leave his mind for the next several months as Reyes negotiated trade with her stupid f**k of a husband. He'd left most of the footwork with Alejandro, while he retreated to his compound, deep in the mountainous Altiplano region of Bolivia. Alejandro and several of his most trusted men had been back and forth between the two countries, discussing terms and moving product. Building business in the safest, smartest way possible.

Reyes continued to do what he did best. Manage his kingdom with an iron fist. Though it burned him to leave the woman alone, he'd learned patience over the years through the most brutal of methods. Learned to understand his prey before making a move. Reyes moved to his desk and sat. He reached for a Cohiba, lit it, took a long draw and leaned back in his sturdy leather chair. He rarely smoked or imbibed alcohol, preferring clarity, but indulged once in a while, particularly when agitated. When his rigid control was tested or felt somehow… overly restrictive. His glance flicked to the newest set of prints scattered across his desk. They'd been taken three days ago.

After a moment, he picked one up and allowed his forefinger to brush across her delicate features. In the picture, she was shopping, her long, perfectly manicured fingers skimming carelessly over an exquisite cashmere dress while her empty gaze remained unfocused. Somewhere else entirely, somewhere not in the room she was standing in. Except for her eyes, she looked perfect. Not a hair out of place, her long, tall form packed into a cream-coloured pencil skirt and a pink flowery blouse. Her pale blond hair flowed down her back like a silk waterfall. Reyes grunted and crushed the picture in his fist, tossing it over the top of his immaculate desk.

He was ready to admit that, despite his best efforts, he knew very little about the woman he'd been obsessing over since the moment he set eyes on her six months earlier. He'd had her investigated by no less than three private investigators. He'd had her photographed every time she stepped foot from Hernandez's garish mansion, which frustratingly, was not often. She appeared to have the markings of exactly what she was; a kept woman. Yet, she was more, an enigma.

She shopped, but she didn't take enjoyment in her purchases. She picked things out, colours that didn't even match, handed them to her bodyguard without trying them on, then moved on to the next shop without a backwards glance. She moved like a robot, shopping, not because she wanted to, but because it was expected. She went out for lunch with "friends" once a week on Tuesdays, but she rarely said a word and she never smiled. Her so-called friends were the wives and daughters of local politicians and businessmen. She showed up because she had to, not because she liked the people that she ate with. Anyone could tell from the pictures that she hated those lunches. Other than to shop and eat lunch on Tuesdays, Casey never left the mansion. Reyes wasn't able to dig anything else up about her, she had no past that he could discover. It was like she'd been buried when she'd taken the Hernandez name.

Reyes didn't like mysteries and he didn't like women that eluded him. He was straightforward in business and straightforward when it came to f*****g. He wanted both to be quick and efficient with as little mess to his personal life as possible. He knew, without a doubt, if he continued to pursue the growing obsession he felt with the Hernandez woman, that he was in danger of doing something he'd vowed never to do. Creating a mess. A weakness for exploitation.

His mother and siblings had been caught in the crossfire of such a weakness. He'd ended his own father in bloody retaliation, finally taking out a broken man before dismantling his empire and rebuilding from the ground up, better, more brutal and unbreakable. Now he had to decide if he was going to allow this woman to crawl further inside him, burrow her way deeper under his skin. Because something told him if he didn't do what he knew was right, and put a bullet in her head now, take care of this weakness, he was going to bleed for her. And he didn't bleed for anyone.

He had less than a week to decide. He was going back to the United States to see the woman and to take care of the Miami connection. It was time to make the power move and set up his own organization with men he trusted at the top. He glanced down at the array of pictures scattered across his desk, his dark eyes moving to one in particular. A close up of her face as she glanced over her shoulder toward the hidden camera. Every time he looked at her, he saw that tiny scar next to her eyebrow. Something about it bothered him. How had she gotten it and why hadn't his investigators found out a damn thing about her? Why was she such a mystery? And would she survive the coming war long enough to answer his questions?