By marrying a woman of twenty-eight to a guy in his fifties? Not fucking likely. I keep those thoughts to myself though because I already know verbalizing them won’t get me anywhere. Isa is Daddy’s little princess, and she trips over backward to please him. It’s been frustrating to witness.
Rafaelo Da Rosa doesn’t hold me in high regard, and a part of me doesn’t blame him. My elder brother treated his other daughter like trash. Bettina loved Cruz, but he used her as a surrogate, murdering her in broad daylight after she’d delivered his son and heir. I understand why the DiPietro name is mud in the Da Rosa household, like I understand why they didn’t want Elio to come live with me. But they should know by now I’m nothing like my dead brother. I abhorred the things he did, and I could never treat people as carelessly as he did, so their continuing to bear a grudge is petty and frustrating.
“What about your choice? Why don’t you get a say?” I ask.
“I have always known this is the way it would be. Father made this arrangement with Carmine when his wife’s diagnosis was confirmed. No one expected her to battle bone cancer as long as she did, so I guess I can count myself lucky I had years of freedom before my duty kicked in. I’ve been luckier than most.”
“I still don’t think it’s right, but I see your mind is made up.”
“There is nothing to decide, Cristian. What’s done is done.”
“You know where I am if you ever change your mind.”
“I appreciate that, and I’m grateful you care. Elio is lucky to have you as a dad.”
“I’m lucky to have him as my son, and I won’t fail him.” I push back my chair and stand. “I know the kind of nanny he needs. I want to see the rest of the applications.” I slip my jacket off the back of the chair and pull it on. “Please email me the files so I can review them at home tonight.”
2
SLOANE
Staring at myself in the mirror is like staring at a stranger. My hand lifts, toying with the long, dyed golden-blonde strands of hair curtaining my face. Months of forced cosmetic surgery have altered the structure of my face, though it’s subtle. My nose is thinner, my cheekbones higher, my lips fuller. The only thing that is unchanged is my wide blue eyes.
The reflection is stunning, but I don’t feel like me.
I’mnotme.
I’m trapped in a body crafted to ensnare a powerful man.
I have no control. I’m a puppet, and the cartel is the one pulling the strings.
Looking down at the monstrosities perched on my chest, I pine for my small breasts. That sick fuck Pablo Fuentes—leader of the Sinaloa Cartel—made me undergo months of transformation so there is minimal risk of anyone discovering my real identity.
“We need to leave shortly,” Diego says, barging into my bedroom without knocking. You’d think after seven months of enduring a living hell with no privacy that I wouldn’t care, but it’s the small things I took for granted before that matter so much now. “El Rey wants to speak to you first.” He thrusts a cell at me.
Bile coats my tongue as I hold the phone out in front of me. Video, of course. It’s not enough I have to listen to Pablo’s slimy voice; I’m also forced to look at his ugly face.
“I want to see all of you,” the leering asshole says, and I grind my teeth to the molars as I drag the cell up and down my body.
“What the fuck is this?” Fuentes snarls. “I told you to dress sexy!”
“I’m interviewing to be ananny. If I turn up in a sexy dress, he’ll dismiss me before I’ve even opened my mouth.” I gesture at my conservative black pencil skirt and white silk blouse. I’ve paired them with plain black stilettos and a string of fake pearls.
“I told you the interview is only a formality. My inside contact will ensure you get the placement,” he snaps. “Do I need to remind you of what’s at stake?”
“I don’t need a reminder,” I say in a clipped tone.
“Maybe you need additional incentive.”
Pain spears through me when he grabs Mom, hauling her onto her knees in front of him. “Take it out and suck it, whore.”
“That’s enough.” I rub a hand across my queasy tummy. “I don’t need additional incentive. I understand the stakes.” My mother’s life is literally in my hands. If I don’t deliver for the cartel, they will kill her. The fear of fucking up has kept me awake for hours every night since I returned to New York. Thank God for concealer.
“You ignored a direct order.” Fuentes smirks as Mom unzips him and pulls his disgusting cock out.
She has a dazed expression on her face that’s familiar. Hurt flays the flesh from my bones as effectively as if my skin were physically being carved up. The thoughts of everything Mom has endured lay siege to my tortured brain, like always. I live with constant guilt and regret. It’s quite possible she’s addicted to the shit he keeps pumping into her neglected body, but how can I criticize or tell her to resist it when the drugged haze she slips into numbs some of her pain?
“Mommywill continue to pay the price for your disobedience, Sloane. The fact you’re there and she’s here doesn’t change shit.”
