Page 173 of Damián

I look up and see Silvio peeking in, and by the look on his face, I can tell he doesn’t have good news.

Freaking great… What else can go wrong today?

“Sir…”

“She knows,” I tell him, so he can speak freely in front of Serena.

“Matani was told to drive and follow a team to this address…” He passes me a paper, and when I read it, I officially want to puke.

“Silvio, take Serena wherever she tells you to,” I say, and then I am out of there.

I run to the garage and find my Escalade. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely press the engine start button. Once the car starts, I drive like a freaking maniac to the address Rafael sent his sociopaths to… Damián’s mom’s place.

Please don’t be there yet.

Please, God, just let me get to her before Rafael’s people do.

After driving like crazy, jumping two red lights and almost crashing against a bus, I find the house, and thank God it looks as untouched and peaceful as the rest of the neighborhood.

I get out of my SUV, sprint across the garden to the porch, and knock on the blue door.

“Come on, come on, open the door…” I beg under my breath, my eyes frantically looking around the dark, empty street.

Although… What the hell do I do? What can I tell her to make her come with me?

What’s up, fake mother-in-law? …Ahhh… No.

Hi! I’m not a killer, but a bunch of guys who are currently on their way… definitely not.

Argh… Why are you so fucking weird, Oliver?

Fortunately, or whatever you want to call it, the lock clicks, ending my internal freakout. The door opens, and a petite, sweet-looking woman with silver-streaked dark hair and Damián’s light brown eyes stands there.

Oh wow, Dami… your mom is beautiful.

“Hi, María?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“My name is Oliver,” I say, stepping closer and keeping my hands completely visible so she knows I’m not a threat… or at least, I hope it looks that way. “I am a friend of Damián. And I know this is incredibly strange because you don’t know me, and Dami is currently undercover, so for all you know, I could be lying to you.”

Oh no…

“Not that I am, of course…” I add quickly. “I mean, he told me about how you used to sing Chayanne songs to him, how you get angry whenever he’s eating standing up, how his sister Fernanda gave him that scar on his right forearm, though I keep saying he’s the one who gave himself that scar, you know? Or how—”

“—Oliver?” María cuts off my embarrassing, incoherent speech.

Thank God.

“I believe you,” she says, stepping back to open the door wider. “I know my son, and he would never share those things with anyone unless he trusted them. What do I need to do?”

“We need to leave.”

SCREECH!

My head snaps toward the street. I see a blue sedan a house away, and at the far end of the intersection, a row of three black SUVs turning the corner.

They’re here.