Cartel by Lili St Germain

wasn’t crushing the woman, a sheepish look on his face. ‘I was waitin’ for you, D,’ he said, continuing to thrust.
    Dornan sighed. ‘You’ve got two minutes to get out of that woman and into the kitchen. You can fuck the help after we’ve sorted this coke situation.’
    ‘I figured you’d be banging that one we just picked up,’ Vipe said.
    Dornan chose not to answer. ‘You get your jizz on my mother’s car, I’ll cut your nuts off myself.’
    He left Viper to his business and stalked back into the house. There was only one other place his boys would be. He burst back into the front doors, taking a sharp right down the hallway until he reached a door at the end. He threw the door open and what he saw made him want to laugh until he cried.
    His mother had insisted on having her sitting room made big enough to accommodate their large extended family. It was an impressive room, all high ceilings and wing-backed brown leather chairs nestled between overstuffed sofas. His mother sat in her own custom recliner, an espresso balanced expertly between her thumb and forefinger.
    That wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was the twelve Gypsy Brothers sitting around awkwardly sipping on coffees.
    ‘Ma,’ Dornan chided. ‘What the hell are you doin’ back here with this lot?’ His mother, a short, blonde woman in her fifties, raised one manicured eyebrow as she extended a slender arm to her mouth and sipped her coffee.
    ‘The boys have been filling me in on your latest endeavours,’ she said, her Queens accent as strong as it had ever been, even though she’d been in San Diego for the better part of thirty-five years. ‘Seems your father’s gotten himself into a dire situation.’
    Dornan balled his fists angrily, glaring at the brothers. ‘Everybody,’ he said, deadly calm. ‘Get the fuck out of this room and into the kitchen. Now.’
    Most of them appeared grateful as they dumped their cups on the coffee table and high-tailed it out of the room in a stampede of leather and heavy footsteps. Once the last Gypsy Brother had vacated the room, Dornan turned to face his mother. She made no move to stand as her son towered over her.
    ‘You know,’ she said, glancing down into her coffee, ‘I used to take you and your brother to the park when you were little. You liked the swings the best. When it was time to go home, you’d scream and beg me to stay.’
    Dornan softened slightly; he never could stay angry at his mother, even though she did have a nasty habit of sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. He already had Emilio breathing down his neck with every step he took. He didn’t need his mother keeping tabs on the club as well.
    ‘I’d pick you up in my arms and carry you away. You were probably only three or four.’ Her blue eyes sparkled as she reminisced. ‘You used to yell, “Help! Mommy, help me!”’
    Dornan’s mouth twitched up at the memory.
    ‘You looked nothing like me,’ she said, some of the joy having leaked out of her voice. ‘You were all your father. Still are.’
    Something inside Dornan’s chest buzzed painfully as he crouched down in front of his mother.
    ‘Ma,’ he said gently, trying to catch her gaze.
    Her blue eyes filled with water as she finally made eye contact with him.
    ‘Not like your brother,’ she whispered. ‘He was just like me. Just like me.’
    Dornan recalled a small boy with blonde hair and blue eyes. A boy who never got old enough to leave high school before he was gunned down on his way from school as retribution for something Dornan couldn’t even remember anymore. A casualty of the war that never seemed to end.
    ‘Ma,’ he repeated softly, taking her free hand and squeezing it between his own palms.
    ‘I worry about you,’ she said plainly, her eyes still glassy. ‘You’re all I’ve got left.’
    Such a display of emotion was rare from his mother; she almost always maintained a ruthless calm that served her well. Her reputation