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But already, I knew his endgame, I knew his limits, and I knew he had a soft spot for me if I was distressed.
He knew that I hated him, that I wanted to escape him, and that I would kill him at the first opportunity. He did not know my weaknesses. He didn’t know how to manipulate me.
I smiled through the grimace that twisted my features, the sweet memory of my small victory overpowering the pain shooting through my feet. The taste of his blood in my mouth had been a vile reminder of a much darker time in my life, but the savage mark I’d left on his neck would be embarrassing for him. Especially because he seemed to have forgotten all about it during his attempts to comfort me.
I grinned to myself while I washed my hands, entertaining a detailed fantasy of Stefano being mocked in his meetings today. I was certain they pertained to asserting his control over my cartel. I’d managed to inflict a blow to his operation while chained to his bed, within his own home.
He would live to regret bringing me here and keeping me so close. I would do everything I could to undermine him, chipping away at his reputation until I could finally make my bid for freedom. By the time I gathered my own forces, he would be pathetically weakened; easy prey.
After brushing my teeth with the new toothbrush Stefano had left out for me, I felt slightly more like myself. I might not have my usual skincare products and makeup at my disposal, but at least I’d managed a small part of a normal morning routine.
Straightening my shoulders, I made my way into the bedroom, where I basked in the bright sunshine pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Mexico City spread out before me, and I felt like a queen surveying my new territory. One day, this would all be mine. Stefano thought he could destroy my organization and pick up the pieces for himself, but he’d made a grave mistake when he hadn’t destroyed me. He wanted to own me, but I would eventually own everything that was his.
I’d told him that I’d survived far worse than him, and that was true. If I could survive Miguel Armendariz, I could crush Stefano Duarte.
Once I was fully healed. I wouldn’t be running anywhere anytime soon. I might be stubborn to my last breath, but I’d also spent my life learning to strategize, studying the history of warfare and political science. My mind was my most powerful asset. It was what had saved me from Miguel. If I hadn’t managed to convince Pedro that I was of greater value as an advisor than as a gift to his loyal associate, I would still be trapped in that hell.
I shook off the encroaching, dark memories of that place, but I held on to the fierce rage and defiance that had been forged in that darkness.
I limped around the bedroom for a few minutes longer, daring to test the limits of Stefano’s requirements so that I could get a better understanding of my prison cell.
A huge TV was mounted on the wall across from the king-size bed. Of course, there wasn’t a remote in sight, and I was certain Stefano would have disconnected it. There was no way he would have left a means for me to access any outside news or an internet signal.
Bookshelves surrounded the TV, taking up the entire wall to either side and below. A quick perusal told me that Stefano studied many titles that I favored in my self-education. He hadn’t gotten to his position of power through laziness or stupidity.
Another closed door was located in the corner farthest from the bed, but the length of my chain didn’t extend quite far enough for me to reach it; an unsurprising but irritating reminder of the restrictions on my freedom.
The door through which Stefano had exited was within my range of motion. Barely. I had to adopt a wide stance—putting excruciating pressure on the soles of my feet—and stretch my arm to its maximum extent, but I managed to get my fingertips around the door handle.
It wasn’t locked, but it didn’t need to be. I couldn’t walk out of the bedroom. But I could see the room beyond and get a better idea of the layout of this place.
As soon as the door swung open, a happy chirping sound startled me, and a tiny shadow raced by my ankles. I turned, shocked to find a petite black cat settling in on the center of the bed. He stretched out, regarding me with glowing green eyes that clearly communicated: this is my bed, human.
I stared at the tiny, arrogant little creature for several stunned seconds. Stefano had a pet cat? Stefano Duarte—notoriously unstable drug lord Stefano Duarte—was a cat person.
