“No,” I say. “You’re not worth the effort.”
She bares her teeth, a snarl. “You’re wasting your time, then. I don’t know anything.”
I nod toward the window. “That’s not what your boyfriend said.”
The anger twists, but doesn’t soften. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
I step closer, let her see my face. Not the right-hand. a man, tired and unblinking. “You’re here because you’re leverage. If you behave, this goes easy. If not, you die like the rest.”
She spits, blood and saliva on the tile. “You think that scares me?”
“No,” I say. “But I think it should.”
For a second, we breathe. Her chest rises and falls quick, but her eyes stay locked on mine. No flinch, no retreat. In another life, she could have been a soldier.
The door opens behind me. Renzo steps in, shrugs at the girl, then turns to me. “Aurelio wants her alive. Top priority.”
I look at him, then at the girl. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Castillo’s owe us. She’s the payment.”
I let that settle, watching her. She doesn’t seem surprised. Maybe she always knew. Maybe that’s why she’s so fucking angry.
I reach for my phone, dial the only number that matters. “Aurelio,” I say, once the call clicks through.
“Report,” comes the answer. Calm, measured.
“Defector and the woman are in custody.”
Aurelio’s voice is silk over steel. “Hold both. Do not engage further until I call.”
“Yes, sir.”
I pocket the phone. The girl’s mouth twists, like she wants to ask but won’t give me the satisfaction.
Turning and walking, I almost make it to the door when she says, “Good dog.”
“What the fuck did you say to me?” Rage coils in my gut.
“Good. Dog. Or would you prefer puppy?”
If it weren’t for my incredible self-control, my hands would already be tightening around her neck. “Shut the fuck up. I’ll be back soon.”
“Take your time, pup.”
The snarl that comes out of me echoes as I shut the door.
Fucking hell.
Chapter Two: Alexandra
ThefirstthingInotice is the color. Burgundy everywhere—not the thin synthetic red of cheap motels, but a rich, deep wine that drinks the light whole. The second thing is my tongue, thick and dry, tasting of pennies and chemical that clings to the back of my throat.
I lie on something soft. Too soft. It takes me a few heartbeats to realize I’m on a bed the size of a studio apartment. The sheets are cold, though the room is warm. I reach for my mouth and spit into my palm. Pink saliva and white, cobwebby threads of some drug. Great.
I sit up slow. Muscles scream, but I don’t make a sound. Even alone, I refuse to whimper.
The room unfolds around me like a scene from an old mafia film. Plush carpet under my bare feet, gold-accented lamps, a glass table with a crystal decanter, a single orchid blooming ina pot on the dresser. The windows are thick and curtained. A private bathroom stands with its door ajar, showing stone tiles and neatly rolled towels on a brass rack.
