Page 43 of No Darker Temptation

When she’s gone, I rush to my bedroom and strip out of my paint and glue covered clothes in record time. Tucking the letter into my purse, I tiptoe down the stairs and slip past the security detail in the main foyer. I’m the only one who has the house’s layout memorized from attic to cellar. It’s how I know there’s a sealed off hallway in the basement whose narrow staircase leaves me on the back street where Alejandro doesn’t have eyes and ears.

I need my secrets too.

Upon moving to Barcelona, Alejandro gave me three rules to obey no matter what:

1. Never go anywhere without an escort.

2. Never tell a stranger who I am, even if they claim to know Alejandro.

3. And never, ever, ever step foot on La Rambla.

Far be it from me to understand why a single tree-lined street that’s less than a mile long is so forbidden. But it serves as the border between the Gothic Quarter and El Raval, the latter being Sandro’s territory.

Coming here is not only dangerous and irresponsible, but I’ve broken two of Alejandro’s cardinal rules, risking the trust he has in me. I know I should’ve told him about the letter but if I did, I’d never get another chance like this again. Curiosity got the better of me and it’ll come at a price I just may be willing to pay.

On the building to my left there’s a rounded column with tiles that read Escriba, Fundada en 1820. According to my phone, this is where I need to turn to get to Carrer de la Petxina. Then again, this city is allergic to proper street signs. I look around and miraculously find one.

Perfect.

The alleyway is narrow and sketchy, lined with metal gates and locked doors. Suddenly the directions on my phone change, the little yellow person on the screen turning so that they’re apparently heading west. Now, the street name reads Passatge dels Coloms. Before I lose my cool, I inhale three deep breaths and turn on the balls of my feet, in search of a familiar landmark but find none. I never venture to this part of the city. Not only do Alejandro and I live in L’Eixample and have no reason to come out here, but I tend to listen to him when he tells me not to do something…

At least when it comes to his mafia things.

Finally, I find the address I’m looking for. It’s a dark wooden door and when I turn the handle, it opens on its own. I follow the narrow staircase up as far as it will take me and end up on the third floor. There’s only one apartment here and when I step inside, it’s empty and abandoned. Bare support columns elevate a peeling white ceiling and graffiti covers the dingy walls. This place might’ve once been beautiful but the floor is peeling, layers of linoleum piled on top of each other, and half the windows are covered with old newspapers, making the light in here dusky and yellow.

I wait around a few minutes but there’s no one here. And if there was, they would’ve shown themselves by now. Unwilling to test my luck any longer, I turn to leave the way I came.

The apartment door shuts with a definitive click.

A woman stands in the doorway.

She’s tall, taller than even me in a pair of nude stilettos that blend almost seamlessly into the hem of her bell bottom power suit. Willowy thin and dressed immaculately in a custom-tailored satin blazer, she’s near breathtaking to behold. Face defined by angelic features, her skin is smooth and without blemish, cheeks lightly colored with a pale shade of pink that allows her to appear naturally flushed. Round, light brown eyes complement the color of her long, silky hair styled in Veronica Lake waves across the side of her face. The longer I look at her, the more familiar she becomes. We’ve never met face to face before but I feel like I know her. Alejandro painted a very detailed picture.

I catch my breath. “It’s you⁠—”

“It’s you,” she says, cutting me off, gaze raking over the length of my frame. Lips pressed together slightly, she steps further into the room, fingers tightening around the clutch in her hands. “Took long eno⁠—”

I storm forward and still gripping the letter in my left hand, I raise my right one and backhand her across the face so hard she stumbles backward. If not for the support beam behind her, I think she’d have lost her balance and toppled over. Pure, unbridled shock ripples across her features as she lifts her head and looks at me, gripping the side of her face. Rage glimmers in her gaze as she rises to her full height. The look she gives me is ominous—pupils dilating, lips curling, nostrils flaring—and if I had an ounce of self-preservation in me, I’d dissolve into a puddle of fear at her feet. But in this moment, my fury rivals God’s.

“Remember how this feels,” she whispers, voice gliding over my skin like shards of ice. “Because it is the first and last time you will ever lay a hand on me.”

I raise the note and the picture of Karina she conveniently tucked inside. “Threaten my cousin again and you’re going to wish your brother’s men had killed me last summer.”

“Be careful…you’re letting your vulnerability show.”

“Vulnerability is not a weakness. Karina is my only family, my cousin, my sister. Remember how it felt to have the smug look slapped off your face because the next time you send a letter like this to my house, threatening the well-being of the most important person in my life, I am going to kick your fucking ass.”

A beat passes. “I never imagined Alejandro would find himself involved with such an intemperate woman.”

“He doesn’t know me that well yet. Because if he ever pisses me off like you just did, he’d be in for much worse than a backhand across the face.”

At that, she laughs, and I hate the way my body seizes. It’s such a lifeless sound.

Regina takes a step forward, and instinctively I step back, not knowing what to expect. In hindsight, greeting her with a physical assault may not have been the best idea but when I read the letter she sent, I saw red. Regina was right about one thing—I did let my weakness show. The thought of Karina in danger, hurt, or threatened in any way ignites a reaction within me. More volatile than an atomic bomb.

The letter was simple. Be here at this time or the mysterious R would pay a visit to New York. Obviously, I suspected it was Regina immediately and if my fight or flight instincts hadn’t kicked in, I might’ve had the good sense to tell someone. Instead, no one knows where I am or who I went to see and if something happens to me, it’ll be at least another forty-five minutes before anyone notices.

Regina says, “I’ve been trying to get into contact with him for months. Why isn’t he answering?”