Chapter 16
“Domino”
Asharp buzz from the nightstand dragged me out of sleep.
5:30 A.M.
Too damn early, unless you had a mule making a ten-hour run with a client who’d kill over the wrong color shoelace… andmymule was leaving at six.
I sat up, cracked my neck, and realized immediately I wasn’t in my bedroom.
The silk sheets? The lavender walls? The glittery vanity lights?
Yeah… definitely not my place.
A leg slid across my thigh and a soft moan followed. “Mmm. Lay back down.”
That’s when it clicked. ,
The night before I left the cartel fundraiser—disguised as a “charity gala”—with one of the estate groupies who drifted in and out whenever they smelled money, danger, or a man they’d never actually have. She wasn’t special; a nigga was just horny, and she was available and willing. By the end of the night, shewas drunk, giggling, and begging for whatever version of me she thought she could keep.
Without responding, I stood and swung my legs out of the bed.
“Where you going?” she groaned, sitting up, hair wild, and confusion etched on her face.
I pulled on my pants, not even glancing her way. “Home,” I simply replied.
“Home? I thought we’d at least have breakfast together?”
I faced her. “Look, last night was a nut, not a relationship. Don’t start building fantasies before sunrise, sweetheart.”
Her face fell. “You’re serious?”
“Dead,” I shot back, buttoning my shirt. “I didn’t come here for cuddles. Don’t make this weird. But just for future reference, I don’t stay, I don’t explain, and I damn sure don’t do breakfast.”
Silence… then a tiny, pitiful exhale.
I slid my watch on. “Lock the door behind me.”
And with that, I walked out.
I lived seven minutes from her place—five, if I drove like I owned the road, which I did.
I walked into the crib, stripped, and hit the shower with purpose. Ten minutes later, I was dressed casually, wearing a white tee and some gray joggers that hung low on my hips as I made my way into the kitchen.
Our chef looked up the second she heard my footsteps.
“Morning, Mr. Ross,” Mariela greeted softly, turning from the stove.
She’d been with us for years. I had no complaints about her. The lady was quiet, efficient, and smart enough never to ask questions she didn’t want answers to.
“Morning,” I returned, letting a yawn slip through.
“Coffee’s fresh,” she said, nodding toward the pot.
I grunted in acknowledgment, scanning the kitchen for one more person. “Where’s Alejandro?”
She wiped her hands on a towel. “He requested to eat in bed this morning.”
