Zurianne never imagined that saving her mother's life would cost her own freedom. Forced into an arranged marriage with Christopher Whyte the infamous Jamaican Don feared by many,she braces herself for a life of cold stares and ruthless commands. Bu...
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I waited until her breathing got heavy, soft and steady, the kind that told me she finally dipped into a deep sleep. She lay tangled in the sheets, hair wild against the pillow, lips slightly parted. I kissed her forehead light enough not to wake her, then pulled on my black jeans and shirt, Glock tucked at my waist.
I couldn't let her know weh me ago. Not yet.
I slipped out the suite, phone already buzzing. A message from the driver:
"We outside, Don."
By the time mi reach downstairs, the black Prado was waiting curbside. Two men sat in the front, both strapped. I slid into the back seat, eyes sharp. The city was quiet at this hour, but mi knew eyes still watched, corners still whispered.
We drove down by the port, where the salt breeze stung sharp and heavy. A ship loomed by the dock. La Sangre Negra. Massive. Rust-streaked along the sides but clean on the deck. The air by the docks was sour and heavy — the salt in the breeze fought hard to mask the smell of oil, steel, and sweat. Somewhere in the distance, the water slapped gently against concrete and hulls. But here? It was all tension. All eyes.
The driver killed the engine. No music. No idle chat. Just me and the city's cold breath.
I stepped out.
Men armed to the teeth patrolled the pier, their boots clinking dull against the metal grates. Rifles hung across their chests like second skin. Their eyes slid to me as I approached, heads nodding slightly in respect.
They knew who I was.
This wasn't my first time dealing with cartel dons. But this one — Valerio Mendez — was a different breed. The man ran Cartagena like it was his personal chessboard, with every cop, port official, and politician just another pawn in his grip.
A tall figure stepped from the shadow of the container stacks, his presence demanding attention even before his face showed.
Valerio Mendez.
Skin dark and weathered, eyes sunk deep but sharp. The scar cutting from his brow to his cheek made his smirk look like a threat dressed up as charm.
"Don Christopher," he greeted, voice low and scratchy. "Finally."
"Don Mendez."
His English was thick with accent but clean. "You come alone. I respect that."
"Nuh need fi crowd up yuh place," I replied. "Mi come fi business."
He gestured up the ramp, and we walked onto the ship. The deck stunk of salt and steel. Along the sides, crates stacked high — sealed tight, coded, unmarked. But I knew what they held.
