I scan his body. He’s wearing a black long-sleeved shirt that’s pulled down to his wrists. His hands and throat are free from tattoos, but that doesn’t mean they don't exist.
Still…
“You’re not one of them.”
It’s a risk. I shouldn’t be saying anything. Not when he looks like he could gut me in five seconds flat. But there’s something in the twitch of his lip, the slow beat of his pulse, his casual but confident pose. He’s not here to throw around his weight or threaten me. He knows he could kill me easily. He’s sure, not cocky.
He’s different from any other person I’ve ever met where Augustus is concerned, and that intrigues me as much as it scares me.
He nods once and steps into the cell, letting the padded door close softly behind him.
“How did you figure it out?” he asks quietly, sliding his hands into his jean pockets. It’s a casual pose, and for some reason, I believe it. “No one else here has discovered me yet.”
“Your accent,” I murmur. He’s tried to mask it, but the signs are clear enough if you know what to listen for. And in this line of work, picking up on the little things can mean the difference between life and death. “Columbia?”
His eyes flare, losing some of their iciness. He jerks a sharp nod.
“Why are you here?” I ask before he can change his mind about trusting me—if that’s what he’s doing. Maybe he’s just unburdening his secrets because he knows I’ll be dead before he’s gone.
He shrugs. “Why do you think I’m here?”
“To kill me,” I state bluntly. “Or help me.” Because there’s no alternative.
The man stares at me for a long moment, his gaze taking in far more than I’m comfortable with.
“Things are going to become very….unpleasantfor you soon.”
I scoff, gesturing to the worn and cold padded cell where my vomit lays in a corner. “As opposed to my stellar accommodations.”
His lip twitches, but it’s gone so quick, I could have imagined it. “Things can always get worse.”
“I’m aware.” I nod. “Who are you?”
He turns, taking in the room. I don’t miss the easy way he gives me his back. It’s a sign of stupidity or strength. I’m betting on the latter. He’s not worried about me in the slightest.
Wish I shared the sentiment.
“I am whoever I need to be,” he says quietly as he runs his fingers over the dingy wall. He pulls his hand back quickly and wipes it down his jeans. I file that tidbit away for later. A germaphobe.
“To my woman, I am her savior. Her king. Especially in the bedroom.” He smirks at me over his shoulder. “To my family, I’m the son who destroyed the empire they turned my country red to build. My men call me Boss out of respect, but I trust them. They’re my equals. And to these people, I am the one who is called in to incite terror. To take lives. To them, I amEl Segador—the Reaper.”
“The tattoos are for you,” I mutter, swallowing thickly. My mind is still hazy from the drugs and panic, but the details are coming together slowly.
His lip curls. “Fear breeds loyalty. These men see their leader failing, weakening. They’re turning toward the player they fear the most.” His shoulders lift as if he can’t be bothered to care. “I didn’t ask for them to brand themselves, nor do I desire it.”
“Are you saying there's dissension in the Diablos ranks?” My head pounds and I pop my neck to relieve some pressure, but it doesn’t help. “How can Gus be so blind?”
“Men like him only see what they wish to see,” he drawls. “He believes himself to be untouchable, and it will ultimately be his downfall.” His jaw tenses. “The men who have fallen from his ranks will also fall at the tip of my scythe. If they only follow me out of fear, they’re not the type of soldiers my army requires. My men respect me, so they will fall for me. Augustus’ lackeys are just that.”
“They only look out for themselves.” Something I’ve noticed.
Gus’ soldiers are young gang members. They’re not willing to die for his cause. They won’t step in front of a bullet for him. And if they think it will save them, they’ll turn on him just as easily.
“And who are you to Augustus? Do you work for him?” I ask.
“Augustus Luna may believe me to be nothing more than his bitch, his hired blade. A ghost to tell tales about. A man who reaps the souls he’s too afraid to touch.” He spins, flashing mea too-white smile, but it quickly drops. “I am all of those things and nothing at all.”
“But why?” The pounding in my head intensifies as I try to work through his riddles.
