These are good people. The best people. They barely know me, and yet they welcomed me with open arms, and they went out of their way to help me. How can I betray them? It would be the worst way to repay their kindness.
The photos of the files are sitting on my cell phone taunting me. I don’t even know if sending them to Pablo will do any good. He wants intel on drug shipping routes, not random single mothers Cristian is considering marrying. If I send these pictures, will I put those women at risk? And will it be for nothing if Pablo still punishes my mother? But if I don’t at least appear to look like I’m trying, he might kill my mother.
I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
I don’t know how long I sit on the floor contemplating it before I get up and go to my closet to grab my cartel cell. My heart is heavy as I turn it on, knowing what I must do. Fear has an ice-cold grip on my heart as the phone vibrates with a slew of messages and missed calls. There are two new videos, and without looking, I know what I’ll find. It pings with a new message, proving Pablo is getting alerts on my phone activity and always watching.
Intel now or your mother is dead.
The message is accompanied by a picture of my mother with her head yanked back and a knife held to her throat. Mom is barely recognizable under the multitude of bruises and cuts to her face. Stuffing my fist in my mouth, I try to muffle my anguished cries.
I did this.
She’s hurting because of me.
I should be the one all bloody and bruised, not my mother.
I’m not a religious person, even less so since Mom’s precious God let this happen to us, but I pray now as I send the files to that Sinaloa monster, begging God to spare my mother and these innocent women.
If there is a price to pay, let it be me who pays it because everything that has happened is all my fault.
My entire body shakes as I wait for a reply. It comes five minutes later. An instruction to meet Diego and Alvaro at a diner two blocks away. I don’t want to go, but he’ll kill my mother if I’m a no-show. I change into jeans and a nice top and put some makeup on as if on autopilot. All the blood has leeched from my skin, and no amount of blush or bronzer disguises it. The uncontrollable shaking hasn’t gone away either, and I need to get a grip before I give the game away. I concentrate on my breathing, slowly inhaling and exhaling, feeling the pull deep in my belly as I attempt to lower my heart rate.
When I’m as composed as I can be, I grab my purse and my cartel cell, leaving the cell Cristian gave me behind in case Pablo’s goons have any ideas of putting tracking software on it. Then I leave my bedroom and hope it’s not the last time I’ll see it.
“Going out?” Cristian inquires when I reach the kitchen. He’s standing in front of the coffee machine, wearing a slight frown.
“Yes, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. You are free to do whatever you want in your downtime,” he says, offering a smile that doesn’t seem entirely genuine. “I made you a coffee. I can put it in a takeout cup if you want to bring it with you?”
He is such a thoughtful man. I can barely speak over the painful lump clogging my throat. “Thanks.”
His eyes pin me in place as his frown returns. “Is everything okay?”
I force a smile. “Yes. I’m just meeting a…friend.” I almost choke on the word. “I shouldn’t be too long.”
His probing gaze continues to stare at me as his frown deepens. “It’s dark out. You should take John Angelo with you.”
“I was planning to.” I want Pablo’s goons to see my bodyguard. To know if they try to murder me, they might end up losing their lives too. I’m not planning on going any-fucking-where without John Angelo. He may be the difference between life and death.
“Good.” He doesn’t look happy as he transfers my coffee to a travel mug. “Here. This should keep you warm.”
My hands barely feel the warmth as they wrap around the mug. “Thanks, Cristian.” I fake another smile before walking off, hoping it’s not the last time I see him.
“Sloane.”
Cristian stops me when I reach the archway into the entrance hallway. I glance over my shoulder, willing my hand to stop shaking. “Yes?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
No! Help me! Help my mother! End this nightmare for both of us. “I’m fine,” I lie. “I’ll see you later.”
“Enjoy your night,” he says, but his tone and his eyes lack all trace of his usual warmth.
* * *
John Angelo walks by my side as we head in the direction of the diner. His towering frame, broad body, and alert eyes offer some comfort, but it’s only fleeting. I drain my yummy coffee in record time, but it does little to warm my icy bones. I pepper my bodyguard with questions to keep myself distracted. He gives me short, clipped answers, and I’m probably annoying the shit out of him, but the older man is too polite to tell me to shut up.
