There’s a knock on my office door, and I huff out a breath, sitting back in my chair. “Yeah?”

Carlos walks inside; his hoody pulled up over a ball cap. “I have her,” he says. “One of my contacts just dug her out of a back street brothel.”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Whose?”

“Eh, Espanoza.”

I raise a brow. “Make sure Dominges knows that Espanoza found one of his escaped slaves and failed to turn her in.”

It’s not my domain, and I can’t be seen to be getting involved with shit that doesn’t concern me. It’s not supposed to concern me, but I’m pissed because this fucker has caused me no end of hassle. All slaves have a cartel tattoo on them. Only someone with a death wish would steal one of Dominges’ girls.

“On it, boss. She’s at Diablo’s. One of Fernando’s boys found her.”

I stand up and walk to the door. “Let’s go and see what all the fuss is about then.”

Carlos guides the car through the busy streets. It’s a Friday night, and every street corner is bustling with dealers and whores alike. The steady pop, pop, of gunfire echoes in the distance like fireworks. This is my city. She’s a rose, her thorns coated in the blood of her victims, her petals war-torn and damaged—yet she will always be beautiful.

The car pulls up outside Diablo’s. It’s a biker bar in the worst part of the city. The neon sign casts a red glow over the row of bikes outside, making the chrome exhausts shine demonically. Stepping out of the car, I straighten my suit jacket and take a cigar from my pocket. I light it and inhale the thick cloud of smoke, allowing it to fill my lungs until they burn.

Carlos shifts beside me, taking his gun from the back of his jeans. He looks like nothing more than a thug with his ball cap in place; hood pulled up over it. Samuel is my second, the one who takes care of the business, but Carlos is my guy on the ground. He knows everyone, hears everything, and reports back. The two of them are polar opposites.

“Let’s get this done and go,” I say. He nods and walks ahead of me, gun in hand. The doors swing open, squealing on their hinges. The second my shoes click over the worn wooden floorboards, the conversation drops to a low rumble until the music blares alone. Patrons sit at scarred and worn tables, huddled over their beer bottles and shot glasses. Strippers, a little too old to still be working, hang off poles and grind over sweaty, drunk men. Rock music rumbles through me as I cross the room, nodding to the barman briefly before we head for the door at the rear. The back of the bar is nothing more than a dingy hallway with an office at the end. I open the door and find the bar owner, Fernando, sitting behind a desk, his heels kicked up and a cigarette in hand.

“Ah, Rafael. How are you?” he asks, getting to his feet and hiking his dirty, oil-stained jeans over his gut.

“Thank you,” I say dismissively. I have no desire to make small talk. Carlos will pay him for his efforts. I turn around, focusing on the waif of a girl, shaking and tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Long blonde hair, the color of pure gold hangs in her face. Slowly, I approach her, taking in every minute detail of her frame.

“Is she hurt?” I ask.

He shrugs. “She’s not exactly in one piece.” My eyes trace over the array of bruises covering her exposed arms and legs. Her left ankle and foot are swollen, the skin blackening, and her wrists are circled in bleeding, open skin. I glare at Fernando, and he holds his hands up. “It wasn’t me. What do you take me for?” He scoffs and begins counting the wad of cash Carlos just gave him. “You asked for her. I like my limbs intact. I’m not stupid.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck in agitation. “You should know…before Espanoza got her, she escaped Dominges’ compound by getting in Psycho’s car...” He shrugs. “Psycho had a body in his car, thinks she’s seen too much.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Psycho is a sicario, and as his name suggests, a useful one, but he’s not mine. He’s freelance, which means my control over him is tenuous at best. “Just tell him she’s mine.”

Fernando nods. “Okay.”

I turn back to the girl. “Untie her.”

Carlos takes a knife and moves behind her, cutting the cable ties from her wrists. Still she doesn’t lift her head. I move closer until her skinny knees brush up against my shins. Pressing a single finger beneath her chin, I force her head up until the curtain of hair falls away from her face, and I’m met with her glazed-over, blue eyes. She blinks slowly, a frown pulling her brows together. Tears spill down her pale, clammy cheeks, gliding over the duct tape that covers her mouth. She’s so pretty and fragile, not to mention tanked on something. What could Nero possibly want with this broken little bird?

“What did you give her?” I direct the question at Fernando, and he sighs.

“Look, she was in a bad way. Withdrawing. I had some methadone.” He shrugs one shoulder.

I clench my jaw so hard that my teeth hurt. She looks confused but aware. “How much did you give her?”

“Not much.”

“Bring her,” I tell Carlos and turn away, walking out of the shitty little room.