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Thirty minutes later,the kitchen is scrubbed clean of violence, and the entrees are winging their way out to the marquee. The place is a sea of polished chrome tranquility now that the caterers have moved to their trucks to prepare the rest of the meal. Apparently, violence doesn’t lend itself to the ‘plating up’ of goat’s cheese and truffle soufflés, but that’s a matter of opinion.
They dimmed the lights when they left, but the moon is flooding in through the open windows, along with the monotonous hum of conversation from the party outside. It’s orchestrating with a steadydrip, dripinto the stainless-steel sink as I lean over it, head bowed, hands gripping the sides. I sliced my knuckle open on the waiter’s eyebrow ring, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Ella’s body isn’t theirs to fantasize over. It’s not mine either, but I’ve never been good at sticking to what my fists preach.
Fuck, Mi Cielo, why did you have to grow up to be so beautiful and strong? It was so much easier to ignore you when I was drowning in oblivion.
Drip.
Drip.
The noise drags me back to a bathroom when I was a kid. To a tub filled with red water, watching as my birth mother’s life drained away.
I used to wonder if she’d killed herself because of what we’d done to escape hell, or because she couldn’t handle the fact we’d made it toEl Refugio. I read about it once. It’s called ‘Tahiti Syndrome’. It’s when a newfound peace makes you feel even more depressed than the shithole you left behind.
Or maybe she just couldn’t bear the fact that I was her son. She saw the evil in me and knew that no amount of rosary clutching could ever absolve it.
A noise in the hallway catches my attention. A beat later, I’m drawing my Glock, and staring down the one woman I’m tearing myself in two to protect.
“Ay,for fuck’s sake, Ella!” I drop my gun immediately. “What the hell are you doing here? You know better than to creep up on men like me.”
The kitchen is mostly in darkness and silver, but she’s a vision in gold, her soft curves haloed from the hallway light. Her expression is wide-eyed and wary, but that quickly morphs into something else as my words hit home.
“What am I doing here? What areyoudoing here, more like?” she retorts, not quite slamming the door behind her, but closing it hard enough to catch my attention. “My party invitation promised drinks and dinner, not fights with waiters and long periods of alone time in Uncle Rick’s kitchen.”
“Forgive me for breaking party etiquette,” I drawl, enjoying her indignation a little too much. “Does it make you angry,Mi Cielo?”
The endearment slips out before I can stop it.
“Don’t call me that. You lost your right years ago when ‘my sky’ never extended into your universe. And, yes, I’m angry, Edier Grayson. I’m angry about so many things, and I’ll be more than happy to tick them off, one by one, as soon as I’ve looked at your hand.”
“Myhand?”
“Yes, you’re bleeding.”
Crossing the kitchen, she stops directly in front of me, her nearness making all my senses explode. The last time we were this close I was at least three foot taller. Now, she’s level with my chest, and that’s not the only change. Her skin is clear and smooth, and what little make up she wears is accentuating the fullness of her lips and the length of her black eyelashes. Her neck is fine and slender, and I force my eyes not to stray to her breasts. Her scent is just as intoxicating as it was on the patio.
Fuck me. This is every shade of wrong.
“Seventeen,” I mutter to myself. “Seven-fucking-teen.”
“Eighteen, actually. In less than four hours.” Her voice has gone all croaky, and I know she’s as affected by me as I am by her. She just doesn’t have a name for it yet.
“Are you trying to fix me?” I say, staring at her mouth.
She grins, offering me a glimpse of the girl she once was. “Even I’m not that skilled. Now, hold still.” She lifts my hand to inspect it, and I can feel her shaking. That, plus the delicate warmth of her touch, is shooting life straight to my cock.
I shouldn’t be alone with her. I’m putting her in danger, in more ways than one.
“Enough.” I tug my hand away, forcing an icy glare. “It’s a scratch. Nothing a bottle of whiskey won’t cure.”
“Ugh, you sound like every other man here.” Gently, she takes it back again, her blue eyes flashing me a warning to ‘stay still or else’, and it has me transfixed. “You can always tell kingpins andsicariosfrom the state of their hands. My father has this big, old scar running right through the center of one palm. I asked him how he got it once, and he told me he’d disagreed with a Russian. He didn’t tell me what they were arguing about, just that it didn’t end so well for either of them. Mostly the other guy, I expect.”
“Kamikaze fool,” I murmur. “Why are you rambling?”
“Am I?” She smiles again, opening a black hole in my mind that has me falling straight through it. “Thalia always accuses me of rambling, too. Hmm…you won’t need stitches, but I wouldn't go punching any more waiters.”
“I’ll just shoot them in the head then, shall I?”
