But she’d been wrong about him before.
She looked down at her hands, flexed her fingers, and forced a breath through her nose. The idea of Cross and Tessa together made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Had he really moved on that fast? Had he ever really moved on at all? The way they’d been in the bayou made her doubt he had.
God knew she hadn’t.
She’d tried to build walls. Tried to keep him out of her heart. But the second he touched her again, those walls tumbled like a sandcastle in the tide. And now, sitting in this hangar with her future dangling by a thread, she realized the truth: she wasn’t over him. Not even close.
But she had to start rebuilding those walls. Because if she ever got out of this, she wasn’t going back. Not to the swamp. Not to the mess. And definitely not to Cross Morgan.
Charlie dropped into the chair beside her and rubbed his face. “Look, I know you hate me right about now, but you and me always had a…type of truce goin’. We might have got one another now and again, but it was all in good fun. Just business.” He heaved out a shaky breath. “I got a bad feeling about this. I’m sorry I told them about you. If things turn south, run like hell. Don’t worry about me. Save yourself.”
Drew tilted her head. “You think they’re gonna kill you?”
“I’m no use to them once you’re delivered,” he said flatly. “That makes me dead weight.”
She frowned. “You didn’t seem this skittish when you were with Rodriguez outside of Cross’s place.”
“Yeah, well. That was before I saw what kind of resources Rodriguez is throwing around. He’s not just angry—he’s unraveling. Unpredictable. That makes him dangerous as hell.”
The hangar fell into silence. The guards at the doors shifted, one checking his watch. Somewhere outside, the low rumble of a jet engine hummed above the quiet, growing louder by the second.
Charlie stood and swore under his breath. “He’s coming.”
Drew stared at the hangar doors, her pulse picking up speed. Her hands clenched into fists in her lap. She wasn’t ready. But she would be. Because if this was the last fight she had in her, she wasn’t going down easy. Not for Rodriguez. Not for anyone.
The jet’sengines whined as they powered down, the heavy thrum echoing off the metal walls of the hangar. Heat blasted through the open door as the sleek black Gulfstream coasted to a stop on the tarmac. Drew sat, spine straight and chin high, even though her stomach churned with dread. She wanted to be on her feet, but her ankles were still bound. Beside her, Charlie shifted from foot to foot, his eyes locked on the aircraft like it was a damn viper coiling to strike.
The plane door lowered with a hydraulic hiss, and a group of armed men dressed in suits spilled out first, sweeping the perimeter like they expected an ambush. They moved too cleanly, too tight in formation. Not Rodríguez’s men, Drew thought immediately. These were pros. Military or cartel elite. Maybe both. Her gut twisted.
Then came Rodríguez.
He emerged slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp shirt, the top few buttons open to reveal a thin gold chain against sun-browned skin. He looked every inch the Miami cartel boss—tailored pants, snakeskin shoes, and a Rolex that glinted under the hangar lights. But there were cracks in the image now. His hair, once slicked back, had a touch too much gray at the temples. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. And the deep hollows under his eyes made him look like he hadn’t slept in days. Maybe he hadn’t. Stress clung to him like sweat. Andbehind his forced casualness, Drew imagined the weight of paranoia was eating him alive.
Rodríguez paused at the bottom of the stairs and scanned the hangar, lips curling into something that might’ve been a smile if it didn’t look so damn hollow. The outsiders—the watchers—stood back, impassive. Eyes sharp. These men weren’t his. They were sent to keep tabs. Maybe to take control if things went sideways. The tension in the hangar burrowed painfully into her shoulders.
Rodríguez strode forward, flanked by two of his own lieutenants, until he stopped in front of Drew. He peeled off his sunglasses and slipped them into his breast pocket.
“Well,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges, “this wasn’t the reunion I wanted.”
Drew kept silent. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
He turned to the man who’d captured her—thick-necked, twitchy, the kind who liked to hit first and ask questions never. Rodríguez gave him a once-over, his nostrils flaring.
“You said you had Cross Morgan.”
“We—we almost had him. But he?—”
Rodríguez pulled a pistol from the back of his waistband and shot him in the head. Blood sprayed across the concrete as the man crumpled. The crack of the gun made Charlie flinch beside her. Drew didn’t even blink, but she bit her cheek to keep from gagging. She knew she was wearing some of the dead man’s blood and brain matter.
Rodríguez sighed, wiped the muzzle of the gun on the dead man’s shirt, and tucked it away like it was just another part of his wardrobe.
“Almost,” he said quietly, “isn’t good enough.”
He turned back to Drew, and this time, his eyes glittered with something darker. “You’d better hope your little fed friend feels generous,querida. Otherwise, this ends badly. For everyone.”
Drew lifted her chin. “Tessa doesn’t give a damn about me. I know nothing about her. I’ve never even met her. If you knew anything about me, you would know that.”
Rodríguez smirked. “Maybe. But she might care about what happens when your body gets dumped on her doorstep.” He leaned in closer. “You know who Dane was to her, right?”
