Surrounded in a tense Mexican stand-off #MidWeekTease #MMRomance #Suspense

Happy Hump Day!

I've got one more teaser from Duce before we move on to another story. This time we're in Carl's POV. Dante has turned up at Carl's house but it's not for coffee and biscuits. *winks* Enjoy.

BTW: Carl refers to Dante as D.

As we descended the short maple stairs from the hall, my heart stopped at the scene in front of me. Was the gasp Renata's or mine?

The open-plan area lay bathed with light streaking in from the walls of glass, the usually breathtaking panoramic view of palm trees, cerulean sky, and ocean overshadowed by the scene of looming violence inside.

In the middle of the space, D had his left arm wrapped around Marcos's throat, his right hand holding a black handgun to my brother's temple.

I had to blink a few times to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. As part of being on my best behaviour and knowing Renata was visiting today, I hadn't taken any alcohol or drugs. So I definitely wasn't high.

From this angle, I could only see his broad back and side. Still, I recognised the profile, recalled the silky feel of his thick black hair in my palms, and the unshaven bristles on the chin that scrubbed against my skin as he kissed me, our bodies slick with sweat while he pulsed inside me.

It was D, all right. Dark, domineering, and dangerous D. Here, in my living room, looking every bit the powerful man I remembered and sharply dressed in a dark, fitted suit and tie as if he'd just stepped out of a business meeting.

Another man stood beside him, less formally attired in black t-shirt, navy denim, and black boots, gun raised in Dad's direction. Father's goons surrounded them in a kind of tense Mexican stand-off.

"Tell your men to back off. Or I'll put a bullet in your son's head."

D's voice sounded calm and authoritative. No trace of fear.

How could he not be afraid? Sweat beaded my forehead, not due to the usually close-to-freezing temperature my father preferred, considering we lived in the tropics. No, I shook with fear from the number of guns pointed at D.

A ruthless man, my father wouldn't care about sacrificing his son. He would sooner put a bullet through Marcos himself than lose the upper hand. Didn't D know who he stood against?

Perhaps Marcos being the favoured son was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment.

Dad took a cigar out of his pocket, clipped the end off, and lit it as if he had no care in the world. Behind, an oil painting of him dominated the only white brick wall.

My shoulders tensed. I knew that move. This was Father indicating he didn't give a shit.

Whatever reasons my lover from two weeks ago had for being in my house with a gun at my brother's head, I needed to do something to defuse the situation. Or there would be a bloodbath. I couldn’t let D get hurt. Or die.