"What did you hear, Valentina?"
She laughed, and it sounded like breaking glass. "Everything. I heard everything."
I released her wrists and stepped back. I watched her slide down the wall, trembling hands wrapped around herself like she could hold the pieces together through sheer will.
"Tell me," I said.
She looked up at me, and in those too-green eyes, I saw something that made my blood run cold.
Not fear.
Not desperation.
Knowledge.
The kind of knowledge that got people killed. The kind Marco would burn the world to erase.
And she'd just delivered herself—and that knowledge—straight into my hands.
The question was: What the hell was I supposed to do with her now?
CHAPTER 2
Valentina
Two days earlier, my world had ended in Richard Caldwell's office.
The computer screen glowed like an accusation.
I sat in the leather chair across from Richard's mahogany desk, hands folded in my lap, wearing the cream Chanel suit I'd chosen specifically because it screamed "respectable fiancée." We were supposed to finalize the last wedding details—seating chart, wine selection, the thousand meaningless decisions that made up a society marriage.
Richard waved me in without looking up from his phone call, gesturing to the chair with that politician's smile that never quite reached his eyes. I'd grown used to it over the six months we'd been engaged. My father assured me warmth would come withtime, that marriages like ours were built on partnership and mutual benefit, not passion.
I was trying very hard to believe him.
The office smelled of expensive leather and old wood, cigar smoke clinging to the curtains despite the no-smoking signs. Morning light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Boston Harbor. Everything about Richard Caldwell's senatorial office projected success, legitimacy, the American dream wrapped in tailored suits and Harvard degrees.
"No, I understand the concern," Richard said into his phone, voice smooth as aged bourbon. "But the timeline hasn't changed. Tuesday shipment proceeds as planned."
Shipment. Odd word for a senator to use.
Then I saw his computer screen.
He'd minimized something in his hurry to take the call, but the email program was still open. Still visible. And my brain, my photographic memory that had been both blessing and curse since childhood, latched onto the text before I could stop it.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: Tuesday Delivery Confirmation
Jalisco routes confirmed. 200 units, standard payload. Warehouse 3 at DeLuca Properties, Pier 7. Payment through Cayman account #847392-B. M. DeLuca confirms receipt protocols…
The words burned themselves into my visual cortex. Every detail. Every number.
DeLuca Properties. My father's company.
My stomach turned to ice.
"The usual channels," Richard continued, turning slightly away from me. "Yes, Sinaloa contacts are solid. We've worked with them before."
