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“Men with money think bloodline is more important than love,” Señora says.

“Money?” Esmeralda asks.

Oh, God… “Not much money,” I say quickly. “I mean, my family isn’t uber wealthy.”

“Uber?” Esmeralda asks.

“Sorry.” I tighten my grip on my mug. “It comes from German. It means super.” I stare into my coffee.

This is absurd.

Cruz and I are not star-crossed lovers thrown into the street by my disapproving father because he’s the son of a prostitute.

My father is in a hospital bed back in Texas recovering from brain damage. My brothers are probably tearing apart the earth looking for me. Cruz and I are here because he helped kidnap me and then helped rescue me, and now neither of us knows what the hell we’re doing beyond not dying.

But I am grateful Señora made up the story.

Mercedes and Esmeralda don’t need to know who I am. They don’t need to know Vega wants me. They don’t need to know my last name. Knowing those things will only put them in danger, and while I don’t love the way they’re eyeing Cruz, I also don’t want to see any harm come to them.

I don’t want anyone else in harm’s way because I’m sitting in this kitchen drinking from a pink heart mug and pretending this is a complicated romance instead of a freaking disaster.

I look up and force my mouth into a tired smile. “My father is very dramatic.”

Cruz looks at me. Something flickers in his eyes. Gratitude? Grief? I have no idea.

Mercedes snorts. “Fathers usually are.”

I glance toward the counter. “Is there more coffee?”

Cruz is already moving, grabbing my mug. “I’ll get you a refill. Cream and sugar?”

“Black is fine. That’s how all my family⁠—”

I cut myself off.

Too late.

Cruz’s gaze sharpens.

Señora keeps her expression perfectly neutral. She’s probably had a lot of practice in her line of business.

Mercedes and Esmeralda don’t seem to notice anything beyond the flow of conversation, but I know better than to trust that. These women probably notice everything. They live in a house where survival depends on hearing the difference between a drunk man laughing and a dangerous one smiling.

Cruz hands me back my mug, and I take a sip of coffee. It’s strong, bitter, and perfect.

I sit down at the table. Cruz sits next to me. His knee is close to mine under the table. Not touching. Just close enough that I am aware of it.

Annoying man.

Mercedes smiles at me. “So you don’t come from money?”

I nearly choke.

Señora Valentina arches a brow at me.

Cruz goes very still.

“We weren’t poor,” I say carefully.