Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide AJ Elmore (motivational books for students .txt) 📖

of security is Abuela's right hand when it comes to a meeting of division heads.

Except I'm not a division head. Not quite. I run the most territory stateside, but distribution still belongs to my dear Abuela. She's given me a lot of responsibility quickly, but after just a year, she doesn't feel I'm seasoned enough for any more advancement.

Abuela is seated behind a big mahogany desk. Mateo is seated in one of three armchairs in front of the desk. Mateo stands as we approach, and he looks damned debonair in his cream button-up, and tie. His sleeves are rolled up, but he still pulls off formal.

He's five or so years older than me, has several years’ tenure on me because of the age difference, and he's just as ruthless as my bloodline. We were always acquaintances, until Charlie was murdered and I stepped onto the scene. More than any other impression I get from him these days, he views me as a threat. Even though our divisions are completely separate.

His gaze skates down my very not-formal attire as he opens his arms for a hug. We're almost cousins, after all. His arms barely touch me as he leans in and fakes a kiss on my cheek. I equally don't touch him as I wrap my arms around his back.

It's over in a matter of seconds, and the encounter leaves my heart pounding in my ears. Of all the words I want to say to these two, I've agreed to say nothing. Fucking sharks.

“Please, sit,” says Abuela, nodding toward the chairs.

She speaks Spanish. Sometimes she does it purposefully, if not all present parties know the language. When she knows everyone speaks it, she uses it because it is her native tongue.

She's wearing a white suit that makes her brown skin glow. The expression on her face is the same as it usually is, hard, shrewd, the resting bitch face to end all. I take the middle chair.

“I understand we have an issue to address,” she says.

How the fuck does she always know? Does every single person who's not me report everything to her immediately? I nod.

Beside me, Frederick is utterly still. I can only imagine what's going on in his head, sitting in a room with two people who are playing him like a game, knowing it won't be addressed. Does she really believe he wouldn't tell me?

“What is the problem?” Abuela asks.

I lift my chin, ignoring both men, and say, “I need the authority to renegotiate pricing.”

She stares for a long stretch, during which I don't believe any one of us but she is breathing. When I told Freddy I didn't have a clue what I was going to do, it was only partially true. I had the gist, I just hadn't decided the best way of throwing it out there. It seems straightforward is on the menu today.

Then she cocks an eyebrow and says, “Your reasoning?”

Her tone isn't quite curious, nor is it threatening. She'll never give me an ounce of anything in a meeting like this. Always, it seems, there's another test.

I'm silently praying that my rattling nerves won't come through in my voice when I say, “I'm losing deals. The current product will hurt our reputation. If we don't budge on our agreed prices, we'll lose a significant chunk of our asses. Sure, we'll take a hit if we agree on less, but the hit will be manageable – if our next shipment isn't the same dirt brick shit.”

I didn't mean to say ‘shit’ to her. It just rolled on out with the rest of my words. I didn't even notice that I’d switched to English until that one little word kicked its way into the conversation.

I nearly tear a chunk out of my lip when I bite down on that last comment. The pain does little to distract me from the minute lift in her eyebrows, the most demure surprise I think I've ever seen.

In my peripheral vision, I see Mateo's head turn toward me, but I won't take the bait. I keep my attention forward, on my grandmother and kingpin. I'll take whatever wrath I earn on my own. My cartel cousin Mateo will not steal any thunder of mine, in his dress slacks and manicured hair, with his perfect chin strap, and Rolex.

Abuela's hand moves, and it takes every bit of my resolve not to follow it with my eyes. My possible offense isn't enough to garner a bullet to the chest, but still a cold fear rips through me. There always remains the fact that she once ordered my death, and the death of my brother. She obviously wasn't completely serious, because she caved under Charlie's reasoning. But she still passed that sentence down. It didn't come from the top.

She retrieves a half of a cigar from an ashtray I hadn't even noticed. She takes her time setting a flame to its end and taking a few long pulls. She puffs the smoke out at the ceiling and sets the thing down. It smokes idly from the ashtray, then she says in English, “Your request is reasonable, and – I never thought I'd say this to you – but it's smart.”

Only she could make such a compliment feel like a blow to the gut. I wonder if she ever back-handedly called Charlie stupid to his face?

I say nothing but, “Gracias.”

The smell of the cigar lingers around us as the smoke dwindles, and the cherry dies.

She says, “I will allow you permission to renegotiate for this shipment. I advise you to continue to be wise with how much of a cut you decide to make. I am already dealing with the quality issue, so you need not concern yourself with those particular details. I also suggest you mind your mouth better in the future.”

I do my best to string my sigh of relief out long enough to seem like just another breath. I can't guess at whether it works.

I do know my voice holds