My Rouge Luna

Chapter 3

The Rivera Brothers

Carlos’s P.O.V.

It was 110 degrees outside at six in the morning — the heat already pressing and relentless — when I started my morning run around the pack grounds. Bad Bunny pumped through my earbuds as sweat traced steady paths down my body. With every stride the earth seemed to answer, and I felt the old, familiar surge of power in my veins. I nodded to pack members and keepers I passed, a private ritual that set the day.

I became Alpha at fifteen — the youngest in Dios del Sol’s history. I was not born to rule; the mantle fell to me after Enrique abandoned the pack following the murder of his mate. As his newly promoted beta, I had been the only viable successor. When he left, he took his newborn heir with him; we never learned whether the child was boy or girl. I set about dragging the pack out of the Stone Age. We diversified into oil, real estate, and nightclubs, but the gun trade proved the most lucrative. We kept our distance from human wars, but humans loved their weapons, and that addiction filled our coffers. Now, not only did I command the largest pack in the country, we were also wealthy.

When I finished my run I returned to the house. My brother and beta, Xavier Rivera, and my third-in-command, Gamma Selma Velez, were already waiting. Selma’s voice came clipped with impatience — she was always quick to annoyance. “Carlos, we have important matters today. I told you yesterday.”

“I know, Selma. We’ll handle it,” I replied, ascending the grand white-and-gold marble staircase toward my office. Xavier flipped through notes on his phone and looked up. “You have a meeting with the Alphas from Vegas, Miami, New York, and the Virgin Islands,” he said. “It’s about the rogue she-wolves.”

I rolled my eyes. Those women had been a problem for two years. They were cunning, elusive, and they’d been killing members of our and other packs. I stepped into my office and into the shower as Xavier continued from the doorway and Selma spoke quietly on her phone.

“Brother, we need to fix this fast. The other Alphas think we’re weak — that you aren’t a natural-born Alpha,” Xavier warned.

“Xavi,” I said, letting the hot water wash over me, “I command more than twelve thousand wolves. I have neutralized more threats than any Alpha in our history. We are the richest we have ever been. I don’t need to prove myself.” The skin along my neck tightened; Xavier’s tone hit a raw place.

“You aren’t out there,” he pressed. “You don’t hear the whispers. The pack wants a real Alpha. They want Enrique’s heir. We have to remind them you are their leader now — regardless of who the ‘real’ one is.”

I stepped out, wrapped a towel around my waist, and felt the heat of the wolf inside me flare. Javier’s — Xavier’s — implication struck like a blade.

“The next time you repeat that ‘real Alpha’ bullshit,” I said, teeth clenched, “I will tear your head off and give it to our mother for Christmas.”

Xavier’s eyes darkened; his hands curled as if claws might form. He bristled for a fight. Selma put herself between us, head bowed and focused on her phone. “If you gentlemen are done swinging d***s, the other Alphas are arriving,” she said flatly. Xavier stalked out, his footsteps heavy; Selma followed to prepare for travel.

I dressed in a three-piece Tom Ford suit — navy with thin white pinstripes — a red tie, and brown snakeskin shoes. I slicked my hair back and added a measured splash of cologne. Time to be the Alpha they expected.

We held the meeting in the courtyard. I took the head of the table while the staff circulated drinks. “Amigos, welcome to mi casa,” I said, snapping a cigar alight placed before me. Xavier and Selma flanked my sides.

Alpha Dominic from New York started loudly and angrily. “A month ago you promised us the heads of those she-wolves. Here we are with nothing, and my cousin Collin is dead!” He was always high-strung; I remained composed.

“Dominic,” I said coldly, “your cousin is dead because he stole a quarter of a million dollars from the Italian mob and ran. That’s on him.” I held his gaze until his posture softened. Alpha Adonis of the Virgin Islands — a long-time ally — added, “Regardless of the motive, rogue she-wolves are killing our people. We have laws. We handle our own. This must stop.”

I stood and began to walk the length of the table. “Alphas, I understand your fear. I understand your concern. At the moment, I have no solid leads. I don’t know who these women are or where they come from.” I stopped and placed a hand on Dominic’s shoulder. “But wolves and humans are commissioning these women for tasks our laws forbid. Whoever is connecting commissions to kills knows how to hide them. Someone in our night worlds knows how to contact them — and we will find that someone.”

“Start with Collin’s last known contacts,” I ordered. “Give me a list of everyone he owed, where he lived, who he associated with, and who he slept with. Those questions will point us to answers.” The Alphas began to confer; Gamma Selma tapped my shoulder. “I will fly back to New York with the gringos and see what I can uncover,” she said. Xavier, quiet and brooding, left to make preparations.

After the meeting, Xavier and I tended to pack business: a school under construction, training programs for newly turned adolescents. He approached me at the training yard. “Alpha,” he said, “the private investigator we hired called. He has news and wants to meet.”

We left the compound and drove to the outskirts, to a bar the PI had chosen. The place — the Red Room — was a dump: gamblers, dealers, people who lived on the margins. The patrons shifted uneasily when the Alpha of Dios del Sol and his beta took a seat at the bar.

“Two doubles of Patrón on ice,” Xavier ordered.

I laughed at his clumsy Spanish. “You’re the worst Mexican ever, hermano,” I said, punching his shoulder. “Work on it.”

The PI — Herman — arrived and sidled up beside us. He didn’t waste time. “Gentlemen,” he said, and slid an envelope across the bar. Inside were three photographs: two women leaving a motel and mounting two motorcycles, one red and one green. One woman had fire-engine red locs; the other had long dark curls.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“A month ago, a werewolf named Jahil Robinson was killed at that motel in downtown Atlanta,” Herman said. “Jahil had a violent history — hunting, r****g, and killing female werewolves. When staff were questioned, there were no records of a Jahil or two women arriving or leaving, despite Jahil’s body having been dismembered and spread around the room.”

The image did not match the story I’d expected. Two small women had dismembered a fully grown male werewolf? Herman nodded. “I believe magic was involved.”

My jaw tightened. “Are you saying one of these women is a witch?” Xavier asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Herman replied. “A witch could erase memory and cover scent, which would explain the lack of records and why these women are so hard to track.”

Herman produced an evidence bag: inside, a single dreamcatcher earring. “We can’t be certain which of the two it belongs to,” he said, “but they typically travel together. Where you find one, you’ll likely find the other.”

The pieces were finally starting to align. The woman with red locs, Herman reported, was Aaliyah Demby — born to a coven in New Orleans nearly destroyed by human hunters. Her parents were burned; she retaliated, cursed the killer, and turned to the trade that made her both feared and sought after. Herman called her the most powerful witch in the South.

With location spells and a personal item, we could find them. I felt a cold focus settle over me. There was another, very personal matter at the back of my mind: I was thirty-seven, unpaired, and without an heir. I needed a Luna to bear my successor and to stand beside me when I one day stepped down. The upcoming hunt for the rogue she-wolves would demand everything — and might change more than one life in the process.