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How many people can say the cartel boss hand-picked their future husband? Or that they murdered someone before their first kiss?
But I know this is it.
This is my life.
The life of a ghost.
A female hitman for the cartel.
And I’m going to be fucking great at it.
It’s a part of my family’s history, woven so deeply into my depraved heritage that we can no longer trace ourselves back to a clean slate. Thick rust coats our blood-soaked past.
I steady myself for the inevitable, the traditional initiation. They’ve all done it, and now it’s my turn.
My father dips his fingers into the blood of my victim. I drop to my knees before him, ready to become a genuine part of the family he treasures above all else.
The blood is still warm as Eduardo Maldonado Jr. runs his index finger from my hairline down to the tip of my chin, marking me with the crimson stain of my first official kill. It’s a bittersweet moment, and I only wish my brother could have been here to see me stun the higher ups surrounding our grandfather.
The metallic smell infiltrates my senses, a copper tang spreading through my mouth as I lick my lips. I smile viciously at my father and watch as pride swirls in his whiskey eyes.
I am my father’s daughter, and today I proved to Eduardo Sr. and his associates just how close to the tree this apple fell. That my brother’s death doesn’t cost us our future.
Today, I taught them an invaluable lesson.
All the men in this room thought the fearsome Nightmare had retired with parenthood, was on the run from his responsibility, was dead to them because his heir lost a fight.
But his blood flows through my veins, same as my brother’s, and their smiles reflect my own.
Now, I will become the Ghost.
And another generation will teach them…
You do not fuck with the Maldonados.
Present Day…
Marching my ass straight into a motorcycle club’s bar wasn’t on my to-do list for the day. Riot isn’t my usual Thursday night fling, and I normally wouldn’t be caught dead making a house call—if you can even call it that.
But I need Riot for more than his dick tomorrow. And sadly… I have to ask him.
Warn him…
He’s going to throw a fit when he sees me; I just fucking know it.
I pull my damp hair down from my ponytail, desperately fluffing it to cover the bruises that are blossoming across my neck. As I step out of my car, I check my legs for blood. The crimson stain covers my chest and arms, but that’s what my hoodie is for. The shorts I’m wearing leave little to the imagination, though drunk bikers are the least of my worries tonight.
Riot is going to kill me when I tell him where we’re going tomorrow evening.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll just be really mad and we’ll have hate-sex. Not that it’s a good idea with how stiff my body feels right now, but an orgasm or four would be better than ice packs and pain meds.
I lick the pad of my thumb, wiping a stray smudge of blood off my calf. He’ll probably smell it on me, but I don’t want all of his biker brothers to know that I’m more than some hot piece of ass who’s been getting him off. That would start a whole new turf war, and I want no part in it.
I grumble to myself as I shut my car door and stride across the gravel parking lot of the Asphalt Zombies’ clubhouse. It makes me wonder if this is a good idea. I could have hinted to him over the phone without actually saying my plan over hackable communication.
“Really? Fucking gravel?” I hiss under my breath, hoping like hell no one hears my complaints.
I hate this fucking place, and my hate for it only grows when I pull the front door open. Cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air, causing my eyes to burn. The stale beer smell makes me want to gag, and the spilled liquor on the floor sticks to the bottom of my gray tennis shoes.
