Venom & Ecstasy (Venom Trilogy #2)

by S Williams

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “He would have.”

  “I see so much of him inside you. How the fuck am I supposed to ignore it?” He digs into his back pocket as Diego and Guillermo drag Henry out of the shed. Handing a black and white photograph to me, he says, “Your proof.”

  The photograph is old. But in the picture is a man with a beige fedora. His skin is really tan, and he has a thick, black moustache. I feel like I’ve seen him before. He has a cigar pinched between his lips, and his arms wrapped around a young, familiar-looking boy. Beside the boy is Daddy. My Daddy. He has a cigar as well, but he’s holding it up in the air with a wide smile on display for the camera. He looks both relaxed and elated, like he loves them. Like he cares about them. Like he trusts them.

  “This was taken the first time ever I met Lion. I was twelve, and I trusted him right away. He came here, to Mexico, one summer. He helped my father get a visa into the country. They set up deals together. They were almost partners—Lion ran shit in the United States, and my father ran Mexico. That was the order, plain and simple, and it worked.”

  I look up at him slowly, but I can’t read his eyes. Not behind those dark sunglasses.

  “Read the back,” he murmurs.

  I flip it over and there are words in red ink. Holy shit. It’s Daddy’s handwriting. Sloppy and masculine. I remember it well. Mom hated it.

  The words are: Keep this with you forever, kid. And always stay strong.

  That’s all it says, but I can hear Daddy saying those words, almost like a whisper in my ear, echoing.

  “He gave this to you?” I muster.

  He nods, just barely. “Proof enough?”

  It is. This one picture alone shouts a thousand words. There is love buried in the ink. There is respect. These men were close. Draco looked up to him; I could tell. The way he’s leaning toward him, but still making sure his Dad is close.

  “Are there more?” I ask.

  “Several, in my father’s storage.”

  Grunting pulls me from my thoughts, and I look up to see Diego and Guillermo carrying a naked Henry to the SUV. Draco touches my cheekbone, and when I look at him again, his sunglasses are gone.

  “He wanted this, Gianna. You hate me for some of the shit I do, but it’s time to stop fighting it. This is what I do. It’s how I live. I’m done with these games. I’m not trying to hurt you anymore.”

  I nod, swallowing hard. “Then don’t hurt me.”

  He lets out a deep breath when I hand him the picture back. He tucks it into his back pocket again and then presses a hand on the small of my back, guiding me back to the SUV.

  “You still don’t trust me,” I say when we’re halfway there.

  He doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t trust me.

  “No more bullshit,” he says, voice firm and deep.

  I start to speak when we’re closer to the SUV, but just as I open my mouth, something booms, and the ground shakes around us. Gasping, I look to the right and see that the silver Mercedes has exploded. Fire shoots up, smoke billowing in the air instantly.

  Guns cock, and the guards begin to shout as they rush around the cars. Guillermo and Diego drop Henry on the dirt path in a heartbeat, rushing for the vehicles.

  But in a matter of seconds, the second car explodes too, sending three of the guards flying back into the field of blue.

  A scream slips out of me as I’m tackled to the ground.

  22

  Draco is on top of me, panting hard and heavy. The thorns from the flowers prick me in the back and under my arms and I cry out from the pain, but my cry is muted when another explosion happens.

  This explosion deafens me. It’s closer. My ears ring and Draco’s eyes are squeezed tight, his teeth gritted together as he tries to tolerate the noise. Flames build up behind him, aiming for the sky. The thorns feel much sharper now, piercing into my skin.

  I think I’m crying. Screaming. I don’t know. I can’t tell.

  It hurts. Everywhere.

  Draco’s eyes grow wide as he finally hops up, but crouches quickly to stroke my chin. He’s shouting something but I can’t hear him. He then turns in a matter of seconds, drawing his gun and rushing away.

  I hear my moans now. I see the dirt path only a few steps away and I roll toward it, my legs and hands getting stabbed, my face getting nicked and sliced, until I land on the dirt, free of the thorns.

  I lift my hands up in the air. They’re covered in blood.

  Then I look at the cars. They’ve all been blown to pieces. Some of the debris surrounds me. Something heavy and warm runs over my belly and I look down, spotting Silvia slithering over me, making her way through the flowers again, disappearing into the blue.

  Too shocked to panic, too hurt to scream or cry, I try and sit up, pushing on my bloody hands. The dirt stings the punctures, but I make do. A shadow hovers over me as I struggle to stand, and he shoves me right back down to the ground.

  He steps over me, his feet outside my head now, sneering down at me.

  I don’t know this person.

  He’s new, and he’s not one of the guards. He grabs my arm and hauls me up, starting a run through the field while tossing me over his shoulder.

  All of my pain subsides, the adrenaline of terror flooding me all over again. I can hear men yelling. I can hear Draco shouting, furious, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

  Where the hell did this man come from, and how did he get past the guards? Past Draco?

  I scream to the top of my lungs for Draco, like I did in the cellar that horrible day. I scream until my throat becomes scratchy, but the man keeps going, holding on tight, even as I fight and kick. He’s too strong.

  We pass through the shadows, and I finally see Draco rushing down the path. I scream out one more time when I realize he’s searching for me. “Draco!”

  He hears it, spots us, and begins running to me, pumping his legs hard, gun in hand.

  But the man keeps going, breathing hard and heavy. I continue kicking, even with blood running down my arms and on my face.

  Draco’s figure becomes distant as the stranger runs between houses, and I panic, screaming again. Cars honk their horns and tires squeal as the man runs through a small town.

  Before it can register, something dark covers my head, and I land on a hard surface. I hear a door shut and a man shouting at someone to hurry the fuck up. I’m in a vehicle. The floors are hard, made of metal.

  The car pulls off with a loud screech of the tires and I hit a wall. I snatch off the hood, breathing deep. But when I turn to look, there is a gun pointed right at my face.

  “You try anything, and I will blow your fucking brains out,” the man says, his English fluent. He’s clearly Hispanic. His hair is spiky, and his skin is very tan. One of his eyes is gray, like he’s blind in that eye, a cut above his eyebrow.

  Panicked, I look out of the back window and I see Draco.

  “Draco! I’m in here! Draco!” I scream, leaning on the window, banging on it with bloody hands as he searches the area. “Draco!”

  He sees me in the van and starts running again, coming for me with two guards behind him. The man with the gun curses beneath his breath when the van comes to a halt. I look through the windshield and see traffic. Too much traffic to pass through.

  “Go through the fucking alley! Go!” he shouts at the driver. Draco is closer. I yank at the handle on the door, but it’s locked. Banging on the blood-smudged glass again, I shove my body at the door, hoping it will pop open somehow.

  Gunshots are fired as the driver whips the steering wheel around, and Draco and the guards hide behind other vehicles, returning fire whenever they can. But it’s too late.

  The van splits and turns down a thin alley. The mirrors are knocked off, sparks flying as the body of the van tries to fit through.

  And it does.

  “No!” I scream. “No! Please! Draco!”

  “Lost them!” the man with the gun shouts. “Keep going! He mi
ght have other people around.”

  I turn to look at the man with the gun. As he starts to turn in his seat to look at me, I kick him in the face with my heel and then pounce forward, gripping his throat tight, choking him.

  He struggles to get out of my hold, trying to bring the gun up and hit me with it as blood gushes from below his nose, but I duck, keeping my grip tight on him.

  “Shit!” the driver barks, turning down an open road.

  The car comes to a dramatic stop and I fly forward, landing between both of them, my back hitting the radio. The man with the gun catches his breath, but he is furious. His eyes are like hot coals, flaming hot, blood oozing down his face.

  He brings a hand down to my throat, squeezing tighter than I ever could.

  I claw at his hand, unable to breathe as the squeeze shuts off my windpipe.

  “Fucking kill you!” he roars.

  “You know you can’t, so let her go!” the driver shouts. He reaches over to pull his hand away.

  The man with the gun flares his nostrils and then grabs me by the hair, yanking on it and shoving me to the back of the van again.

  This time he brings the gun up and watches me. He doesn’t waver. Doesn’t pull his eyes away as the driver speeds up.

  I breathe raggedly, glaring back.

  “He’ll find you and kill you,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll find us, but he won’t be able to kill us.” He sounds so sure of himself. Who the hell is this man?

  “What do you want?” I demand.

  “It’s not what I want.” He rubs his throat, mostly where it’s red from my grip, and then swipes his nose. “It’s our boss who wants you. You’re a feisty little bitch, too. Hope I get paid extra for putting up with this shit.”

  The driver huffs a laugh at that, but I continue my grimace. I look out of the bloodstained window, hoping he’ll show. Hoping he’ll come out somewhere and save me.

  But he doesn’t.

  I don’t know why they haven’t drugged me or knocked me out cold. They haven’t even tied me up. I don’t know why they’re holding off, but something tells me that’s not a good sign.

  23

  The van turns right, and I bobble sideways as we pass over a bump in the road. The driver continues up a secluded road where more men stand outside, nodding their heads to let the driver know he’s clear to go.

  After about two more minutes, the van finally begins to slow down and soon, comes to a stop. There is a white gate ahead that he parks behind, two guards in all black standing there.

  The driver hops out immediately and starts speaking to them, explaining the damage to the van. He then comes around the back as the man I attacked remains seated in the passenger seat, the gun still pointed at me. He’s pissed. I can tell.

  Who cares? He’s already ugly anyway. One scar won’t make a difference.

  The back door flies open and the driver flicks his fingers, ordering me to get out. With a scowl, I slide across the back, stepping out barefoot. The man with the gray eye took my shoes off during the ride here.

  When my feet land on the asphalt, I hear someone let out a low whistle and I look over. One of the guards is drooling like a dog, giving me a look that I find absolutely disgusting.

  “Fuck off,” I hiss in Spanish.

  “Shit,” he says in his native tongue. “You were right, Lonso.” He looks at the man that had the gun in the passenger seat. “She is a feisty little bitch.”

  The driver pulls out a gun and nudges me with it. I can tell he doesn’t deal with their shit often. Either that, or he just doesn’t care. “Let’s go. To the gates.”

  The other guard posted there opens it for us and I walk ahead, a gun pointed at my back, studying the large stucco home. It’s nothing like Draco’s, but it is big. The roof is tan and there is a two-door garage, pillars built on the porch and the balcony on the second level.

  The guard that was standing at the gate takes the lead and I follow him to the house. When he opens the front door, I feel my chest tighten. I don’t know what’s inside. I don’t even want to find out. But I keep my chin held high, giving a dirty look at the guard before passing by.

  The driver grabs my elbow when I’m in the foyer, leading the way now. He walks past a den, a dining room, and even a kitchen, veering left until double doors appear at the end of the hallway.

  When he opens the door, I’m truly surprised by what I walk into.

  It’s not some kind of holding room with white walls and no furniture. It’s not a room with cages and chains. No, in fact this room is fully furnished.

  The floors are made of hardwood, a loveseat perched against the cheetah-print accent wall. I notice the pillows on the loveseat are cheetah print as well, along with the rug in the middle of the room, some of the vases, and even some of the glasses set up by the scotch on the tray.

  I almost want to throw up it’s so much.

  The driver pushes me forward a little and I look back at him.

  “Go. Sit. Hernandez will be here to speak with you soon.”

  “This is his home?” I ask.

  The driver smirks. He walks to the corner table where the scotch is and pours a glass. I think it’s for him, until he comes in my direction and offers it.

  I look down at it before meeting his eyes, then turn my back on him and walk to the loveseat. I sit, one leg crossed over the other, and glare up at him, jaw ticking.

  He simply shrugs, his long, black ponytail falling behind him as he tosses the drink back himself. The guard, Lonso, walks in, already frowning at me. I return his frown and narrow my eyes at him when he shuts the door and walks to the table.

  They both sit and pull in their chairs. Lonso whips out a deck of cards and the driver sighs, planting his elbows on the table. “We’re in for a long fucking day,” he mutters.

  “Fuck, yeah. And I’m fucking starving. I told Lorenzo to order us some fucking tamales or something.” Lonso gives me a sideways glance. “Are we supposed to feed the bitch?”

  “You know Hernandez will be pissed if we don’t offer her something.”

  I roll my eyes and scoff. These men are fucking amateurs. Compared to Draco’s, I’m honestly surprised they even got to me. This Hernandez person already seems like a fucking joke.

  The clock on the wall tells me four hours have passed. I’ve paced the room, keeping a sharp eye on the guards and the door, while also searching for something I might be able to use to take them out with.

  Besides the guns in their waistbands, there is nothing. I could use the vase, bash it over one of their heads, but they’re large men. They probably wouldn’t even bat an eye.

  “How much longer?” I snap as I sit back down.

  They both ignore me, now playing a game of dominos over chump change.

  I keep staring at them. The driver merely ignores me. I get it. He’s obviously the veteran here. He’s used to this. But the other one, Lonso, lets me get under his skin so much I almost want to laugh. He’s the rookie, wanting so badly to be a top dog here.

  “What the hell are you looking at?” he finally snaps at me, bushy eyebrows furrowing.

  I challenge him, narrowing my eyes, leaning closer, still staring.

  “Just ignore her,” the driver mutters, sliding a domino across the table.

  Lonso clenches his fists on the table and finally snatches his eyes away. “Stupid bitch.”

  The door to the left clinks and then pulls open, and I look at it, my back going stiff. I watch as a feminine figure approaches. “I tell you, Alonso, that is no way to speak to a lady. Especially Draco Molina’s lady.” She comes in, swaying her hips, and I don’t know who the hell she is, but her presence demands respect.

  A smile sweeps across her ruby lips, her hand planting on her hip as she focuses on me.

  Her hair, a fire engine red, proves that she doesn’t give a damn about being traditional or society’s rules. Her makeup is done to perfection, lashes long and thick
, eye shadow smoky. She’s wearing black leather pants and a sleeveless cheetah print blouse.

  I look around at the furniture, the cheetah print pattern on the pillows and curtains, and realize this must be her space. She must be important here.

  The men rise from the table, dropping their game of dominos and stepping sideways.

  “You’re back earlier than we thought,” the infamous Alonso says, smiling at her. “We got her for you. Unharmed, as promised. Though she did put up a fight.” He rubs his upper lip and then his throat, grimacing at me.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she titters. “Draco doesn’t like weak women. He’s always enjoyed a fighter.”

  I narrow my brows, still looking at her. She talks like she knows so much about him. Like she was his best friend or something. It’s too personal. I don’t like it.

  She comes toward me in her spiky brown heels. When she extends a hand, I glare down at it, refusing to take it. “Oh, sweet girl, please,” she scoffs, her hand still out. “I have no reason to hurt you—not unless you give me a reason to. After all, it’s not you I want. It’s him. You’re just leverage. Safe leverage, as long as you don’t try anything stupid.”

  My mouth twitches. She doesn’t let up on that extended arm, her cheetah print nails on display.

  “Who are you?” I ask with a small snarl.

  She smiles a simple, meek smile. “Yessica.”

  “Where is Hernandez?”

  Her eyes stretch wide, and she looks at the guards, busting out laughing then. “You two didn’t tell her? Aww, how cute!” They chortle right along with her, shaking their heads and sitting down at the two-top table to start up another game of dominoes.

  “Hernandez?” She finally drops her hand with a sigh, realizing that I’m not going to take it.

  “Honey, I am Hernandez. Yessica Hernandez, to be exact.” Her accent thickens when she says her name. My eyes get bigger. Hernandez is a . . . woman? How the hell did I not know this?