I lazily trail my fingertip along the blade of the letter opener, fondly remembering how I plunged it into Camilla's thigh. She wouldn't scream for me, not even under such sudden pain. Closing my eyes, I swallow the empty feeling that creeps inside whenever I think of her.

Sirens wail, the shrill noise causing my eardrums to thrum. A slow smile slinks over my mouth as I push up from the desk and go to the window. Possible air raid. How thrilling. The new president has delivered on his promise...

People rush about the house, shouting. Men storm the front gate armed with rifles. So, it seems, a war is born... and I just take it all in, lighting a cigar as I wait for calls to be placed. It's not even ten minutes after the alarms sound that Igor is in my office. “The Americans want the missile, as do the Chinese,” he says.

"Of course they do," I smile. "Three billion dollars should suffice, and for the time being allow them both only one." Nodding, he rushes out.

Within a matter of hours, six missiles have been ordered. Six missiles have been shipped. Six countries are now pitted against one another.

I stand in front of the window with my hands clasped behind my back, and as pleased as I am with how the plan is carrying out, I'm distracted because she's gone. My phone vibrates on the desk several times before falling silent. The door to my office creaks. "Boss," Igor says, "it's time to leave."

And so it is.

The engine of the plane hums in the background as I stare out over the cold Atlantic, almost numb. Years of planning, of putting the right players on the board and finally—checkmate.

The strings I've pulled to ensure each world power was chosen by me, the amount of blood on my hands by proxy, it will all be worth it in the end, because in the end it will all be mine. Actually, I smile, it already is, isn't it? He who holds the power owns the world, and I own the missiles and every single ruler there is. I own everything... except her.

Closing my eyes, the memory of her bubbles to the surface. Her lethal curves, the anger that churned around her like a tumultuous tide. The depravity. Life seems so dull without her, without the challenge. Without her kiss, her volatile touch. The blissful high I had plummets to the depths of hell because I realize, without her, it is truly meaningless. No matter how powerful the man, how mighty his kingdom, it is all in vain if he has no queen with which to share his riches. That's ridiculous. Insane even. But is it? Love may drive you mad, but so will loneliness...longing. It seems I may be in no better position than I was when she was with me. Dead or alive, Camilla Estrada will always be a distraction.

My phone pings with an email, pulling me from my thoughts. When I glance down to the screen, I see it's from one of the men who manages IT. The subject reads: Sent to Gabriel Estrada from Don Cala. The body of the message holds only an attachment. I tap over it. The plane jolts, my brandy sloshing over the side of the glass as I wait for the attachment to load.

A grainy image of a man's face comes into view. His tan skin and slicked-back hair are all too familiar. The cartel. My heart holds back a beat when the camera swings around, zooming in and focusing on Camilla's face. Her jaw is clenched. Her nostrils flaring. Disbelief, shock, elation rush through me like an avalanche, gaining speed and momentum with each passing second. She's alive. She's alive! The momentary thrill that courses through me is quickly snuffed when the camera pans out to show a man thrusting on top of her as she flashes him a mocking grin. He places a knife to her throat and cuts her. Anger rises like a molten lake at the sight of the red blood trickling down her throat. For a moment, I can't catch a good breath. I grip the phone in my hand so hard there's a crack, and the glass from the screen cuts into my palm.

"Turn the plane around," I say through gritted teeth.

Igor glances at me from the front of the plane. "We can't—"

"Turn the fucking plane around!" I shout, pushing to my feet. Igor's eyes go wide as his brow wrinkles with confusion. Growling, I throw open the door to the cockpit, startling the pilot. "Turn it around. Now!" I say.

"Sir," he says, his hands gripping the steering wheel, "I can't just—"

I hold up a knife, the blade glinting in the sun shining through the windshield. "Do it. Now. Take me to Mexico." I thought I had handled these Los Zetas, a shitty little cartel worth even less then Camilla's. Apparently not.

Swallowing, the pilot slowly nods his head and radios into air traffic control before making a sharp turn.

Twelve hours later, I stand in the suffocating heat and dust riddled streets of Juarez. Before me stands a shack owned by Desi Soto the leader of the less the desirable Del Rio cartel. "Deplorable," I say, brushing dirt from my suit jacket.

Desi steps out from the ramshackle building. Snarling, I glance over his wrinkled slacks and plaid dress shirt. His choice in business attire is utterly offensive. He motions for me to follow him around the side of the building.

Igor and Donovan move first, and I follow them. A few yards back stands a large, metal building covered in graffiti. Desi stops in front of the aluminum doors, pressing a garage opener clasped in his hand. A motor whirs to life and the door slowly raises, dust flying into the desert air. When the door lifts all the way up, I'm staring at a desert brown tank. The hull has a smattering of dents, the word "puta" has been spray painted along the side in a vibrant green.

"How lovely," I grumble.

"So..." he says, spitting a wad of chewing tobacco to the sand. "You did not get this from me. No one likes the Russians." He smiles.

I walk into the bay, inspecting the tank. Wooden crates filled with ammunition are stacked to the ceiling on the far wall. On the side of each crate is the emblem of a lion—my emblem—and yet, we do not have a deal with this man. Interesting. I tap my hand over the side and a hollow thud rings out. "I do hope it's loaded with ammunition."

"Si."

I walk to the crates, running my finger along the rough wood. "You know, I supply ammunition, Desi. I could cut you a much better deal than your current dealer..." I prod.

"Oh," he takes a wary step back, rubbing his hand over his neck. "I already have deal. Good deal."

"But you haven't heard my offer yet."

His cheeks flush red. He swallows while taking another unsteady step back.

"Who do you deal with?"

When he goes to turn around, Igor's behind him. With one swift movement, Igor's arm is around the man's throat and ramming the blade of a knife beneath his chin.

"Tell me, and I won't have your family slaughtered."

"The..." His lips tremble and urine soaks the front of his slacks. "...The Horseman."

A flash of anger scorches through me. "Very well," I say. I glance at Igor, adjusting my cufflinks as I nod. There's a swift crack and within two seconds Desi lies motionless on the floor, his neck at a rather precarious angle.

This Horseman has more than overstepped his bounds, and as soon as I have Camilla back, I will take great joy in watching him burn.