Blood Money (Dark Cartel Romance) (Dinero de Sangre Book 1)

by Lana Sky

I never complained to Papa about the way he spoke to me, either. You spoiled little bitch. I used to replay those words to myself—usually when I had two fingers inside of me and needed one last hit to go over the edge. I’d think of him snarling those hateful words, and I’d orgasm, gasping his name softly enough that no one ever knew.

  He treated me a way no one ever had. I’d been stupid enough to think that meant something. That I meant something to someone.

  And now I know.

  Domino saved my life that night because he had a more gruesome death in mind. Those things he said to me weren’t the impassioned speech of someone afraid for my life. They were the frustrations of my would-be murderer.

  And God, I wish he never found me, then. It’s been two years since, and I’ve never gathered up the strength to try again. Maybe I stopped hating myself.

  Or perhaps I knew, deep down, that Domino might not be there to stop me the next time.

  Chapter Nine

  My back hurts so goddamn much. I cry out, waking up to a darkened room, already on the verge of tears. At first, I assume I’m in that pretty white prison.

  But wait…

  This smell is different, so rich I audibly groan at the flavor, inhaling deeply to savor it. Then I remember. I’m in Domino’s room, on his bed.

  Alarmed, I bolt upright, disentangling myself from his sheets.

  Because, sometime during my reminiscence of the past, I climbed onto the mattress beneath them. I lied in the same space as the man who tormented me, and, worst of all, I fell asleep breathing in the remnants of him.

  I’d vomit if there were anything in my stomach left to bring up.

  Instead, I lurch to my feet, scanning the room warily, expecting to find him stepping from the shadows. It’s nearly evening now, I realize with a start. Beyond the windows, the sun has partially sunk beneath the horizon. I’ve lost hours.

  And he’ll be back soon.

  Knowledge of that spurs me toward the doorway. I need to hide. Prepare. Do something other than wait for him patiently. I should devise a trap.

  My father would. Usually, I would play a part in it. Domino mentioned the day I interrupted my father’s meeting with the mayor—but I don’t think he knew what happened after I entered that room. I sidled up to the man with a charming smile and playfully mentioned that I’d like a ride in the sports car he had parked outside. Of course, he gave me a ride hours later in that very car and fucked me in the back seat.

  And while he wasn’t looking, I slipped a vial of cocaine in the glove box.

  What secrets does Domino have waiting to be found? Everyone has them, skeletons in their closet. Figuratively. Literally…

  My heart pounds as I turn on the threshold and cross over to the full-length mirror directly opposite the bed. Copying Ines’ motions, I feel along the edge until I find a concealed latch. Once I press it, the door easily swings inward, revealing a closet twice as large as the one in my room.

  One look, and I realize that if Domino has any secrets hidden within his house, they might be within here. There’s luggage, for one. I spy it lurking on a top shelf.

  Another glaring sight is just how few items of clothing hang on the rails. I count maybe three suits, a handful of dress shirts, and even fewer slacks. A lone pair of leather shoes fills only one rung in a shelf that seems built to hold at least fifty. I only find one red tie.

  But this closet contains one fixture mine didn’t. In the center is a square, glass-topped counter. Beneath it, arranged neatly within separate wooden boxes lined with black silk, are watches. So many watches. I count at least forty different kinds. Most of them are stopwatches. Some gold, or silver. If I strain my ears, a strange ticking sound echoes faintly. They’re all working, counting down the seconds.

  I wonder if Ines’ constant reminders about the time were more than just a devoted need to adhere to her boss’ wishes. Of course, they weren’t. She was being timed.

  I was being timed.

  Anger flares, as sharp as it is irrational. Perhaps he got a kick out of being the one to call the shots instead of the lackey taking orders. Though, come to think of it, I never saw my father order him outright the way he did everyone else—myself included. When it came to Domino, he seemed to adhere to a different code. I think it might have been respect.

  And this is how he was betrayed.

  I shake my head to clear it. No. I can’t focus on the past any longer. The only hope I have of staying alive is to think, plot, plan.

  I scan the room again with a different focus, hunting in the corners and behind the hanging clothing. There must be something. Some clue. Some bit of information he forgot to hide.

  I’m nearing the back of the room when I finally spy something tucked behind a rack of shelves—a duffle bag made of black leather, like the kind someone might carry onto a plane. The main interior is empty, but when I open the zipper of one of the side compartments, a wealth of different materials spills out.

  I crouch to retrieve them, feeling my hands shake as I realize what they are. Pictures. Some are grainy, like paparazzi shots taken from afar, barely in focus. Others are crystal clear, taken up close with the subject’s full awareness.

  I lift the nearest one, straining my eyes to make out the details.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  It’s Tristan. His back is to the camera, but I recognize his signature navy suit and the red imported sports car he loved to show off. That car was the only reason I gave him the time of day.

  That and the fact that I had no choice.

  I grapple for another picture that must have been taken soon after. It shows a passenger leaving the same vehicle, a woman in a tiny black dress. The one lying next to it shows her face, her bitchy grin visible even from the distance she stood from the photographer.

  Alexi Rojas.

  Is it fair to feel jealous over a man I truly never loved in the first place? Yes, I decide. Though, the fact that Tristan isn’t here to bitch at helps temper my rage. I just feel hollow. Used. Lied to—a time stamp above each photo reveals the date of this particular meeting.

  Just a week ago.

  Another set of images were taken just a few days later, shot from a different angle inside the hallway of what looks like Tristan’s apartment complex. In one, Alexi is visible sauntering up to his door at nine p.m. She doesn’t leave until six a.m. the next morning.

  At least five different instances are depicted in the photos altogether, spanning from a month ago up to just two days before our date at the restaurant. I’m sure he was with her that night as well.

  And apparently, he wasn’t the only one fucking her.

  Four photos remain, each one a glossier, higher-quality shot from the others. These were taken up close and personal—very personal. If I didn’t know Tristan’s body so well, I’d assume it was him.

  His hand, fondling the perky breast of a smirking blond. His fingers gripping her hair to expose her neck and the tiny heart tattoo on her collar bone.

  Objectively, at least I know now why Tristan enjoyed fucking her so much that even the allure of dating Roy Pavalos’ daughter wasn’t enough to temper the lust. She’s hot, with flawless skin and a taut little ass, and I hate her so goddamn much I could scream.

  Tristan, she could have—the bastard could barely last seven minutes in the sack on a good day.

  But I recognize those hands. That tanned, golden skin. The coiled, rigid muscle shaping his forearms…

  For all of his taunts and superiority displayed toward me, Domino had no problem fucking a “worthless whore” like Alexi Rojas.

  I think a part of me wants to laugh, almost as much as I want to seethe. For all intents and purposes, Alexi and I are one and the same—though hell, I think I have more than two brain cells to rub together, so maybe that’s it. Domino likes his women flawless and stupid.

  It fits.

  Or maybe he just likes his women so easy they’d give it to anyone like a cat in heat?

  Disguste
d, I start to shove the photos back into the duffle only to jar something else loose. I almost missed it, hidden at the very bottom of the pocket. Two items, actually. One is a brown vial of liquid. It looks medical, like something taken from a hospital or doctor’s office. Printed on a white label is the phrasing—LORAZEPAM 2mg/ml injection solution. Ativan, a drug I know well enough, thanks to my mother. She kept a pill bottle of it in the medicine cabinet. Her prescription was for one milligram as needed. She took three.

  A chilling sensation washes over me as I realize that this might be what he drugged me with. How much? And for how long?

  A shudder runs through me as I brush my hand across my sore thigh. Perhaps that’s where they did it?

  Beside the vial, is a syringe with a needle attached, still packaged for use.

  A plan forms in my brain as reckless as it is desperate. It could work. I ignore the many cons and focus on the slim possibility of success.

  Without thinking it through, I shove the pictures back into the pocket and return the duffle behind the shelf. Then I escape his room and return to mine.

  My heart pounds as I glance over my shoulder with every noise to break the quiet. How soon before he comes back? What if he’s already here?

  I strain my ears, listening for any telltale sign. All I hear are chirping birds and murmuring insects. Apart from its purpose as my prison, more and more, the abject beauty of this landscape sticks out to me—as well as the fact that it’s far from Terra Rodea.

  There are none of the hallmarks of the city or its outskirts. The land beyond this lush estate looks dead. Like desert.

  The nearest area with remotely similar terrain is hours from the city at least. I eye the vial in my hand and wonder how much he had shoved into my body just to bring me here. It was night at the restaurant and night by the time I came to in the foyer. I’d blurred them together, assuming they happened hours apart, but what if they were two different nights?

  Which means that he was ready for me. The grill. The dress. He waited for my arrival and used every second since to torment me.

  For what? Something tells me that there has to be a reason behind the madness. I guess I’m not insane enough to see it. My head aches again, the room spinning.

  Then footsteps echo in the distance, advancing quickly in this direction.

  Damn! I lunge for the closet. At the last minute, I pivot toward the bed and shove the vial and syringe beneath the top corner of the mattress.

  I’ve barely stepped back from it when a shadow appears at the door.

  “Mr. Domino is ready for you in the dining room, Miss,” Ines calls.

  My heart drops to the floor, and I almost can’t disguise my alarm.

  Domino is already here. For how long?

  Long enough to see me creep through his belongings, laughing all the while in the background?

  “He requests that you not change,” Ines adds, and I jump to realize she’s still here. “You can follow me.”

  A not-so-subtle warning not to delay.

  “Y-Yes.” I smooth my hand along the front of the dress. It’s rumpled now, and I’m sure my hair is a rat’s nest. I can’t stop myself from combing my fingers through it as I hurry into the hall.

  Again, the house transforms in the warm glow of sunset. This time, the fiery hue painting the walls resembles less of a figurative hell and more like a literal fire, threatening to consume me with greedy, grasping flames.

  Chapter Ten

  I smell him, even before we near the doorway to the dining room.

  Domino.

  He’s seated at the head of the table again, his hands folded in front of him. He’s switched the white shirt for one of gray, and somehow this color unnerves me the most. Perhaps because it acts as a neutral tone, softening the intensity of his eyes while enhancing the hardness of his features.

  “Have a seat, Ada-Maria,” he says, gesturing to the chair nearest him. “I promise that tonight, only chicken is on the menu.”

  I stiffen. “Not Pollo d-de Roy?” My voice breaks so badly I can barely get the words out. Tears fall, lashing down my cheeks but I don’t dare wipe them away. I should crave any and every reminder of what he’s done.

  What he’s claimed to have done, anyway.

  “No, that is not on the menu tonight,” Domino says, tilting his head to observe me. “I hope you enjoyed your full day to yourself. It will be the last you may have for a while.”

  I grit my teeth, alarmed by just how easily the threat creeps into his voice. I suspect he chooses now to deploy that bit of information for a reason. Most likely as a prompt to get me to ask, “Are… Are you going to kill me?”

  He laughs. “Have a seat, Ada-Maria. This time, I’m afraid, the meal isn’t entirely for your benefit. I’m starving.”

  Surprisingly, I sense a note of truthfulness in his voice. Maybe shock alone is what finally draws me closer to the table. I pick a chair halfway down the table from him, but as I pull it out, he shakes his head.

  “No. No games tonight; you sit by me.”

  I bite back a sigh and approach him, still smoothing my hands down my front. God, it’s as if every little thing I do might give away what I’ve done if I’m not careful. My hands shake. I don’t know what to do with them. Can he somehow sense traces of the drug vial on them?

  He says nothing as I sit. Here, his scent hits me full in the face, and another thought creeps in before I can help it, far beyond escape or my kidnapping.

  I wonder how he smelled after fucking Alexi, drenched in her cheap perfume. The two-dollar hooker smell wouldn’t mesh well with the spicy tinge of his aftershave. Though hell, they deserved each other. Why should it matter?

  Still, sometimes I wonder if Tristan thought I really was as dumb as I looked, or if he just didn’t care to hide it. He never tried to wash her smell off him. I was paranoid that I could taste her on his lips whenever he kissed me.

  My only saving grace had been to remind myself that Tristan was too selfish a lover to go down on me, let alone her. But who knows? It kills me that I don’t.

  And now Domino…

  “You seem distracted tonight, Ada-Maria.”

  He’s touching me—a reality that doesn’t sink in until I see his fingers moving from the corner of my eye, twisting a strand of my hair around a thick, calloused thumb.

  “Tell me you’ve been a good girl while I was gone.” His inflection dips in a way that makes me shiver. He wants an answer.

  “I-I did what you said I could do.” Belatedly, I realize how pathetic that sounded. Weak.

  But as sick as it is to admit, I think I satisfied him. His tongue flits across his lower lip.

  “Only what I said? You wouldn’t lie to me, now would you, Ada-Maria?”

  I jump, nearly choking on the nerves bouncing beneath my skin. The only way to distract from them is to speak, so I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “You know a lot about lying, don’t you?”

  He sits back and claps his hands, ushering in another parade of servers who place a series of platters onto the table. At least he wasn’t lying. The platters of baked meat look and smell like seasoned chicken, though I barely pay attention to them, or any of the other dishes.

  For whatever reason, something makes me meet his gaze and hold it.

  “I never lied to you,” I say.

  He sits forward again, leaning his face alarmingly close to mine. “Your father did plenty of lying for the both of us,” he says. Reaching past me, he drags a plate so close to the table’s edge it nearly falls into my lap. “Eat. Help yourself.”

  One of his servants fills his plate before scurrying out of sight.

  I don’t touch mine.

  “I never lied to you.” It feels important to repeat that. To ensure he can hear the honesty in my voice. And the hate.

  “No…” He lifts a glass of wine I didn’t notice until then. Bringing the rim to his mouth, he inspects me before taking a slow sip. “You just lied to everyone else, didn’
t you? Though considering the family you grew up in, do you even know what’s the lie and what isn’t?”

  I hate how damn smug he sounds. I reach for my own drink only to stop short inches before bringing it to my lips, sloshing wine onto my lap.

  “It’s not poisoned,” he admits—grudgingly, I suspect. His reluctance alone gives me the courage to take a sip.

  It’s divine. One of the finest vintages I’ve ever tasted, and I nearly choke in my rush to gulp it down.

  “Didn’t your Papa teach you, Ada-Maria? Never drink on an empty stomach.”

  Gasping for air, I sloppily set my glass aside, relishing the soothing burn of alcohol. It alone must give me the courage to spar verbally with him.

  “My father taught me that all men are bastards who lie, and cheat, and steal. It’s good to see that he, at least, didn’t lie to me.” It’s a selective way of looking at it.

  One he isn’t amused by.

  “Lie to you... Like your Tristan?”

  I flinch, feeling fear flood my veins. Does he know that I found the pictures? Or was I so stupid as to give myself away? I can’t tell.

  Peeling his gaze from mine, he turns his focus to his food.

  “You should eat.” He picks up a fork and stabs at a piece of meat. Then he palms a knife and slowly severs it into pieces.

  I swallow hard, flicking my gaze toward the selection of silverware lying beside my place setting. I wasn’t given a knife, just a fork, and spoon.

  “Miguel is a damn good cook who excels at preparing both impeccable entrees as well as corrupt politicians. Don’t hold one experience against him. Eat.”

  “You make a joke out of it?” I croak hoarsely. “Cooking my father like some fucking animal?”

  He inclines his head and samples a bite of meat. “You and I both know that he’s done far worse to far more people, Ada-Maria.”

  Do I know that?

  “N-No,” I insist, pushing back from the table. “He could be ruthless, but even he wasn’t that cruel—”

  “Did he whip you?”

  His tone startles me more than the question itself. I would never expect that low, gruff note. Like he cares. Does he?