This is the sequel to Heart Ain't a Brain. If you haven't, read that first!
They say don't fall in love, it's a mistake.
The trajectory of one's life can change in the blink of an eye. So what happens when a series of tragic events changes the cour...
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No one man should have all that power The clock's ticking, I just count the hours Stop tripping, I'm tripping off the power 'Til then, - that, the world's ours
The night air outside Lobos' Venetian estate was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, aged liquor, and the faint perfume of blooming jasmine that clung to the edge of the gardens. A warm breeze drifted over the vast property, rustling the hedges and palm trees that bordered the grounds, offering a small reprieve from the summer heat in France.
Scattered along the terrace and down the stone steps that led into the courtyard, several of Lobos' men were gathered in celebration. Laughter echoed through the darkness, glasses clinked in toasts, and bottles of fine champagne and dark rum were passed around freely.
A few leaned against sleek black cars parked in a line, others sat lazily in patio chairs, their faces lit by the golden glow spilling from the estate windows. The mood was triumphant, the kind of energy that followed a successful run, money made, and no casualties.
While the others were outside celebrating beneath the soft glow of hanging lights and drifting cigar smoke, Juan Carlos stalked the length of his room like a man possessed. Music pulsed from the courtyard—laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional shout of someone too deep into their liquor—but none of it reached him in a way that mattered. It all sounded far away, like a life he'd been exiled from.
Juan Carlos
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On the bed, his long-time companion, Blanca, lounged like a bored house cat, her silk robe loose and barely concealing her curves. She filed her nails with lazy strokes, calm and detached, as if the man across the room wasn't coming undone.
"I can't believe that perra Felipe slapped me," Juan Carlos muttered, venom in every syllable. "And in front of that imbécil Dominic."
The memory hit like a second slap—Felipe's palm, the stunned silence, Dominic's smug, unreadable expression. It wasn't just the slap. It was the message behind it. A warning. A shift. An insult wrapped in authority.
