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I still don’t know if she did. All I heard was sobbing.
I didn’t dare break cover because I don’t trust she’ll believe me or open her mouth and get us killed.
Her fear is grating on my nerves, but I’d rather she hates me and live to tell me later.
As the car pulls to a stop in front of the monstrous colonial-style villa, everyone jumps into action. Our doors are opened, the trunk unloaded, and armed cartel members move into position to guard Pablo as he climbs out of the car.
They don’t guard us. We’re there to protect Pablo.
Gina Garcia, his wife, stands at the entrance of the house dressed to the nines with her handbag hanging from her arm.
“Why are you home?” she asks, shooting Isabelle a look and snarling.
She presses into my side for protection, and I slip my arm around her back and possessively rest a hand on her hip. Almost naturally.
Her warmth snakes its way through my body noticeably despite the heat in the air.
“Enough. She’s Dex’s toy,” Pablo growls, patting Gina’s ass as he walks to her and smacks an audible kiss on her lips. “Get upstairs and wait for me.”
“I am going out,” Gina argues.
“Not now, you aren’t,” Pablo growls, and Gina turns in a huff and walks upstairs.
I’ve never witnessed any real love between them, but Pablo is very protective of Gina. It's more like she’s a favorite car than the love of his life, though.
I lead Isabelle inside the house with its high wood-beamed ceilings and open-plan rustic feel. I hate that it feels like home after all these years. But it is. My body and mind know it like the back of my hand. Something that will serve me well in the coming days as I navigate this fucking situation Nathan has put me in.
Goddamn you.
I’m starting to think Isabelle would’ve been safer lying on the Mancini lawn with gunfire going off around her than she is right now.
The chances of her not being a target were pretty high there. What are the chances of her not being a target now?
Absolutely zero.
“Do as I say.” I lean down into her hair, my hand gripping her arm.
“Dex, please. I need to go home,” she whimpers.
I grit my teeth.
Jose slaps me on the back and walks past. “Go clean her up. You know the drill.”
Shit.
“No, I need to get out of here. Please, just let me go,” Isabelle cries.
I grip her arm and, through my clenched teeth, say, “Stop making a scene. You’re just making it worse, for fuck's sake.”
Isabelle begins to scream and kick at me.
Goddamn it.
My eyes follow Pablo, who is walking behind the employee carrying his luggage upstairs. He turns and watches Isabelle’s tantrum.
Fuck!
There was a slight chance he could’ve forgotten about Isabelle while he fucked Gina for an hour or two, but that door had just slammed closed.
