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Enough worrying.I shake my head to clear it and refocus.
Inky darkness descends over the area as a puddle of illumination remains in the center. To raucous applause, two fighters take center stage, and I realize that I’m one of the few spectators who remain standing.
With trepidation, I fish the silver card from my purse and scour it for a seating number. I come up blank. Trust Pedro to skip over the finer points of masquerading as cartel property, such as where to sit at the coveted cage matches. Left with no direction, I linger on the outskirts, comforted to find that a few other people do the same, all while sipping expensive liquor from fluted glasses.
I’m dying for something to calm my frantic nerves, but refrain. That was another one of Pedro’s rules. No alcohol, not even a sip.
You need your senses sharp, Pita,he warned me.Men like Domingas don’t like their women weak. Your sole focus should be on him and him alone.
I try to embody that advice and again find myself fixated on the man in question.
Dios mío,he has a swagger few possess. He’s distant and yet dominant. Unobtrusive and yet undeniable. Merely looking at him inspires a tingly, foreboding aura that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. As if sensing my reaction, his dark eyes flicker over the crowd, much like his namesake, hunting for prey, but never seeming to view the same woman twice.
I wait for him to spot me. Will he? It’s a torturous game, and I’m always aware that time is running out. The longer I dally, the closer Francisco is to forever being trapped within his father’s grasp.
But is an even worse beast truly our salvation?
Second-guessing isn’t an option any longer—I’m in too deep to back down now. It’s time to implement phase two. Luckily for me, Pedro’s second rule was relatively straightforward. Draw his notice. Make a scene.
It should be easy, but my heart hammers madly in my chest, and I feel like I might puke. Perhaps that’s what Pedro had in mind? Vomiting would certainly make an impression. But no. Rather than trust my talent for the impulsive, my friend gave me explicit instructions. If only I could remember exactly…Oh. Right.
My fingers shake as I pull a wad of cash from my purse, more than I have ever held in my hands at once. I’ve seen it, of course, mainly flashed by Tiena when she used to brag about snagging a rich catch like Braulio.
I had never been so lucky—or perhaps so fortunate—to have a man pay my way so frivolously. Pedro, lovingly, doesn’t count in this instance, though for tonight, he’s supplied me with enough assets to make up my old salary at least ten times over.
And as for the last man in my past… I was the one who paid a debt to him in blood and pain.
Not now,a part of me warns, banishing the memory.Focus only on Jaguar.
Holding the money clip securely, I descend the wide steps leading to the cage. The fighting hasn’t begun yet, and the beefy fighters circle each other while I attempt to ignore the display entirely. If I can make it through this night without seeing a drop of blood, it will be one small win after weeks of heartache. Given the man I’m after, it’s a selfish wish, but I’m pathetic enough to pin my hopes on it.
With a determined inhale, I arrange my expression the way Pedro taught me and keep my eyes focused straight ahead—not on the predator I’m poised to walk right past.
A certain moment can remain etched in your mind forever. The smells. The sights. The sounds. One day I’ll recollect these tense few seconds with the painful reverence of battle scars.
He doesn’t look at me, Julian Domingas, but the fact doesn’t panic me. It intrigues me. To him, I don’t even deserve a glance, and I tremble at the thought of what it would take to grab his full attention. Far more than a party dress and a bold stunt.
Dios mío,I hope Pedro knows what he’s doing.
During my internal struggle, a man in a black suit stepped into the ring, and a hushed silence falls. In fluent Spanish, he details an exciting spectacle planned for the evening. Then he coyly asks the crowd if there are any bets to be had.
At least Pedro warned me about this part of the game in advance. Not only do they take glee in watching these poor bastards pummel each other. They also place bets on the carnage. In the end, whoever survives, or gets less maimed, wins. In higher-stakes fights, the spectators even trade statistics and shit, but the main point is, whatever choice you make, you do it with flair. Bravado.
You are a woman who knows what she wants,Pedro insisted.Make sure the entire arena knows it.
When the man calls for bets, several patrons raise their hands, flashing bills to back up their boasts.
A grand here. Two grand there. Ten grand on the noticeably bigger of the two fighters.
It can’t hurt to ignore one small bit of Pedro’s advice. Rather than make my choice at random, I take the time to inspect the men in question. One fighter draws the lion’s share of excitement, and he holds himself assuredly with confidence most are betting their money on.
The other fighter is lankier, his muscles less proportioned. At first glance, he doesn’t look like much, but I recognize his stocky build for its quiet lethality.
Raising my hand, I murmur a number that would make me choke in any other instance and point to the fighter I aim to support.
Nearly every head in the arena swivels in my direction. Most of them are laughing, with females looking at me in amused contemplation while their masters chuckle with delight. Such a silly woman I must be, let her off her leash to play with the money no doubt given to her by a doting lover. Where is he, this powerful man? Nowhere to be seen, and I make a show of standing in the aisle alone, money in hand.
Even the MC chuckles. “Well, the chica has balls you can’t deny.” He humors me with a playful wink before scanning the crowd for more bids. Not even a minute later, a woman approaches with a silver tray and quietly gestures that I place my bid onto it. Once I do, she skirts off, while the MC continues his hunt for fresh offerings. Suddenly, he pauses, and his eyes widen.
