Sophia and her father stayed put, each nestled into single sofa chairs. He reached for her hand, squeezed it while Roman, a pair of rubber gloves in place, lifted a toy model of her mother’s car from the box. A note dangled from the car:I thought it would be enough. But it’s not.
If there was one thing Sophia despised, it was living in fear. Better that she accept protection than make herself sick with worry. Checking over her shoulder. Counting down the days until the campaign was over. Something she should enjoy, not dread.
Sophia would be disturbed no matter what circumstances surrounded the delivery of a package like that. But the timing made her suspect that someone was trying to silence her. One look at her planner showed more public appearances than there were days of the month. It was campaign time for Nicolas Vasco again, and this yearSophiawould fill her mom’s shoes in speaking at the upcoming rallies, galas, and conventions.
“Sophia?” Her father leaned into her periphery and waved a hand.
Sophia snapped out of her daze, leaned over the space between them, and pulled him in for a hug. “I’m sorry,Papi.” She kissed his freshly shaven cheek. “Blayze Brockton it is.”
“That’s my girl.” No one knew how to shift from zero to nine hundred like he did. All the passion of a true Spaniard, he’d always say. He might get worked up easily, but the man knew how to calm down quickly too. As if to prove that point, he reached an arm back, hoisted a bottle of champagne from the cooler. He tipped his head toward her. “Let’s say we put this to rest with a toast.”
Sophia lifted a brow. “A toast towhat?”
He poured the smallest amount of champagne into each glass and handed one to her. “To your safety,mi bonita. May you remain unharmed while you go about yourmadre’swork, God rest her sweet soul.”
Sophia grinned, clanked her gold-rimmed glass against his, and tipped it back. Bubbles danced on her tongue as she looked out the window once more. The poor guy had just buried his mom, and already he had a new job to bother with. A vision of those blue eyes floated to mind. Mr. Brockton was probably nice enough. He was handsome too, there was no denying it. Not with the kind of politician good looks her father boasted. Polished and clean-shaven. A wide grin at his lips. Mr. Brockton had more of that rugged look going on. Strong, muscular angles to go with that brooding expression. And a deep scar at the center of one brow. Which all made sense, considering he was a retired SEAL. It had to take more than grit and strength to achieve such a thing—a determination that superseded thoughts of self and comfort. Sophia admired that.
Still, with a day like today, she couldn’t help but think back on her mom’s funeral. Sophia didn’t have to imagine the pain Blayze was going through; she’d lived it. Saying goodbye to the woman who birthed you, nursed you, loved and protected you. In Sophia’s case, it was also the woman who’d taught her to make the bestNatillas de Lechein San Bernardino County. The woman who danced wildly to fiesta music with her as it blasted throughout the house. The role model who’d educated Congress on the unique needs of immigrant families. But she hadn’t stopped there. In the spirit of a true humanitarian, her mother followed her father on the campaign trail, preaching the importance of balanced justice. Her passion had inspired Papa in his focus as District Attorney, which made her the perfect candidate to speak on his behalf during campaigning last time around.
Sophia shook her head. “I miss her,” she said in a whisper.
“I know, Sophia,” her father said from the other side of the car. “I miss her too. I’m so grateful that we had you. You keep her alive for me, you know?” The statement gave life to her father’s anxiety; he didn’t want to lose her too.
“Well, then,” Sophia said, lifting her near-empty glass once more. “Here’s to making Mom proud.”
“Yes,” her father said, “Here’s to that.
She took the last sip from her glass, hoping she’d put on enough of a happy face. The truth was, she had her apprehensions. On one hand, she wondered if her father was making more of the packages than he ought to. In addition, she worried that—men being men—Papa, Roman, and Mr. Brockton would be tempted to keep things from Sophia.Let’s not bother her with this. Be sure not to tell Sophia that.The very idea was enough to make her shift with irritation in her seat.
“Now,” her father said. “Let’s go see how things are going back on the campaign trail, shall we?” His eyes went brighter than his smile, and she’d be lying if she said his energy wasn’t contagious. Ofcourse,he’d get reelected for District Attorney, even with the stiff competition. Nicolas Vasco was the best man for his job. She only hoped, as she considered the weeks ahead, that Blayze Brockton would be too.
Chapter 3
Blayze shook his head as he thumbed through the information Sutton passed onto him late last night. Digital pictures and/or descriptions of the packages Sophia had received. Blayze applauded Mr. Vasco for his efforts to snuff the coward out early. Most people didn’t have the resources, financially, anyway. Turned out Nicolas Vasco and his daughter owned considerable real estate throughout California. With the management company they’d put in place, Sophia and her father put in minimal hours with maximum returns.
In the pale morning light, a mug of black coffee before him, Blayze scrutinized the contents of the first package. It had shown up on her doorstep. Wrapped in shiny white paper, the small box held a giant, pink cupcake with fluffy frosting over an inch high. She hadn’t dared eat it, not knowing whom it was from, but while inspecting the baked good Sophia had noticed a motel keycard tucked into the center.
She had played it off as a joke, figuring someone was toying with her.Happy Birthday—Have a night’s stay at the Maraddo, the most rundown motel in all of San Bernardino.
The second hadn’t been as easy to ignore. The bright blue package contained a set of handcuffs with a note:Let’s play a game. Mind if I bring my gun?
The District Attorney had made a name for himself among the people of San Bernardino, and he wasn’t short on support, but Vasco was gunning for his second run in the DA’s office and—after seeking advice from a trusted legal board—thought it best to keep things hidden from the press for a time. Media attention often gave the offender an appetite for the spotlight. Something they wanted to avoid.
Mind if I bring my gun…“Mind if I bring my fist?” Blayze grumbled. He despised cowards. He’d dealt with all types of terrorists throughout his deployment, but he had a particular distaste for the cowardly ways of those who kept themselves hidden in the shadows, tormenting their victims before they even struck.
The last package she’d received was even more chilling. The note attached said the hostile was taking credit for her mother’s accident, and that he was ready to wreak more deadly havoc. Obviously, Sophia was the target this time, which meant someone either wanted Nicolas Vasco to suffer, or he wanted him to lose the campaign. The former seemed most likely; there were all sorts of ways to mess up someone’s campaign.
A buzz sounded at his phone—a number he didn’t recognize.
He lifted the small device to his ear. “Brockton, here.”
“Hi, this is Sophia Vasco,” came that alluring accent on the other end of the line. Blayze straightened up, flattening a hand on his paperwork, and tried to calm his racing-for-no good-reason heart.
“Hey,” he blurted. “How are you?”
“Fine. Hope you don’t mind that I called you so early.”
He glanced at his watch, already knowing it was just past 6:00 a.m. “No problem.”
