Page 53 of Reign

I zoom in on his hand in one of the photos.

Because obviously I hate myself.

His fingers are long.

That shouldn’t be my first thought.

Not cartel boss, obviously dangerous.

No.

My first thought is that his fingers are long, elegant, and entirely too nice-looking for the things they probably do.

I zoom back out before I can become even more embarrassing.

The headline beneath the photo is from some business magazine trying very hard to pretend blood money is just aggressive entrepreneurship.

LUCIANO CASTILLO EXPANDS PRIVATE HOLDINGS ACROSS LATIN AMERICA

Private holdings.

Sure.

I skim the article. Shipping, security, hospitality, real estate, “strategic restructuring after his father retired.”

What a pretty way to describe organized crime.

There’s another photo halfway down. He’s getting out of a car, one hand buttoning his jacket as cameras flash. He looks bored by them. Untouchable. Like the whole world could crowd in and still never actually reach him.

Nothing like the man who smiled when I followed him and laughed against my mouth when I kissed him.

I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

Normal women don’t internet-stalk the man who took their virginity and then disappeared.

Then again, I’m not a normal woman.

I open another result.

Elite.

His sex club.

Members only.

Miami.

My pulse gives one stupid little kick.

I should close the tab. I’ve looked at this page one too many times already.

Instead, I click the gallery.

Again.

No faces. No people. Just dark hallways, private rooms, low lighting, velvet booths, and enough black and gold to make the whole place look obscenely expensive.

I click to the next photo.