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“I want to see his face when he realizes I handed him over. I want to watch him learn what trusting me cost him.”

Ciro laughed softly. “That’s my girl.”

I hated how easily that phrase slid under my skin.

Not because it touched my heart. It didn’t.

Because praise from powerful men carried weight. Praise opened doors and came with diamonds, bank accounts, passwords, houses, and planes.

Freedom, if I hid enough of it.

“I’ll wait for him to contact me,” I said. “He will. Men like him can’t stand thinking a woman might be in danger because of them.”

“Do not underestimate him.”

“I won’t.”

“Do not fuck him unless I tell you.”

My eyes widened.

“Jealous, Papi?”

The word left my mouth softly. Dirty enough to make him hear what he wanted.

“Careful,” he said.

“I’m always careful.”

“You are always ambitious.”

“That too.”

His chuckle crawled through the phone. “Come tonight.”

“To the estate?”

“Yes. Dinner.”

I glanced at the clock on my computer. “You want me there right after work?”

“I want you there before dark.”

“Demanding.”

“You like demanding.”

I smiled. “Sometimes.”

“I need your hands.”

“A massage?”

“To start with.”

My stomach tightened, but not with fear. Disgust had become background noise years ago. Ciro’s hands. His scars. The cigars on his breath. The rough way he handled me.

It was all just currency.