CHAPTER 9
Lucia leaned over the toilet in her dark apartment and spit the last of the bile into the bowl. There were traces of blood in her vomit, but it wasn’t uncommon. At least tonight’s sick spell hadn’t been debilitating. Now that her stomach was empty, she felt almost healthy. Almost. It would take a while before her heart slowed down. It’d been hammering uncontrollably since she sneaked out of the sex club two hours ago.
Camila’s alive and well and living with Matias.
Was it possible? Yes. But not likely. If her sister lived, Tiago would’ve found her. Because above all, he loved collecting ransoms and had searched long and hard to find someone willing to cough up money for Lucia.
The fact that he hadn’t killed Lucia was a mystery that tormented her daily. She was the only exception he’d ever made, which was why she didn’t take risks, didn’t do anything that would give him a reason to end her life.
Until tonight.
The first thing she did when she exited the club was slip past her guards. They didn’t see her leave through the back door, didn’t know she hid in a nearby building, waiting for the American.
When he’d finally emerged, she’d tracked him to his apartment. Not just him. Another man had trailed the American, keeping a block of distance between them. They were smart to not walk together—made it easier for them to protect each another. But they weren’t smart enough to sense they had a tail.
Once she’d learned where they were staying, she returned to the club, sneaked back in, and walked out the front where her guards expected her.
Then she had no choice but to go home. Any diversion from her routine would’ve been reported to Tiago. Under no circumstances could he find out Camila might be alive. Even if her sister had the funds to pay a ransom, it would only end in devastation.
Camila’s alive and well.
Why would the American lie about that? Was he in contact with Camila? Did her sister know she was alive? If not, she had to stop that man from telling her, whoever the hell he was.
Kissable, commanding, well-endowed, insanely, wildly attractive—he was all those things. Good God, she’d never been fucked like that. The power he’d wielded, the gravelly rumble in his voice, and the poise in which he’d seduced her had turned her into a carnal creature intent on wringing every last drop of seed from his body.
She wasn’t even close to being done with him.
The next few minutes was a whirlwind of determination. She flushed the toilet. Brushed her teeth. Kicked off her heels. Pulled on the boots. The Berettas sat snugly between her tailbone and the waistband of her jeans. She would definitely need those.
There were no windows in her apartment. No other doors. Just a mattress, open bathroom and kitchenette, and a closet.
The closet. As quietly as possible, she removed her meager belongings from within it.
It’d been a couple years since she’d slipped her guards, and she was about to do it for the second time tonight.
God help me.
The closet now empty, she stepped inside and dragged her fingers down the back corner, prying at the hidden seam.
Years ago, she cut a narrow passage in the wall and used it to sneak out. She was more tenacious then. Braver. But that was before the gruesome incident with that poor doctor. Her chest tightened.
She wouldn’t make the same mistakes. Wouldn’t leave the neighborhood. Wouldn’t try to make contact with the outside world. She was just going to pay the American a visit, threaten him at gunpoint, and would be home by dawn.
The wood paneling creaked as she slid it open. The worried whine of a dog sounded on the other side, and she hurried through, squeezing between the gap in the vertical wall supports and stepping into her neighbor’s closet.
Franchesca didn’t own much before she was robbed, but as Lucia crept into the dark one-room unit, the space looked cruelly bare.
A furry ball on short legs scurried toward her. She scooped up the dog before it started barking and patted its head.
“Franchesca?” she whispered, approaching the sleeping silhouette on the mattress.
When her neighbor popped her head up, Lucia handed over the dog and held a finger against her lips, demanding silence.
They had a long-standing agreement. Lucia would protect Franchesca when she could, and Franchesca wouldn’t ask questions when Lucia came and went through the hidden passage.
Her neighbor was a passive woman and didn’t have enemies—except for a dirtbag father, who came around every couple months to beat her. While Lucia did favors for her, like getting the dog back tonight, it didn’t mean she trusted Franchesca. If the price was right, Franchesca would sell Lucia down the river.
With a steadying breath, she left the woman in bed and strode toward the rear of the room.
Lucia’s apartment sat at the intersecting point of a T-shaped complex, surrounded by other units on three sides. But Franchesca’s apartment didn’t, and she had a back door. Lucky for Lucia, her guards didn’t watch the rear alley.
She slipped out the back, and fifteen minutes later, stood in front of another apartment door in an unlit corridor. This was where her plan met its first obstacle.
The apartment building was a shit hole, much like the rest of the slum. She’d expected a flimsy lock, one she could pick without making a sound.
This lock had been upgraded with a heavy-duty, electronic-looking thing. Goddammit!
It’d been added recently, given the shiny steel casing. Definitely not the kind of hardware one would find in a shanty town.
Her pulse sped up. Who the fuck were these guys?
Deep breath.
She could shoot off the deadbolt, rush in, and take them by surprise. Gunshots rang out all night long, so the neighbors wouldn’t bat an eye at the racket.
Or, since there wasn’t a peep hole, she could knock and let one of them open it to the barrel of her 9mm.
Option two was less dramatic, so she drew one of the Berettas from her waistband and rapped on the door with her knuckles.
She expected to wait a while or maybe hear an apprehensive Who’s there? on the other side. But the lock turned within seconds.
Were they stupid?
Then she saw it. Wedged in a crack high on the door frame was a tiny black disk.
A camera.
The door opened, and with a racing heart, she trained the gun on a chiseled bare chest. Shifting her gaze, she followed the stretch of tight boxer briefs to carved packs of muscle and inched upward to a dark trimmed beard, a toothpick lolling from smirking lips, a mean-looking facial scar, and finally, the sharpened slits of silver eyes.
So this was the American’s companion. Despite the welted laceration across his cheek, his smile was arresting, and he ranked pretty high up there on the handsome scale. But there was an echo of something in his eyes, something chilling and fractured, like a frozen scream in a haunted basement.
“Don’t make a sound.” She locked her outstretched arm and rested a finger against the trigger of the gun. “Do exactly what I say.”
“I appreciate the spirit in that,” he drawled with an American accent. “But when it comes to orders, I’m a giver, not a taker.”
He motioned for her to enter the unlit apartment. She didn’t move.
“I can see how that’s worked out for you.” She flicked her gaze between his scars—a bullet wound on his shoulder and a knife wound across his cheek. “I won’t hesitate to put another bullet in you.”
“Suit yourself.” With a shrug, he retreated into the apartment and flipped a light switch. “I’m Van, by the way.”
The fluorescents flickered on, illuminating a sleeper sofa converted into a bed, an open kitchen, a bedroom door, and leaning against the frame of that door was the man who had fucked her so soundly she still felt him in her teeth and her legs and everywhere in between.
Head tipped down, he stared at her from beneath heavy brows. His arms folded across his chest, with one sleeved in tattoos. Like his friend, he was clad only in fitted boxer briefs, his short hair disheveled and eyes sleepy.
She must’ve woken them. Neither man was armed, and the weapons they carried earlier were out of reach on the kitchen table. There were probably more firearms, but hers was out and ready.
Drawing the second Beretta from her back, she trained a gun on each of them, stepped into the apartment, and kicked the door shut behind her.
The one with the toothpick—Van—tilted his head as he watched her approach. “I expected you to walk funny. With more of a limp.” At her confused look, he said, “As small as you are, it wouldn’t have been easy to take Tate’s beast of a cock.”
Tate. The name fit him, and his cock… Her inner muscles clenched in memory, reawakening the delicious soreness there.
“How was it?” Van asked. “Did he ram it inside you with all the ferocity and pain it deserves?”
“Boundaries,” Tate growled. “Heed them.”
“Did the ol’ dog at least make you come?” Van asked conversationally, as if she weren’t aiming a bullet at his chest.
“That’s enough.” Tate lifted his chin in her direction. “Lucia, lower the weapons.”
“Who are you?” She steadied both guns, ticking her gaze between them.
Tate straightened from the doorframe and slowly closed the distance. His strides were slow but long, eating up the floor with muscled nonchalance. But there was nothing casual in the way he looked at her, those blue eyes seeking her most intimate places and setting her on fire from the inside out. He looked at her as though he were recalling the feel of being sheathed inside her, like he wanted to feel her again.
She took great pleasure in the knowledge that such a ridiculously handsome man was attracted to her. But the stupid, girly, instantaneous attachment she felt for him was an embarrassing sentiment, so very un-Lucia-like. What was her deal with this guy?
It had just been sex, really fucking good sex, with a beautiful stranger. She wasn’t here for a repeat.
She was here to save her sister from more heartache.
“Who are you?” she asked again.
Two feet away, Tate pressed his chiseled chest against the barrel of the gun. “I’m Camila’s best friend.”
He could’ve been lying, but there wasn’t a trace of deceit on his stunning face.
Everything inside her cried with joy. Not only was Camila alive, she had a strong, protective friend who cared for her enough to track down her only family.
It was more than Lucia could’ve ever wanted for Camila, and she felt the sudden need to sit down. Hard. But her arms and legs remained stubbornly locked.
“What about him?” She gestured at Van with the gun she trained on him.
“He’s…uh…” Tate gripped his nape, stalling, holding something back.
“He’s what?” Her stomach tightened.
Van lifted his chin, giving her the full force of his icy eyes. “I’m the one who kidnapped your sister.”