It helped that the rest of his men kept their eyes on Bianca even as they slowly turned and walked away.
Only when their retreating figures had become little more than silhouettes did she finally breathe a sigh of relief.
Her son was still missing two fingers, and if she were being honest, she no longer wanted anything to do with cartels.
Lately, she'd even been contemplating selling her business and moving to another city altogether.
Bianca loved money.
She loved power.
But she also loved being alive.
All it took was one greedy subordinate—or an ambitious outsider—to decide they could do better than her. One bullet to the head, and everything she had built would belong to someone else.
That was the way the mafia worked.
Standing there in the parking lot with her gun still clutched tightly in her hand, Bianca realized she was tired of it.
Castilo, her husband, whom she had once believed untouchable, had been killed by a sniper.
He was dead.
