The enforcer struck again, this time targeting Lachlan's head. Starbursts exploded behind his eyelids. Through the agony, clarity struck Lachlan with unexpected force. Alejandro's rage, his conviction—they were genuine. The grief in his eyes when he spoke of Britt and Titus wasn't feigned. Quattro hadn't been behind Britt's faked death or her captivity.
Alejandro truly believed she was dead, believed Lachlan had killed her.
So, who had orchestrated it all? Who had manipulated events to turn Alejandro against him? The same person who had taken Britt, who had kept her imprisoned for three years?
The answers were still beyond his grasp, but one thing was certain—Alejandro was as much a pawn as Lachlan had been.
"Wait," Lachlan spoke through gritted teeth. “You … are being manipulated. We were all tricked?—”
Another nod from Alejandro, another series of methodical blows.
"I didn't kill Titus,” Lachlan said, spitting blood onto the concrete floor. “I never went near his house in Miami. It wasn’t me.”
“And Britt?” Alejandro scoffed. “You expect me to believe you didn’t kill her, either?”
"I didn't kill Britt,” Lachlan repeated, his voice dropping to a quieter register, thick with emotion. "I love her too much to ever hurt her. She means everything to me.”
The room went utterly silent. Even the dripping pipes seemed to pause. Alejandro's expression transformed—shock, confusion, and then pure, undiluted rage breaking through his composed exterior. He lunged forward with unexpected speed, grabbing Lachlan by the throat. Gone was the elegant cartel leader, replaced by a man consumed by raw fury.
“You took her!” Veins throbbed on his forehead as spittle flew from his mouth. "You've had her all this time. Fucking obsessed monster! You kept her from us all this time!”
His fist connected with Lachlan's jaw with sickening force. Unlike the calculated violence of his enforcers, Alejandro's attack was frenzied, uncontrolled. Blows rained down on Lachlan's face and body, driven by grief and betrayal.
"Where is she?" Another blow. "WHERE IS SHE?" His hands returned to Lachlan's throat, squeezing with murderous intent.
The room began to swim before Lachlan's eyes. He felt consciousness slipping away, darkness encroaching from the periphery of his vision. In a distant corner of his mind, he wondered if this was how it would end—strangled by a man who loved the same woman he did. Both of them deceived as to the real threat to Britt’s life, focusing on each other instead of the one who truly wanted her dead. A shadow lurking to destroy her.
Lachlan's consciousness was fading fast. The pain in his body seemed distant now, replaced by a spreading numbness. His thoughts turned to Britt—her smile, the scent of her hair, the sound of her laughter. To Paloma—her tiny hand in his, her trust in him to keep her safe. He had failed them. Failed to anticipate Quattro’s true motives. Failed to protect himself so he could return to them.
The door crashed open, the sound barely registering through Lachlan's fading awareness. A voice cut through the chaos like a blade, clear and commanding.
"Stop! Don't kill him!"
Chapter 45
Britt's heart thundered in her chest as she approached the unmarked building tucked into the northwestern cove of Dove Island. The structure was unremarkable—a decaying warehouse with faded lettering, one of many abandoned properties dotting the coastline. A wooden dock stretched from the structure and disappeared into the Caribbean Sea, cloaked in dark shadows.
But the two guards stationed by the rusted door told a different story.
Quattro men, the four droplets of blood tattooed in a square pattern on their wrists, visible … on purpose. A warning sign to stay away.
She'd tracked her father’s plane here, following her instincts. The boat ride from St. Felipe had been a race against time, each minute stretching into eternity as she imagined what they might be doing to Lachlan. She wasn't armed—she'd decided against it at the last minute. Weapons would only escalate the situation with Quattro. With Alejandro. She needed finesse, not firepower.
As Britt approached, one of the guards squinted at her through the darkness, then stumbled backward as if he'd seen a ghost.
“No … it can't be." His cigarette dropped from suddenly slack fingers. His hand gripped his gun, finger sliding over the trigger. “Britt?”
"I need to see Alejandro. Now." Her voice was steady, confident, despite the knot of fear in her stomach. If Alejandro wasn’t here, if she was wrong, then Lachlan had been taken somewhere else.
And she’d delivered herself right into the bowels of the lion’s den …
The men exchanged glances, confusion giving way to something like reverence. They knew her—of course, they did. She'd grown up around them. The guards didn't question her further. Simply opened the door, one leading her through a dimly lit corridor while the other stayed behind, already speaking urgently into a radio.
Britt followed, trying to ignore the way the walls seemed to press in around her, the memories of this place—or others like it—hovering at the edges of her consciousness. Places where Quattro built a reputation that caused others to fear them.
A guttural cry of pain echoed down the hallway, and Britt's blood turned to ice. She knew that voice.
Lachlan.
