The True Garza, page 1
License Notes
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by S. Ann Cole
All rights reserved.
Edited by: Dee’s Notes: Proofreading & Editing Services
Copyedited and Proofread by: Veronica Dinis
Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Making or distributing copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For permission requests, contact the publisher via email: authoranncole@gmail.com.
Visit my website at www.AnnCole.net
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Lonny
Chapter Two
Lonny
Chapter Three
Lonny
Chapter Four
Lonny
Chapter Five
Lonny
Chapter Six
True
Chapter Seven
Lonny
Chapter Eight
Lonny
Chapter Nine
True
Chapter Ten
Lonny
Chapter Eleven
Lonny
Chapter Twelve
Lonny
Chapter Thirteen
Lonny
Chapter Fourteen
Lonny
Chapter Fifteen
Lonny
Chapter Sixteen
Lonny
Chapter Seventeen
Lonny
Chapter Eighteen
Lonny
Chapter Nineteen
Lonny
Chapter Twenty
Lonny
Chapter Twenty-One
True
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lonny
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lonny
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lonny
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lonny
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lonny
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lonny
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lonny
Chapter Twenty-Nine
True
Chapter Thirty
True
Chapter Thirty–One
True
Dennis
Chapter Thirty-Two
True
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lonny
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lonny
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lonny
Garza Gang Group Chat
Chapter Thirty-Six
Lonny
Chapter Thirty-Seven
True
Thank You For Reading!
About The Author
Connect With Ann
For all who struggle with ADHD
This book contains discussions of off-page sexual assault and human trafficking.
QUICK INFORMATION GUIDE
(In case you are starting the series with this book or have forgotten details from the previous books.)
The Family:
Father: Flavio Garza – Italian. Deceased. Used to be a famous poker tournament player.
Mother: Monica Garza – Jamaican. Biological mother of Tripp and Tillie Garza. Adoptive mother of Trent and True Garza.
Torin Garza – Oldest sibling. Born to a different mother in Colorado.
Trent and True Garza – Twins. Three years younger than Torin.
Tripp Garza – Middle child. Four years younger than True and Trent.
Tillie Garza – Last child. Two years younger than Tripp.
All of the Garza siblings are half Italian, half Black.
Red Cage Commando Security and Investigation Services:
Red Cage is family governed, but founded and owned by Torin Garza.
While Trent Garza, True Garza, and Tripp Garza are all vice presidents, Torin Garza has the last say.
Departments at Red Cage:
PID – Private Investigations Division
PSD – Private Security Division
SRD – Search and Rescue Division
ISD – Intensive Surveillance Division
CSD – Cyber Security Division
COD – Commando Operations Division
Branches:
Headquarters: Downtown LA.
Second Branch: Denver, Colorado
Covert Offices: Boston, Mexicali, Chicago, Washington DC, Miami.
Repeat Side Characters:
Reuben Grant - Vice President at Red Cage and right-hand man to Torin Garza.
Jules Grant – Reuben’s wife. Lyra’s best friend.
Guy – Head of Tech. The only man ever allowed in the room. The man who knows all and does all.
Stefano and Lorenzo Castello – Also known as the “Twins of Vegas.” They are blood-related cousins of the Garzas, but this fact is kept secret because the Castellos are cold-blooded criminals. (Quick fact: Monica used to date their father before she left him and got married to his brother, Flavio Garza.)
THEME SONG
Electric Love by BØRNS
CHAPTER ONE
“What’s in that jar?”
Lonny
THE CHIME GOES OFF ABOVE my head as I enter the liquor store.
Five steps in, I halt when a familiar face emerges from the beer aisle.
It’s him.
The man I spent the last year trying to force out of my head. The man who rocked my mind—and body—in a way no other man ever had. The man who, for seven days, drowned out my sorrow, dulled my pain, and made me forget.
As he strides to the cashier with a six-pack of beer, I allow myself an eyeful of him. He looks as good as I remember, if not better.
Tall, broad, muscled, formidable, tawny.
Unbelievably handsome.
“Excuse me,” a customer mumbles, brushing past me.
He told me he was from LA, but moving back here, I hadn’t considered the possibility of running into him. Flashes of the torrid week we spent together plays across my mind like a reel.
As if he senses my stare, he turns his head in my direction and fixes his dark gaze on me.
I wait for recognition to slither across his features—for that sexy, flirty grin that had been used like a weapon against me to touch his lips—but all I get is an arched brow. His demeanor is unwelcoming, and he’s as approachable as a venomous snake set to strike.
He doesn’t remember me.
Of course, he doesn’t. Our affair was over a year ago. There have no doubt been many more since me. I remember him as vividly as if it were yesterday because he’s the last man I was with. And, well, that face…it’s impossible to forget a face like that. Also, when a man rocks a woman’s world the way he did mine, that’s not something she ever forgets.
Still, something about his damn near glaring at me the way he is right now, without so much of a hint of recognition, stings. Those seven days spent with him are the most unforgettably amazing seven days of my life. Sure, it was just a fling, but it was magical. He showed up at a time when I’d desperately needed to feel something other than pain, if only temporarily. He was, at the time, everything I needed. It meant something to me.
Now, under the heat of his glare—a glare that makes me feel as if I’ve offended him somehow—it’s clear that it had meant nothing for him.
Having suddenly forgotten what I came here for, I spin around and start for the exit.
I’m almost out the door when two masked men storm in, driving me back inside with a gun to my face. “Everybody down! Now!”
Oh, for Pete’s sake. I’ve only been back here a day. All I wanted was a bottle of Johnnie Walker—oh, now I remember what I came for.
“Down, bitch!” one of the men barks at me.
Hands up, I slowly lower to the ground.
Skinny. Lanky. Shifty blue eyes. Smells like corn dog and motor oil. A .38 caliber revolver in his left hand.
He breezes past me and advances to the cashier.
The second man remains by the door.
Stout. Under six feet. No gun. Ballistic switchblade in his right hand.
“Everything in the register! Now!” the first man shouts at the cashier.
I let out a sigh. I really don’t have time for this.
Glancing toward him from across the room, I watch as he glares at the back of the man’s head in a manner that conveys he doesn’t appreciate being inconvenienced. He’s the only one, aside from the cashier and the two robbers, still standing. No matter how much the vandal shouts and waves his gun around, he doesn’t budge. He just glares with an air of boredom and impatience.
This isn’t going to end well, and I don’t want to be here for it. I’m tired, in need of some whiskey and sleep. To get out of here, I’ll have to get past the sidekick at the door. So as the cashier frantically works at getting all the cash from the register and the robber is occupied with threatening anyone who so much as whimpers, I shift a hand to my waist . Not too conspicuous; just enough to draw the sidekick’s attention.
Once I’ve got it, I move my leather jacket just a fraction, giving him a peek at my piece.
When he sees it, his eyes widen, then dart to his partner who’s still barking and making a scene, then back to me again. Shaking with nerves now, he bounces from foot to foot.
Come on, punk. Be a good little wimp and beat it.
“Hey, c’mon, man, this was a bad idea,” he calls to his partner. “L-let’s get out of here!”
His partner ignores him, stuffing all the cash that’s being passed to him into the pockets of his hoodie.
Eyes trained on the sidekick, I make as if I’m about to pull out my gun.
No hesitation this time—he turns and bolts out the door.
Gun trumps switchblade.
When I swing my attention to where the other idiot is by the cashier, my gaze collides with his. The hard glare has been replaced by a glint of curiosity.
I slowly inch toward the exit.
“What else you got behind there?” the robber barks, oblivious to the fact that his sidekick has left him behind. “Gimme all of it before I plant a bullet in your skull.”
“There’s nothing else, I swear,” the cashier cries, “we just changed shifts.”
“What’s in that jar?”
“D-donations for cancer—”
“Lemme have it.”
I’m almost to the door when I hear a growled, “Fuck this.”
“Hey, what are you—ergh…”
I pop my head up just in time to see the robber being held in a chokehold by him. In seconds, the robber is asleep, his gun clattering to the floor. He slowly lowers the goon to the ground, then picks up the gun, shaking his head. “Idiot had the safety on the entire time.”
He puts the weapon on the counter, then picks up the discarded six-pack of beer and shoves it toward the cashier. “Before you call the cops, ring this up for me, yeah? My wife’s waiting for me.”
CHAPTER TWO
“You’re lucky I like you.”
Lonny
AN HOUR LATER, I PULL into the garage of my sister’s contemporary, multi-million-dollar home in Studio City. My 1971 Camaro grumbles as I park next to the sleek, white Lexus on the left.
As the garage door slowly lowers behind me, I grab my bottle of whiskey from the passenger seat, tuck it under my arm, and head to the side door.
Seconds later, after being warned by the alarm that I had entered the wrong passcode one too many times, I’m digging my phone out to text my sister.
Me: Locked out. Forgot the alarm code.
Brook: *eyeroll emoji* Hang on.
Brook: OK, it’s disarmed.
The door clicks shut behind me after I’ve let myself in.
I move with caution through the boxy, glassy house. It’s all clean lines, polished marble, stainless steel, hardwood floors, black-and-gold classiness.
Staying with Brook wasn’t a good idea when she suggested it. Wasn’t a good idea when I agreed to it. And, now that I’m here, it still isn’t a good idea. It didn’t work when we were kids, and it didn’t work when we were teens, so I’m not sure why we thought it might work now that we’re adults and set in our ways. The only thing we have in common is obstinacy.
Brook is OCD neat. Everything is perpetually spotless and carefully placed. While I’m not exactly a slob in comparison, I don’t care to make the bed the second I roll out of it or to wash every utensil immediately after using it. No, I don’t mind a few dirty dishes in the sink and allowing my laundry to pile up. But those things drive Brook mad, so whenever I’m in her space, I’m overly gentle and hyperconscious of everything I do—which drives me mad.
However, getting a decent place in LA that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg takes time and luck. Moving back to LA wasn’t planned; it was an abrupt and unexpected decision—and seeing as my big sister is the only one in my family that I get along with and can tolerate for extended periods, this is where I am in the meantime.
I find her in the kitchen, brewing tea. Sleek, honey-blonde, bob-cut hair, flawless brown skin, lithe and slender figure.
“Zero-nine-seven-eight,” she says without looking up. “It’s four numbers, Lonny, not an algebraic equation.”
“Thanks, I’ll get it tattooed on my palm.”
“You want tea?”
“Nope.” I hold up my paper bag. “I’ve got Johnnie Walker.”
At that, she looks up and levels me with her hazel-green gaze. “Do you think maybe you drink too much?”
“You think maybe you should mind your own business?”
“Can’t. It’s not in my nature.”
Brook and I are two years apart. She’s the middle child. Our older brother Charles is the firstborn, and I’m the last. Out of all of us, Brook was always smarter, more driven, destined for more. So, naturally, she became a lawyer.
An extremely successful one.
I get fleeting moments of jealousy sometimes, but I love my sister too much to feed that monster. Although I’m the rebellious one, it would’ve never been me who did something different from the rest of the family. I detested school, had been a C-student all the way through, and only managed to graduate college by the scrape of my teeth.
What I am is street smart, foolhardy, physical, temperamental, and a bit of an alcoholic.
“You’re lucky I like you,” I mumble as I shuffle off.
“Love you, too, sis,” she calls after me.
I amble to the guest bedroom and knee the door open. Two large, unpacked suitcases stare back at me. Right. The reason I went out for whiskey in the first place.
I only arrived in LA this morning—back for the first time since I left eight years ago, right behind my father.
One day the Bridges were a perfectly happy family, and the next we weren’t. Our lives imploded when my mom and uncle decided to come forward about their affair. It almost did my father’s head in.
After giving Mom the divorce she wanted, he gave up his job as an Army Officer Cadet and moved to Denver to teach at a martial-arts academy. Six months later, I followed him. My father was my world and my hero; wherever he was, that’s where I wanted to be.
While Brook and Charles chose to remain neutral through it all, I had no qualms about choosing sides. I wanted nothing to do with Mom or Uncle Walter—especially after they got married.
Leaving everyone behind and starting a new life was easy. Dad found love again and was happy. I did, too. Got engaged. Kept getting contracts.
But the last two years, things took a turn for the worse.
I’d gotten a private contract. A serial killer had gone wild, brutally hacking up teenage girls, including severing their heads and leaving them on spikes in public places. The attacks were vicious; the most heinous I’ve ever encountered.
Desperate to catch this killer, the state Bureau of Investigation gave the case to me. Whenever someone like me is brought in on a case, it pretty much means all protocol is about to be thrown out the window, because a private agent’s actions never fall back on the Bureau.
In other words, I’m allowed to break the rules—to an extent. So in no time, I was closing in on the killer. But, somehow, he found out about me and became obsessed. Instead of beheading the girls, he started carving words into their flesh.
For you, Lonny Bridge.
You were so close, Lonny Bridge.
Catch me if you can, Lonny Bridge.
You turn me on, Lonny Bridge.
One day, the agent assigned to assist me on the case went missing. For several days we searched for him. Then, one night, I came home and found his head on my coffee table.
They tried to kill my contract, to pull me off the case and put me under protection. But after losing an agent to that psycho, I was determined to take him down.
And I did. It took weeks of cat-and-mouse-games; but eventually, he played right into the trap I’d set for him.
Three weeks after that, my fiancé broke off our engagement. He told me “the one that got away” was back in town and wanted him back—that they’d grown up together and were “soulmates,” but she’d left town for another man. And now that she was back, he couldn’t marry me knowing he was still in love with her.
