“Nomar, wait!” Jemma said, breaking free of the guard. She yanked at his arm. “Don’t do this.”
Nomar glared at her with contempt. “Your actions always have consequences, preciosa. But you’re rarely the one who suffers from them.”
She didn’t have a chance to react before he’d pulled the trigger.
Beatriz clutched her chest as blood oozed through her fingers. Eyes wide with shock, she stared at her white dress, stained dark red. Her face was a pained grimace as she gasped her last breath.
Jemma couldn’t breathe as she stumbled backward into the guard. He grabbed her arms and held her in place.
Nomar turned to Jemma. “You lied to me too, preciosa. I know she gave you a cell phone and when it didn’t work, you found a way to get rid of it. For this, you must be punished.”
Nomar reached into his coat and pulled out a syringe. He held it in the air, tapping the needle until a drop appeared at the tip.
As Nomar came closer, Jemma couldn’t help but feel she deserved this punishment. Aurelia and Beatriz had both died because of her. There was nothing she could do to make that right.
Accepting her fate, Jemma closed her eyes as the sting of the needle pressed into her arm.
Chapter 57
Her eyelids were heavy, as if weighed down by lead. She struggled to keep them open, to watch as the needle pierced her skin again. Pain was an abstract concept, something she knew but could no longer grasp. As the needle exited, her arm, she felt nothing. The pinprick was a memory devoid of any discomfort.
A heavy warmth spread through her like a seductive lullaby that beckoned her toward oblivion.
How many hits was this?
Jemma had lost count. Or maybe she’d never started counting.
The room swayed, a subtle and disorienting undulation of the stone walls. The faces of the armed guards were muddled masks of glee as they moved around her, gawking and entertained. One held a syringe in his hand and a smug expression, pleased with the effects of the drugs on her.
She blinked, trying to clear the fog that settled over her vision but the effort was futile. Her limbs felt disconnected, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated, triggering a wave of nausea that roiled from the depths of her body and lingered in her throat, threatening to erupt from her. She pressed a hand to hermouth, fighting the urge to gag. Her breath had slowed, each inhale a laborious draw, each exhale a languid release. Her thoughts were distant and fuzzy, just beyond her reach.
Panic fluttered in her chest, then dissipated as the edges of her fear smoothed away to apathy. At moments the room came into focused view—the polished travertine marble floor, the crystal chandelier cascading sparkles of light, the arching French doors framing a mesmerizing view of the tropical night, the towering posters of the bed climbing toward the ceiling around her.
“Where … I … where …” She tried to speak, to call out for help but her tongue was thick in her mouth, her words slurring into incoherence. The allure of the drug was tempting, urging her to succumb to it but an opposing force battled within her, clung to the desire for survival. She couldn’t let Nomar win. She had to fight his plans to destroy her.
“Don’t try to talk,” the guard said, caressing strands of hair from her forehead. His body floated like a ghost around her, darting in and out of the air. “You’re almost ready for Señor Ortiz. You will feel very good when he arrives.”
A salacious laughter drew her attention toward the door. Another guard faded in and out from her view, leering at her as he pointed a gun in her direction. “I’d like to get a piece of that ass. Hope he lets us.”
The disjointed rhythm of her heartbeat slowed and jumped as fragments of their banter pierced the confusion of her mind. A sliver of awareness persisted. She had to find a way to fight the effects of the drugs, to give herself a chance to get away.
Or she could stay and embrace the freedom of abandoning a fight that no longer was important. The anger and hatred that had simmered for decades was gone, replaced with a blissful numbness that surrounded her like the most welcomed blanket.
Jemma’s head lolled backward, sinking into the softness of apillow beneath her, then flopped to the side out of her control. A figure loomed in the doorway behind the guard. Shadowy and distant.
A raised hand pressed against lips she knew well.
The mirage of hope floated in front of her eyes.
She mouthed his name, but her words couldn’t be heard.
“Rocco …”
Was it him?
She blinked rapidly until he was next to her, syringe in hand.
“What do you think, Jemma?” Rocco asked. His hand brushed lightly against her bra, causing her nipples to tighten. “One last hit to make you feel good?”
