by S Williams
I sigh, slumping my body in the seat, staring out of the window as the wheels of the jet begin to roll.
The flight takes less than two hours.
After everything is collected from the bins, we follow Emilio off the jet and through the gates of the runway. This one isn’t private. There are many jets and people around, but they’re all minding their own business.
All of them seem rich, the men wearing expensive suits and sunglasses and the women wearing tight, silky dresses or blouses, red-bottomed heels and their hair styled to perfection, despite the dusty wind around them.
Emilio leads the way to a building. It’s like an airport, but much, much smaller and fewer security guards around. He bobs his head at one of them and they nod back before looking away.
He reaches another door and heads out. A white van is parked up front and he goes for it, swinging the back door open as a man in the driver seat steps out.
I know this man.
It’s Diego, one of his best guards.
He spots me and looks me over twice before murmuring, “Patrona.”
I nod back.
Apparently he told them to keep their respect. That’s good. I know how easy it would be to yank the authority right from under me.
Diego pulls the door open, and I walk forward, climbing inside. Clark starts to climb in, but Diego stops him with a firm hand to the chest.
“Hands up,” Diego orders.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Clark scoffs, but puts his hands on top of his head anyway. When Diego starts to pat him down, Clark says, “I’m annoyed as fuck, and no one wants to let the gringo take a fucking smoke break. Get too close, and I might bite your fucking face off.”
Diego keeps a solid face, nudging him when he’s done. “Get in the fucking van.”
Clark slides across the bench, sitting next to me. “I swear they’re testing me,” he grumbles.
“Be patient,” I murmur. “You’ll have your cigarettes soon. The Jefe doesn’t cut corners. You of all people should know this.”
“I know. I know. Just over this protocol shit.”
When all the doors are shut, the van peels off. We ride on cobblestone streets with the front windows down. I can smell the ocean before I can see it. A few minutes later, we’re riding on a quiet dirt road with a clear view of the sapphire water, the waves crashing to shore.
There are hotels crowding the area below, tourists and locals on the beach. Children playing. The sun blazing.
The van slows down, and we ride up another dirt road. At the box is a security guard who sees Diego and nods once, letting us ride through. We ride a little more until reaching a castle-like building.
It’s a villa, made of creamy stucco with a brown clay and cement roof. A trained fuchsia bougainvillea tree borders part of the rooftop and the thick stucco walls of the villa.
Diego parks in front of the home, and Emilio springs out of the passenger seat, Diego following suit.
They open the doors from both sides, and we step out, Patanza following behind Clark from the very back row.
As soon as I step out, I know the ocean is close. The air is thick and damp. I taste the salt on my lips, shut my eyes for a brief moment, and breathe. I know I’m far from safe and far from being okay, but this is liberating.
I can breathe, despite the humidity and the heat.
I finally made it back.
There’s something about these exotic places that make me feel free. I guess that’s why I wanted my wedding to be in Mexico. Here, the water is blue and the palm trees whisper sweet, soothing melodies.
“This way, Patrona.” Emilio walks by me, leading the way to the front door.
He unlocks it, and as soon as we step inside, I’m in love.
This place is huge—not like the others. It’s spacious, and I’m sure it has many, many rooms. The floor tiles are ivory, waxed so well I can see my reflection.
The wide glass doors to the left let in the salty breeze, giving a clear view of an infinity pool with an immaculate waterfall coming from brown stones, and of course the roaring ocean beyond it.
The east wall of the living room is made of the same stone as the waterfall, a fireplace built into the bottom center. The furniture—tan leather with a mix of wicker pieces and orange and brown throw pillows—looks comfortable enough for a nap, which I definitely need.
“If you two would like to come with me, I will show you to your rooms,” Emilio says, pointing at the staircase.
I nod, looking over at Clark, who doesn’t understand the Spanish words, but follows my lead anyway. As I walk up the stairs, I feel eyes on me.
I think it’s Patanza only, but I’m wrong. It’s her and Diego. Both of them are watching. Hard. Patanza mutters something to him before storming off.
I pull my gaze away, following Emilio to my assigned bedroom after he shows Clark his room.
“Now this is what I’m talking about!” Clark laughs. “Finally some fucking luxury!”
Emilio takes me to another room. It’s beautiful. A canopy bed with sheer white sheets curtaining it. They’re drawn back, as well as the curtains above the wide glass door that reveals the sparkling ocean and a part of the infinity pool.
“Your bag will be brought in shortly, Patrona.” He smiles at me. “He wants us to check it first.”
“That’s fine, Emilio.” Before he takes off, I stop him and he looks back, eyes inquiring. “You don’t have to give my cousin the guns or his cellphone. I know Jefe won’t allow that under his roof, but can you at least make sure Clark gets his damn cigarettes? He’s a true asshole without them.”
Emilio smiles with a curt nod. “Of course.”
“Gracias, Emilio.”
He pauses, looking me over once. “Is there anything else, Patrona?”
I shift on my feet, taking a long look around the room before meeting his eyes again. “Just…thank you, I guess. For bringing me here—trusting that I would never bring harm his way. Not intentionally.”
He presses his lips. “I know an honest person when I see one. Like I said before you left, we all make mistakes. None of us under this roof are perfect.”
“I know.”
I give him a small smile, and he takes off, the door clicking shut behind him.
I walk to the balcony and grip the rail, shutting my eyes and breathing in before exhaling.
I know it’s not freedom.
I know there is work to be done.
But I’m here.
I made it back.
It won’t be long before I see him again.
27
DRACO
She’s back.
I don’t know why I was foolish enough to think she wouldn’t try to find me. Only reason she’s with my people is because having her out there alone would have gotten her killed.
People are still looking for her.
Her face is familiar—all over posters in the cities. It puts me in a position where I have to protect her, but only because I can’t stand the idea of Yessica putting her hands on her again.
I assumed Gianna would think about all of the horrible shit I’d done to her—things that I’m sure have traumatized her—and stay right there in Colorado with her family. The months with me, I’m sure, have changed her. Made her fearless but still broken…just like the person I am.
She knows I’m not innocent.
She knew how big of a risk it was to come back to me. She could have been killed as soon as she stepped off that jet with her cousin, but still, she returned.
She doesn’t know what to expect from me. For all she knows, I could kill her as soon as I lay eyes on her, or have her suffocated in her sleep.
She’s stupid for coming back.
She’s always been so damn reckless.
I can’t go to her—won’t go to her.
I tell myself this—that she’s worthless. Unimportant. Irrelevant and a waste of time…but only I know it’s all a fucking lie.
She’s wormed her way in. She did it to me a very long time ago, when we were children, and again during our deadly reunion in Lantía when she was locked up in my shed.
Fuck her.
She fucked up.
Maybe she’ll take the sign and leave once she realizes I’m not coming.
That I owe her nothing.
28
GIANNA
Three fucking days.
Three long, weary, annoying days, and not one sign of him. Not one message or phone call. I’ve kept my eyes open and my ears peeled. I haven’t even heard his men speaking to him on their phone calls.
I’m starting to think he’s not going to show up at all—that I gave up a life back in Colorado to get nothing in return.
On top of that, Mrs. Molina came here yesterday. She still can’t stand to look at me. She hasn’t spoken one word to me since her arrival. She looked me right in the eyes then passed right by without a single word.
Instead of eating breakfast at the table with her—something she’s done each morning while here—I tell Emilio to bring mine to my room.
Of course Clark doesn’t give a damn. He enjoys the buffet breakfasts at the table with Jefe’s mother. She doesn’t speak to him much either, but I can always hear him trying to start conversations and getting dry responses in return.
I also hear him trying to get Patanza to open up.
Today he’s swimming in the pool, Patanza keeping watch of him, her gun tucked in the holster at her waist, arms folded.
“Come on, mamacita!” I hear Clark call to her from my room. “You look hot, and I don’t mean that in the physically attractive way. I mean you’re sweating and shit, your hair all damp. Jump in the pool with me. I’ll cool you off…or warm you up even more. Whichever way you want it, baby.”
“Shut the fuck up already,” I hear her snap at him, but I’m almost certain I hear a dip in her voice, like she doesn’t fully mean it. Like she…enjoys it.
I know for a fact that he’s getting to her in some way, because when I walk out to the pool, needing a word with him, he steps out and winks at her. She jerks her gaze away, muttering something in Spanish, but I see the color bloom in her cheeks. She turns her back so we can’t see, but I notice it.
Clark is not an ugly guy. He’s a Nicotera, and Nicoteras are far from ugly. I’m certain she finds him attractive, but she’ll never admit to it. Not an American man. Not for Patanza.
Later that night, I think I’ve had enough. I go out to the pool, not even changing clothes. One of my guns is in a lace holster strapped around my thigh, beneath my skirt, just in case.
I’m becoming more and more paranoid with each passing day. Sooner or later, I’ll start to wonder where his men’s loyalties lie. They won’t be with me. I have to be prepared. Por si acaso.
Emilio brings out the tequila I requested, placing the tray with a shot glass, a full bottle of tequila, and a water bottle on top of it, down on the table behind me.
“Gracias, Emilio.”
When he’s gone, I pour myself a shot, but instead of drinking it, I stare at the amber liquid, my stomach churning.
I can’t drink. I’m too bothered. Too nervous.
Sighing, I place the shot glass down and walk close to the edge of the pool, studying the wet stones of the man-made waterfall.
The water trickles from high above, pouring into the pool below. My eyes drop to the crystal-blue abyss, focusing on the calm ripples.
I have no idea what the hell I’m doing anymore—no idea why I’m even here. I should have thought this through. I should have considered the peace I had there, in Colorado—maybe started over—but Clark was right.
I was a threat to his family.
They don’t deserve to die because I’m a target of one of the most powerful women in this drug industry.
He needs to show tonight, otherwise I’ll be making plans to leave and be on my own. I can’t stay here forever. It’s not safe to be in one place for too long.
It’s well past midnight, and no one has heard from him since the call Emilio made before we flew here.
I pick up the water bottle and open it.
I take a few hard gulps before placing the bottle down on the table, but as I lean over, I hear footsteps behind me.
I pause, spotting the familiar silhouette. Broad shoulders. Large chest. Thick legs, clad in black dress pants. Through the corner of my eye, I see him stop several steps away, his fingers sliding into his front pockets.
“You still haven’t learned, have you?” His deep, husky voice does something to me.
For a split moment, I can’t tell if the rush coursing through my body is due to my masked excitement, or because he just does this to me—swirls everything up inside me and twists it, making me loathe and adore his voice all at the same time.
It’s been days since I’ve heard it. Listening to those voice messages over and over again wasn’t the same. I couldn’t feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. Couldn’t see his eyes dilate as he spoke. Couldn’t smell his breath, which always seems to smell like a hint of mint and traces of weed.
He takes a step forward, and out of instinct, my hand touches the gun tucked in the lace holster strapped around my thigh.
“Don’t be dumb, Gianna. Why else would my hands be in my pockets?”
“How should I know?”
“You should know I’m not walking with my hands tucked away to make you feel safe.”
I turn slowly to face him, my fingers still touching my thigh. I feel the hard edge of my gun, finally meeting his hard brown eyes.
He draws a pocket-sized pistol from his pocket as soon as our eyes bolt, taking several steps closer.
When he lifts and aims it, my breath falters, but I don’t let him see my worry. I conceal it, holding his gaze as he takes the final step toward me, pressing the gun under my chin. The coolness makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“The one thing you should have learned while in this country is to never let your guard down. Whether you knew I was coming or not, you should have been prepared.” His voice is gravelly, heavy. Almost foreign. He watches my face, looking for any sign of weakness. His face hardens, the skin tightening around his eyes when I don’t budge or flinch. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice low, keeping the gun steady.
“To help you,” I answer, voice soft.
“Does it look like I need your help?”
I look him over, mainly his face. His eyes are tired and red-rimmed. They’ve always been cold, dark, and empty, but not this cold. Not this vacant. There is no thrill, drive, or fire in them. There is only…darkness.
“I don’t care if you need it or not. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“You brought a family member into this. One I already don’t trust.” He presses his body to mine, lips on the shell of my ear. I can smell the liquor on his breath, strong and pungent. “Should I go kill him? You know, primo por primo.” Cousin for cousin.
My eyebrows draw together in an instant.
I shove him hard enough to make him stumble, snatching my gun out of the holster as soon as his hand shifts. He already has his pointed at me by the time mine is in the air, but I don’t let up. I aim mine right back at him.
“Go ahead and do what you want to me,” I say through clenched teeth. “Get it out. Punish. Slap. Punch—do whatever you need to do. It wouldn’t be the first time. I don’t care what you do to me, but you aren’t touching a hair on my cousin’s head.”
A very faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but his eyes remain the same. Black. Icy. “You think I don’t want to kill you? That I won’t?”
My finger remains steady around the trigger. “You can’t fool me, Draco. I heard the voice recordings. You’re trying to prove something to me—that you aren’t vulnerable to me—when I know the truth. You thought I wouldn’t show after hearing that, but here I am.” His smile fades, grip tightening around the handle of the pistol again. “How could
I not?” My voice cracks on me, making me sound so damn weak. “Why couldn’t you just tell me how you felt in person? We could have worked something out.”
I take a small step forward, but he tenses up, keeping his gun pointed directly at my head.
I don’t care.
I lower my gun, tucking it back into the holster.
His breathing picks up. He pants through flared nostrils, the rims of his eyes glistening as they hold mine. With his lips pinched tight, he steps toward me, pressing the gun into the center of my forehead.
I lift my free hand, grabbing his forearm.
He doesn’t waver.
Doesn’t flinch. The gun barely moves an inch.
I hold his cold, empty gaze, pressing on his arm, forcing it down.
He lowers it inch-by-inch, lower and lower, until the gun is at his side.
Those vacant eyes become cloudy. They glisten. They’re heavier.
“You didn’t give me a chance to say what I had to say,” I whisper, and my throat thickens with want. With need.
“Back away from me, Gianna,” he growls. “I swear I will rip you to fucking shreds.”
I ignore him and clasp his face in my hands, forcing his eyes on mine. “I’m sorry, Draco. I’m sorry for not trusting you. I’m sorry for setting Henry free. I’m sorry that I made your life worse. I—I’m sorry about…Thiago. It was all my fault. I know it. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. I know you hate apologies, but I’m telling you now. I’m so, so sorry about everything.”
He stares so hard, I feel like he’s looking right into my soul. He’s do damn quiet that I panic inside, begging him to say something with me eyes.
Then something happens.
Something that both terrifies and relieves me.
Something I didn’t think could ever happen.
A wet trail slides down his cheek through that blank stare. I’m sure it’s the only tear that has left him since his father died.
He vowed to never look weak—to never reveal. To always be like a vault.
Guarded.
Solid.