The Queens: Queen's Move

Chapter 3

The Gentleman Butcher.

That was what the locals called him. Not to his face, of course. He found the moniker amusing. If he hadn't then it wouldn't have stuck around for as long as it did. He supposed it suited him. He did get his hands dirty, when the occasion necessitated his special brand of intervention. And he was particular; in some ways quite fastidious. What was the point in wearing a $10,000 suit if it was going to get covered in gore? So, he'd developed a habit of removing his suit jacket and tie, rolling up his sleeves and then torturing his victims brutally, ruthlessly while spraying as little blood as possible. His methods had become well known and earned him the nickname of Gentleman despite his being anything but.

He certainly did not feel the gentleman when it came to a certain woman he was supposed to be meeting with. He glanced impatiently at his watch. She was eight minutes late. He'd already planned on removing her, but the disrespect she was showing would earn her some time in his dungeon first. He'd intended on making it quick in deference to her gender and the aforementioned nickname. But, apparently, she was not going to play nice.

Too bad. She hadn't been doing a terrible job of handling Miami. But South America couldn't lose their foothold to the Mexicans and she didn't have the strength to hold out. Now it was up to Sotza to act decisively and brutally to make sure this gateway to their international trade on the East Coast wasn't compromised due to her poor handling of Mexico. She should have asked for help when she had the chance. She hadn't. Now she would have to go.

Sotza had no interest in taking over Miami for Reyes. He was simply doing the man a favour. And it was time for him to visit this strange and beautiful country again. He'd let it go far too long. Time to take back some territory and re-establish his reputation as The Butcher among the Americans before they forgot who he was.

His gaze flicked to the front door of the club; an establishment Reyes inherited from Hernandez during the Miami takeover. An interesting place to meet. Ladies choice, of course. She wanted to meet in public. Smart but ultimately pointless. He was more than capable of getting to her if and when he wanted. He saw her the moment she stepped foot in the door, flanked by two dark-suited bodyguards.

As she walked into the club, she had to blink away the bright Miami sun before she could take stock of her surroundings. He had the advantage of being able to study her for a moment before she caught sight of him. Stunning was too weak a word to describe the Miami madam. She was utterly breathtaking. She certainly stole his breath. Something no woman had done to him. Ever.

It was an… uncomfortable sensation that had him resisting the urge to lift a palm to his chest and rub. She turned her head, her severely cut shoulder-length white blond hair moving with her. Once her eyes settled on him and his men, she moved through the club with detached ease despite knowing exactly who he was and why he was there. She wasn't stupid, and neither was Casey Reyes. This woman had to have been warned. She should be in another country by now, running as far and as fast as she could get. Yet, here she was, meeting with the man that intended to take her throne. She was an astonishingly brave woman.

The feeling in his chest intensified as she approached his table, leaving him momentarily speechless and unable to stand for a greeting. She narrowed her darkly-tinted lashes, perceiving an insult in his refusal to stand. She remained silent and refused to sit, putting them in a wordless standoff. So, he sat and studied her while he attempted to regain his equilibrium. Her clothes, face, hair, nails and shoes were all very deliberately chosen. She wore a high-waisted white pencil skirt that stopped just above her knee. She paired it with a sleeveless rose-coloured silk blouse that sat high on her neck. Her jewelry was a basic silver chain, diamond studs and a gold band on the middle finger of her right hand. Everything about her was understated, basic, but expensive and elegant.

Except her shoes. She wore sky-high silver stilettoes with solid steel heels that ended in an unusually sharp point. Sotza could feel the blood begin to pound through his body and, without conscious thought, he stood, towering over his prey. Even though she wore five-inch stilettos he was still a good half foot taller than her.

"Elvira Montana," he finally said, keeping his voice low and cool. He gave her his hand. He was a little surprised, given his seeming snub when she first walked up to him, that she took it without hesitation, putting her much smaller hand in his and squeezing. He wanted to hold it longer, experience the texture of her skin, press his thumb against her fine bones and feel the beat of her pulse. But she pulled her hand quickly back.

"Vee," she said in a pleasantly husky voice.

He raised an eyebrow. "Pardon me?"

"Please, call me Vee," she corrected him. "I despise both the names Elvira and Montana. So please, just call me Vee."

He nodded, his gaze sliding over her, down and then up until finally their eyes met. Ice. Cold. Incomparable, diamond-hard blue. Her face was smooth, flawless, giving away none of her thoughts. He wanted her on her knees pleading for her life, a life that belonged to him now, those ice chip eyes turned liquid with fear. Yet… he also wanted her in a bed, naked, eyes on fire, begging for the release only he could give her.

He allowed none of his thoughts to touch his face. He'd learned long ago never to allow the enemy to see an emotion until the time was right; usually seconds before death. Elvira clearly had the same training. Her eyes were dead as the grave. Pride swelled in his chest at the way she handled him, alongside the lust and the desire to stamp ownership all over this woman. At his age, he was neither going to question these urges nor go against what instinct was telling him.

His plans had changed. Elvira Montana was no longer going to become a casualty of the upcoming war. The Butcher was about to steal a queen.