What the fuck? The mere mention of her name from his lips felt like acid burning my skin. I’d built walls between my past and my daughter, kept her safe at a boarding school where cartel wars were merely plots for movies on Netflix.
“Are you threatening me?” My voice dropped, evil radiating in every word that had caused better men than Arturo to shit themselves.
I slipped a hand underneath the top of the bar and gripped my SIG Sauer. If this bastard was about to use Fran to force me to do something or to seek revenge, then war or, possibly, jail was imminent. Because it wasn’t beneath me to put a bullet in that fucker’s head if he so much as mentioned her again.
Regardless, I couldn’t think of why he would throw down that threat. Revenge came to mind. He’d been forced out of Boston by Rosario, and that had almost started an all-out war between the Colombian and Mexican cartels. But Rosario was serving a ten-year sentence for various crimes, and she wasn’t up for parole for at least another four.
“Why would I do that?” he asked as if I were crazy. “I don’t have a beef with you. Just making small talk.”
“Not your style,” I fired back.
“You brought up my wife. It’s only fair.” His smugness was making my fingers itch to pull the trigger.
“I met your wife.” I flared my nostrils. “You still haven’t answered why you’re here.”
“Maybe I want you to work for me,” he said.
I let out a hearty laugh. “No fucking way. Now get the hell out.”
He continued to nurse his bourbon. “Look, I understand you got spooked when Hart went to jail.” He waved his hand around the restaurant. “Nice place. High-end. Attracts money. But let’s be real. You’re slaving away here. For what? I can give you more than Rosario ever had.”
“Desperation doesn’t look good on you, man. Still, why on earth do you think I would even consider working for you? You screwed Duke and me out of a lot of cash before Rosario hired us. And you almost got me killed in a drug deal gone wrong. Look, I sleep better at night now that I’m out of the rat race.”
He studied me, his nostrils flaring, seemingly thinking about his next words. “You haven’t heard of the offer.”
“Don’t need to.” I leaned over the bar, slightly toward him. “And don’t think for a second that you can use my daughter as a threat to coax me into working for you. Because remember, Arturo, I can be just as lethal as you, and I know that pretty wife of yours would love to fuck me.” I didn’t need to throw in the last part, but the bastard was pissing me off.
His fist came at me, but I straightened before he gave me a bloody nose. He growled in annoyance. “Keep talking about my wife, and I have no problem fuckingyourdaughter.”
I sneered. “Get the fuck out, and I don’t want to see you again.”
He smirked. “We’re not through, McCauley.”
Of course we weren’t.
Motherfucker.
3
GRACE
Hours later, at five a.m., the windowless room at Boston PD felt like every cage I’d ever known. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and my mind was a broken record, replaying tonight’s horror show—Andie’s limp body, the frat boy’s cruel laugh, the familiar weight of the gun in my hands, and the feeling that someone was stalking me. Freedom was always an illusion. I traded one prison for another.
I grabbed my hair and pulled it, pacing the small room. The chipped green walls pressed closer with each passing minute, paint peeling like scabs from old wounds.
I shuddered, tears leaking from my eyes. What was happening to me? Andie’s assault brought back memories of Thea’s death, and the weight of ten years of survival was crushing my chest.
Oh my fucking God. Frat Boy had been raping Andie.
The image burned behind my eyelids, making me itch to put another bullet in him. Or any man who dared to rape a woman.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead as I clenched my fist.
Breathe, Grace. You’re fine. You saved Andie from that bastard.
I shook my head once, twice, three times and glanced up at the ceiling, inhaling a deep breath.
The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, reminding me of memories I couldn’t afford to relive. But they bombarded me anyway.
