Hearts On Fire (The Santiago Trilogy Book 3)

by Catherine Wiltcher

  “Hey!” she cries, sliding across the leather seat, an easy conquest in silk. She crashes into my thigh and I pull her on top of me. Soon her ass is resting in my lap and my arms are full of her.

  “Five,” I murmur, drawing her in. Getting drunk off her fragility and grace.

  “Five what?” She wraps her arms around my shoulders and sighs contentedly.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Your erection is digging into me, Dante.” She smiles, sapphires sparking. Blue flames setting my soul on fire. “I think I’ve got a fair idea.”

  I chuckle into her hair. That damn citrus scent. I’d start the countdown right here and now if Joseph wasn’t sat five feet away from us. “It’s your wedding night, mi alma,” I rumble into her ear. “You get to decide which part of you I fuck first.”

  She sucks in a breath as Joseph’s cell kicks off on the front dash. Peppering kisses across her cheekbone, I’m dimly aware of his voice in the background as he answers the call.

  “Yes… Indisposed… FUCK!” He pulls the car over and hits the brakes.

  My head jerks up. “What is it?”

  “You need to take this.” Joseph passes the phone to me as I gently tip Eve back onto the seat. Her eyes keep darting between us, trying to decode the looks we’re firing at one another.

  “Santiago,” I snap.

  “Petrov,” growls the response.

  Fucking fantastic. “It’s my wedding day, Petrov,” I say, gritting my teeth. “This better be good.”

  “Is it?” This shuts the old man up for a second. “Do pass on my, ah, congratulations to your new bride.” He’s itching to change that up to ‘commiserations’ but he doesn't have the balls.

  “Well?”

  “The trail’s gone cold.”

  I let that sink in for a moment. “Not as cold as your fucking men after I get my hands on them,” I say calmly. “I want details.”

  “Our safe house in Amsterdam was ambushed three hours ago.”

  “Not very fucking safe then, was it?” My voice doesn't rise by a single decibel but the atmosphere inside the vehicle plummets. Eve has started trembling, and so she should. I’m so angry I can’t think straight. All I can see is the color red.

  “Keep your taunts and threats to yourself, Santiago. They took out my entire ground team. Twenty dead. I’ve just received word that my satellite team in Morocco are out of contact too. They were meant to check in twenty minutes ago.”

  “Then let this be a lesson to you. Never send a bunch of incompetent Russians to do a Colombian’s work.”

  Ashes and smoke. The line goes silent, and all that’s left of our partnership is lost to the breeze. There’s a gentle touch on my leg but I’m too far-gone to feel her light.

  “We’ll talk more when you’re prepared to be reasonable.” He’s scolding me like a fucking child now. He’s a dead man. “You know how to reach me.”

  “Are you sure you want me to do that, Petrov? Miami was bad enough, but this? I advise you to vacate Amsterdam before I get–”

  But he’s hung up already.

  With a roar of rage, I fly from the vehicle, slamming the door on Eve’s shocked face. “Son of a fucking bitch!”

  Joseph calmly exits after me. He leans against the hood, arms crossed, awaiting orders. He’s parked up just inside the gates of my estate, right next to the path that runs all the way down to my private beach. I should be fucking my new wife down there tonight, not dealing with this shit.

  “I took my eye off the situation for twenty-four hours and this happens.” I drag my hand through my hair and motion for him to follow me. We walk in silence up to the black metal balustrade overlooking the cliff’s edge.

  “How’s Sevastien getting this intel?” I hook my arms over the top railing and drop my head to think. “There’s a leak. There has to be.”

  “Not on our side,” he says. “We don't take chances these days.”

  “Then it must be Petrov’s.” We look at each other, our thoughts in sync as usual. “Roman,” I snarl, glancing back to the ocean. “Get Sanders to put a crew on him. We should have done it sooner. It’s time to take the fight to them.”

  “Who’s the first target? Sevastien? Petrov?”

  “Too many fucking factions,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s a vortex of shit.”

  “Amsterdam?”

  “Call my pilot. I want to be in the air within the next thirty minutes.”

  “How many men?”

  “Twenty with us, including Reece. A further forty on the second plane. There’s fifteen waiting for us in Europe already.”

  “And Eve?”

  “A fucking complication as usual,” I muse darkly.

  She kept her side of the bargain. I need to keep mine.

  “She’s coming too,” I announce, peeling away from him. “But she stays out of sight in a safe house rigged up with security and a ten-man team as her constant shadow. The only time they leave her side is in my bedroom. She’s my prerogative then.”

  “You sure about this?”

  No.

  “Yes. So sort it.”

  Uneasiness sits heavy at the base of my spine as I approach the car. Intuition is my god. Doubt, my religion... I can't shake the feeling that I’m excommunicating both by allowing this.

  11

  Eve

  We arrive in the dead of night. Like thieves. Like soldiers.

  The small private runway is boarded on either side by a thick line of trees. Their fuzzy outline is being thrown into play by a string of white lights running parallel at the edges of the strip. There’s something familiar about them, and I can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen them before.

  We come in hard and fast. Engines screaming. The harsh noise carries right through me, shredding my already-shredded nerves and making my stomach lurch. I watch the same lights morph into yellow and then to red as the aircraft slows to a crawl.

  Dante is a man who likes to make an entrance but he’s switched into full-on mercenary mode tonight. Five black SUVs greet us with their headlights off. Only the aircraft emergency cabin lights are in use. We exit the aircraft by torchlight and I’m led toward the first vehicle.

  “Get in,” orders Dante.

  Gladly.

  Amsterdam is freezing. I’ve come straight from Pacific sunshine into a bitter European winter with no coat or jumper. I dive into the back and curl up in a ball on the heated seat like a kitten, shivering in my jeans and white vest top. Dreaming of a pair of Uggs and a ski-jacket with a giant faux fur trim as my breath turns to dragon’s smoke.

  Dante and Joseph are talking in low voices right outside. I scoot across to shut the crack in the door and conserve the meagre amount of warmth in here. Both men turn at my movement and look irritated by the interruption.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “Go get her a sweater, Joe,” orders Dante, taking pity on me. “There’s one in the closet at the back of the plane.”

  I start to thank him but he’s already walking over to the SUV parked up behind. The last time we talked, we were exchanging our wedding vows. He’s made no move to touch me during the flight. The call from Petrov has set off a chain reaction in my new husband that has brought all his base instincts to the fore. I know nothing about the conversation, only what I overheard, and that was bad enough.

  Dante’s been in a vicious mood ever since so I’ve been keeping my distance again. I sat up front the entire journey, while he and his men plotted and schemed at the rear. I tried reading a book but my eyes kept sliding off the pages. I must have twirled my new wedding ring around my finger a thousand times as I tried to make sense of everything.

  I’m married.

  I’m pregnant.

  A psycho we’ve all underestimated is still holding my best friend hostage.

  Dante’s decided to wage war with a Russian billionaire Bratva boss.

  I catch myself doing the same thing again as I wait for Joseph to return with the s
weater. The ring is simple, platinum, fully set with diamonds that match the ones studding the shoulders of my engagement ring. The clash with Petrov was unnecessary. I know the Russian doesn't want a war with Dante, he told me so himself. It wouldn't be beneficial to anyone. How can I make Dante see that?

  There are similar chinks in both their armours, forged by a mutual grief at the hands of an evil far greater than them. Or maybe I’m just predisposed in finding the good in all bad men? Regardless, I need to be Dante’s voice of reason once more. Our objective is too important to let his ego and arrogance roll us off course.

  There’s a blast of cold air as Joseph wrenches the door open. “Here,” he says chucking a black sweater at me. “And you forgot these.” He slips me the white bottle of prenatal tablets that I’d smuggled on-board, blue-grays firing icy pellets into my face as I grab the bottle from him and bury them deep in my bag.

  “They must have fallen out when I used the bathroom,” I mumble, cursing my carelessness.

  “Clock’s ticking, Eve.”

  “You sound like Whit,” I grumble.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “Not so sick.” It’s true. If I keep eating, my morning sickness is reduced to choppy ripples at best. One downside. I’ll be the size of Dante’s mansion by the time the first trimester is through.

  “He’ll go fucking nuclear about this,” he warns. “If you think how he acted a fortnight ago was bad–”

  “Shut the damn door! You're letting all the warm air out.”

  “Eve–”

  “Can't you put a positive spin on stuff for a change?” I say angrily. “Why do you have to be such a doomster?”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “A pessimist. My least favorite kind of cynic. Everything’s always ‘worst case scenario’ with you.”

  “Shoot me for living in the real world,” he drawls as Dante appears behind him. He stands aside to let his boss through and then climbs into the passenger seat as a sliver of guilt worms its way into my consciousness. He buried his wife and son. I had no right to accuse him of that.

  “Let’s go,” says Dante, thumping his fist twice on the roof of the vehicle as he settles beside me, his size overwhelming me and sucking the air out of the space between us again. Drawing all my attention back to him. He’s so damn hot when he’s like this. The ringmaster. The focussed killer. All of a sudden I want that same brutal control being exercised over my body until I’m begging for his mercy...

  Baby.

  Damn.

  “How far away is our safe house?” I ask, yanking his sweater over my head to distract me from my lust. I can't stop squirming in my seat. The seam of my jeans keeps catching the tip of my clit and making it worse.

  “Fifty miles west. Get some sleep.”

  “What happens when we reach–?”

  “I said you could tag along. I never said you’d be involved.” He leans forward to tap Joseph on the shoulder. “What’s the status in Morocco?”

  I can't get a word in edgeways.

  “Two teams have entered the country via Merzouga,” replies Joseph, tapping something into his laptop. “They’ll travel south-east to the border with Algeria at first light. We’ve intercepted the transcript of the final transmission between Petrov and his men. From this, we’ve managed to triangulate their last known location.”

  “Does it corroborate with the CIA satellite images?”

  “Affirmative. There are three camps within a twenty-mile radius of that communication. I’m betting one of those is Sevastien’s.” There’s a pause. “Christ, it’s like fucking Afghanistan all over again,” he mutters and Dante grunts in agreement.

  A dozen questions tumble into my mind but I’m done with being shot down like one of his targets tonight.

  12

  Eve

  The safe house is a white-stone manor set back from the road, enclosed by a thick green forest of pines. Dawn is beginning to inch around the bullet-shaped trees as Dante marches me up the steps and into the building. A dozen or so men are patrolling the perimeter but there are loads more inside. It’s swarming with hard-faced military-types, who stand aside to let us through, muttering ‘sir’ and ‘jefe’ to Dante as he stalks past, grim-faced and imposing as hell.

  If they’re surprised to see me here, a lone woman in amongst three floors of concentrated testosterone, no one says a word. I don't exist. All eyes are fixed elsewhere, whereas mine keep bouncing off the stacks of hi-tech weaponry like hail from a car windshield. I’m seeing everything but not taking it in. Not really wanting to. I need Anna to be rescued but I don't want to think too hard on the method.

  Red and gray wires knit the walls and ceilings, exposing the amount of security that this house is packing. Outside a fleet of bulletproof vehicles are lined up like shiny black cavalry charges. I’ve never accompanied Dante on one of his missions before. I’ve never seen his team in full-attack mode like this. I’ve witnessed him kill more times than I care to remember but those were isolated incidents: the time his brother kidnapped me, the night I was trapped in Miami…

  His military side is a piece of him that lies unchartered. This is the war hero with the highest decorations for courage – an elite, intent on blurring the lines between good and evil no matter how much he protests to the contrary. A man who only surrounds himself with the best.

  Sofia told me stories about his men’s bravery the night Emilio came for me in Africa. How they’d been out-numbered, and when captured and tortured had refused to give up my hiding place. I’ve wept for these men already. I cry for them still. The same way I still cry for my old bodyguard, Manuel.

  Dante’s army is much slicker than Petrov’s. Even an amateur like me can see that. It’s there in their silent composure as they prepare for battle. Petrov is one of the richest businessmen in the world but he’s not a general. His Bratva are commanded by a dead-eyed Russian called Viktor who gives me the creeps. His men are nowhere near as skilled or organized.

  “First on the left,” says Dante sharply as we approach a wooden staircase.

  “Are you coming too?” I ask him.

  He wavers and then shuts it down with a frown. “Something else requires my attention.”

  We stare at each other, both weighted down with words we can’t seem to say. God, this wasn’t how I envisaged my wedding night at all.

  “I’ll see you later then.”

  I take the stairs slowly. There’s a damp earthy smell about this place that’s making me feel queasy again. All the while, I can feel his dark eyes on me, undressing me, going down on me, fucking me…

  “Damn it,” I hear him curse, and then his heavy tread is bounding after me. I feel his hand on my arm. The next thing I know, he’s spinning me around so hard that he’s smashing his mouth onto mine to stop the force of the trajectory, forcing his tongue between my teeth and slamming me up against a nearby wall.

  I wanted brutal, and boy, I’m getting it.

  Baby.

  Baby.

  Baby.

  “Dante, wait!” I try to push him away but he groans with disapproval as his hands slide down to my ass, forcing me to fling my legs around his waist before I lose my balance. “Dante, please!” I wince as his teeth nip my cheek, his stubble detonating my skin.

  “Hush your mouth or I’ll gag you.”

  What’s wrong with him? He’s like a lens that’s been pulled out of focus. His hands are all over me, pinching, twisting and I’m choking on memories. There’s a bedroom in Bal Harbour. Hurting. Screaming. I’m fighting to free myself.

  There’s something else down there too. Something that’s been driven so deep inside of me I’d almost forgotten…

  We’re barely over the threshold of a bedroom before he’s wrenching a desk away from the wall, dropping me to the floor and throwing me over it, pressing the heel of his hand into my shoulder blade to keep me still as he fights to undo the buttons on my jeans.

  “Please!” I sob. “N
ot like this! Dante, stop!”

  That memory. What is it? What is it?

  Him.

  Something flips inside me. For a split-second my mind empties before I’m crashing back to earth and into a brick wall of images that have been twisted up in barbed wire and broken glass. They’re a patchwork of my worst nightmares scrawled in obscene graffiti, from a time I don’t remember.

  White room.

  Red light.

  Him.

  The wall disintegrates. I’m suspended in a void. There’s a voice screaming somewhere in the distance.

  “Jesus, Eve. Fuck!”

  Pain explodes across my cheek and the void takes on a hazy color. There are more whites and grays now. It’s not so black anymore. Someone is shaking me hard.

  With a soft cry, I open my eyes. I’m on the floor. How did I get here? Dante is crouching down in front of me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face. Is that fear?

  I don't know whether it’s that, or if it’s the unwanted memory that is still scratching at the backdoor of my mind, but I can’t stop shaking and crying hysterically, soaking his black sweater with a grief that I can’t recall.

  Dante eases onto the floor next to me and pulls me close to him. He doesn’t say a word as I work to catch my breath, gasping in lungfuls of air that burn my insides and cramp my stomach.

  He stays like that for ages. Not stroking or comforting. Just holding me close and letting his body take the weight of whatever the hell is wrong with me. Spent and exhausted, I fall headfirst into an empty space again.

  13

  Eve

  The first thing I see when I open my eyes is his silhouette. He’s standing to one side of the window, half in profile to me. A pair of ugly brown curtains have been closed but daylight is creeping around the edges like the promise of better things to come.

  Next, comes the smell of cigarette smoke. It takes me a minute to locate the source, to trace the silver spirals back to the fingers on his right hand. As I watch, he takes a drag, sucking in consolation and exhaling an emotion I can’t decipher. He smokes effortlessly, flicking the ash like a barfly and rolling the cigarette between his forefinger and thumb like a movie star. I’ve never seen him smoke before but he looks like he’s been doing it all his life.