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Then I hear a voice behind me, cold and chilling.
“I’ll double her bet, but for the other fighter.”
Above my frantically racing heartbeat, I can almost hear Pedro smugly telling me, See Pita? I was right. You have him hooked—now carefully reel him in, but remember to play the game.
Slowly, I turnas if innocently hunting for the figure who could have made such a scandalous boast. Someone with such authority to have the entire room erupt with gasps of excited glee.
My search doesn’t last long—he’s looking directly at me.Dios mío,his eyes. A shade of brown with an undercurrent of orange, they gleam like nothing I’ve ever seen. They enhance the golden hue of his skin and contrast with a head of short dark brown hair. Faced with him head-on, I’m reminded of the creature he proudly displays on his left bicep. Even the tattoo is impressive up close—an intricate black feline peeks out from behind a swath of leaves in deep indigos and subtle greens.
The tattooed jaguar’s teeth are bared, but the man has his mouth closed, his lips quirking in a smirk that cannot be read. One of amusement? Pity? Contemplation? A tendril of alarm runs down my spine with every new guess. With a face that is harder to gauge than Braulio’s, he makes me feel blind. At any other time, that alone would make me doubt this scheme. In another universe, perhaps, where Francisco isn’t at risk and my life has a much more optimistic trajectory. I’ve witnessed secondhand what happens to those who play with fire by ingratiating themselves with the cartel.
Hell unfolds, and those left alive in the aftermath are forever scarred by it.
In spite of his role, Julian Domingas is a deceptively handsome arsonist. His eyes rake over me with lazy, hungry ease, making me feel stripped naked despite my conservative ensemble. His lips quirk further. Then part, allowing a pink tongue to slither between them. Apparently, he likes what he sees, enough to beckon me with a wave of his hand.
Commanded, I smile as a woman should in such a situation. Internally, I’m shitting myself. Dear old Pedro seemed highly skeptical I would even get this far. After all, a man with everything or anyone in the world should have no use for a woman like me.In theory,Pedro added with an apologetic frown.You’re hot, Pita, but averagely so. These days women have more ass and tits than they know what to do with. In fact, I hope you don’t get noticed by Jaguar’s type. They get their hooks into you, Pita, and there is no going back.
He had a point.
The feeling ripping through me right now is reminiscent of a barbed hook sinking into my chest. I’m a helpless, cornered fish being slowly reeled in by a fisherman with unclear motives. Will he grow bored of me and toss me back out? Or will he save me for dinner?
There’s nothing more disgusting than how desperately I want him to pick the second option. Only now am I one-hundred percent sure of this insane plan—if any man could bring Braulio to his knees, it is this one. I sense his power like some can detect a change in the weather. There is a certain taste in the air that heralds one hell of a storm on the horizon.
I want to master that chaos.
Even as a wave of apprehension worms its way through my chest, my smile widens with renewed resolve. It’s now or never, and as I start forward, all I see for a moment is Francisco’s face. I can’t even imagine what he’s been through after a month spent with that asshole. Tiena was a mess, but even she had noticed the bruises.
I’ll step in next time,she lied more than once.I promise, Lupe. It’s not that big a deal. If I push him too far, he’ll do more than just pop him in the mouth. Do you want that? Do you want to see Franco in the hospital?
Like a fool, I’d kept my mouth shut, and in return, my sister vanished. Has Braulio killed her? I don’t even have the mental bandwidth to consider it. My sister had become a stranger to me by then, more concerned with her money and expensive clothing than her own damn son.
The grim truth is too twisted that I’ve never voiced it to anyone, not even Pedro. But… I hope she’s dead. It would mean that she got in the way, at least. Spoke up to him. Said something to defend Francisco and paid for it with the ultimate sacrifice any mother should be willing to make.
But I know Tiena and selfless martyrdom was never her style. It’s far more likely that she cut and ran of her own volition. That she willingly left Franco behind.
God, it hurts to think of her. While Braulio is a worthy opponent of my hate, she was once the only other person in the world I could trust besides myself. It took me twenty-eight damn years to realize how naïve that had been.
Ironically, Tiena is the reason I withdrew from the cruel circus she referred to as “polite society.” A sea of peons wrapped around Braulio’s thumb, eager to fuck, lie, cheat, and do whatever at his whim. She fooled herself, living behind that fantasy, but I always saw right through it.
To his credit, or perhaps not, the man looking into my eyes is more than some pompous ringleader. Those in his orbit aren’t reduced to circus performers whose only responsibility is to entertain him. No. Even the women on his arm sport the same panicked look in their eyes as I approach.
They are rabbits in a cage, preening for the predator’s discretion. I shouldn’t… But I think I find comfort in that. Morbid, cold, finite comfort. Braulio torments those who displease him.
Jaguar? I get the sense he doesn’t bother with mind games. He kills those who dare to get in his way and probably does it with the muscular hands braced on his knees. As if aware of my gaze, he flexes them one by one, taking care to loudly crack each knuckle.
Without a word, a half-naked blond and two brunettes scramble from him onto seats in the next row.
He must reel in new fish often.
“That’s a big bet for such a small woman.” His voice—I react to it first. A sinfully deep baritone, penetrating my skin to the muscle beneath. Oddly enough, I can’t tell if it’s attractive. My belly doesn’t quake, and I don’t instantly imagine what he would sound like murmuring into my ear during pillow talk.
There is a measured quality to his tone few men use. As if every word is a test meant to gauge how I will respond. Think. Act. To pair with the assessment, his gaze slides over me a second time, lingering over what little skin my dress does show—namely my legs.
I’m so distracted by his scrutiny that I slip up. Rather than the carefully rehearsed laugh Pedro insisted upon, I improvise. A quip slips out unchallenged.
“If size was all that mattered, I think half of the human population would be left very, very lonely.”
Shit.I stiffen as those dark eyes narrow. Then he laughs, but in a harsh, quick way as if he didn’t intend to. His eyes sparkle as though I’ve passed some unspoken test.
