Vincent Morales sat by himself in his bedroom and sipped tequila. Hot blood pulsed through his veins as he stared at a portrait of his mother, feeling no remorse. Though he’d ordered her execution, he missed her. The pain of being alone in the world often brought on a spell of melancholy. His only solace? One day in the distant future, he would be reunited with his loved ones. Of course, his parents would forgive him because they inherently knew he’d had no choice. Besides, Padre was murdered by his fiercest enemy, Amado Zambada, shortly after Vincent rose to glory.

That’s when it had become clear that no one he loved could live. It was an act of compassion that made him send his mother to be at his father’s side. Now, his parents lived together in eternal happiness.

A few months after the funeral, one of his distributors couldn’t pay his debts and offered Mia as collateral. She was twelve at the time and shapeless. Vincent took her, thinking it might be diverting to have a child in the house for a while—someone to chat with during meals. But then the distributor was killed. When no one came for her, Vincent decided she could stay. Since, she’d grown into a beautiful woman. Since she’d never associated with friends, never attended school, Mia was naïve, and he liked her that way.

In truth, he trusted her more than any other person in his employ. That’s why Lucas disturbed him so much. Mia was attracted to the pilot. Though she tried to hide her interest, Vincent felt it.

Her past had been tragic. And though Vincent didn’t like to admit it to himself, he had taken pity on her. True, he’d been born poor. It wasn’t odd for a man like him to pity an urchin. As a child, he’d begged on the streets—sold cheap, string bracelets his mother had made. Indeed, he knew something of what Mia’s childhood was like. At the age of eighteen, he’d moved to a border town where he worked smuggling drugs into America. He learned the ropes in a contemptible cartel—one filled with lowlifes. The boss was a swindler and an idiot. Once Vincent had learned the machinations of the business, he killed the hombre and assumed control. From there, he developed his empire. Every year, he became more powerful. And every year, simply living had become more precarious. The price on his head was immense, and that meant he must be a fox and outsmart them all. To be the best in this game, a don needed to think fast, to grasp complex situations and act swiftly, flexibly and creatively.

Yes, Vincent craved love, craved a family. But in replacement of a true love, he commanded Mia’s affections. He controlled her. He owned her. She did whatever he asked of her.

After taking another sip of tequila, Vincent rubbed his wrist where Lucas Lewis had gripped him and disarmed him—the pilot almost broke his damned arm. From the way he moved, that dog had some sort of elite military training. Lewis knew exactly how much pressure to exert just like Vincent knew exactly how much electricity to use to get a man or woman to submit. Still, he didn’t like the pilot.

Lewis was brash with a smug attitude. Though most aviators carried the same baggage. The worst thing? Vincent had no idea that Lewis would look like G.I. Joe. Tall, blond and cocky, the man should be on the silver screen, not flying drugs an ocean away from his native land.

If he’d seen a picture, he would have understood why Lewis had made Mia so nervous.

And Lewis stood out like a beacon in Mexico—too easy to remember. Though he’d proven himself a damned good pilot.

Mia had warned Vincent not to hire Lewis, but he hadn’t listened. He could read her like a billboard. She was young, vibrant and too beautiful for her own good. A woman with so much curiosity was always a handful but, when Lewis arrived looking like Thor, Vincent had felt threatened. He wouldn’t admit it to a soul—not even to God—but if he lost Mia, he’d be destroyed. That’s why he’d ordered the plane’s fuel gauge to be tampered with and to add only enough fuel for the bastard to reach the drop site. Sure, Vincent could pass it off as a test to the pilot’s abilities, but he didn’t think Lewis would survive. He also figured if Lewis somehow did manage to live, the idiot wouldn’t return to Hacienda Paraiso.

The man must be serious about his vendetta against the Zambada Cartel. Or else he’s desperate for money.

Vincent looked to the ceiling and let out a long breath. He could order a hit on Lucas Lewis this very night. But he decided against it. The man might be a cocky bastard, but Vincent still needed a pilot and, moreover, a man he could trust. There were several things about today’s meeting that had actually impressed him.

His years of experience had a way of helping him break things down pragmatically and avoid making too many emotional decisions. On top of that, he respected a man who stood up for himself. He respected a man who looked danger in the eye and grabbed it by the testicles. Vincent was such a man and when he was younger—about the age of the Australian, he probably would’ve done the same thing. But acting on one’s anger was a blessing and a curse. If he allowed Lewis to live, the man should never enter the house without two armed guards. Vincent was older now, smarter, but no longer as strong as he once was. He must never underestimate Lewis again, not without guards.

And the man needs another test.

Raising the tumbler of tequila to his lips, Vincent sipped thoughtfully. It had been interesting to watch Lucas and Mia interact. She refused to look at the Australian, and if Lewis cared about her sitting silent and sulking, he hadn’t let on. He’d even insulted her.

Perhaps the Australian is only interested in money. Not unusual for a pilot in his line of work.

As the tequila warmed his stomach, Vincent snorted. Lucas Lewis was either a good actor or a rogue. True, a self-assured man like that could probably get any woman he wanted in any town, anywhere. Why fixate on another man’s property?

Cementing his decision, Vincent downed the last of the tequila. He would give the pilot one more test. And then he’d decide if the arrogant bastard should live.

He picked up the phone and dialed an internal number. “Hola, Juan. I have a job for you. The Zambada Cartel is shipping a load of coca to the coast. I want you to take our new pilot on a raid. No planes.”

***

Sitting on her loveseat with her feet up, Mia turned the page of her book. Ever since arriving at the hacienda, she’d spent a great deal of time reading. Though she only had a first-grade education, with the help of a dictionary, it hadn’t taken long to develop reading skills. And once she had those skills, she devoured books with a fervent passion. Without a knock, the door opened and El Padrino entered. Mia tensed and lowered her book.

He sauntered toward her, the corners of his lips turned up in a half-smile, half-sneer. “You didn’t join me for dinner.”

She swung her feet to the carpet and crossed her arms. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“You are not a very good liar, Mia. You were sulking.”

Maybe she was, but The Godfather had been the cause of it. “I don’t like the crown of pain—there was no reason for you to use it.”

“Is that so? Must I remind you I decide when you should be punished?” He sat beside her and patted her thigh, a gesture that made Mia’s skin crawl. “But your discipline is not why I’m here.”

She gave him a glance, not because she wanted to, but because he expected it.

“I visited a Dr. Labastida.”

It was unusual for him to share such personal news. “Are you okay?”

“I hope to be. Soon.” He rubbed his fingers up and down her thigh. “I’ve received treatment for a problem.”

“Oh?”

“And if it works, I think it will be time for you to come to my bed again.”

She shuddered.

“I want to please you,” he said in a soothing tone.

“Do you?”

“Si, my pet. Sex is always more enjoyable when both parties delight in their pleasure.”

Mia didn’t know. Though El Padrino had been her only partner, sex had never been welcome or enjoyable or even pleasant.

He slapped her thigh and sat forward. “I’d hoped the news would make you happy.”

She looked away. “You care about my happiness?”

“I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Pursing her lips, she nodded, unable to respond with anything civil. El Padrino only cared about pleasing himself. He’d proved that more times than she could count. How could he walk into her bedroom mere hours after he’d used the crown of pain to bend her to his will—to make her plead for him to stop. Did he think his brutality was so easily forgotten? Did he think by torturing her she would turn around with love and admiration?

I hate him.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” he said as he stood and walked out the door.

Once it closed, she hid her face in her hands and released a whispered scream, burning her throat. She hated being trapped. Is that why she’d always found ways to make him angry with her? Why couldn’t she accept her lot? Why did she always do things she knew would upset The Godfather? No, El Padrino would never love her, but he provided shelter, food, and protection from the wickedness in the world.

But I cannot deny he is evil. He’s vile.

She wrapped her arms around her body and rocked. Remaining under El Padrino’s roof condoned his actions. Enduring his torture and then pretending that nothing was wrong ripped her apart on the inside. Living lies hurt more than the pain of electrocution.

If only I had a friend—someone in whom I could confide.

Continuing to rock, Mia refused to think about escape. She had run three times before, and each time the punishment had been worse. She’d been seventeen when she’d run last and El Padrino threatened to kill her. He nearly had. It took two weeks for her to regain enough strength to walk down the stairs. The Godfather might lie about many things, but when it came to threatening murder, she had no doubt he meant what he said.

She swirled her fingers around her temple—the same place where Lucas had kissed her with such strange tenderness. She would never forget how gentle the pilot had acted in the weight room.

But then in El Padrino’s office he ignored me. He even tried to be insulting.

Her throat thickened, not wanting to admit how much the Australian’s standoffishness bothered her. Could she trust him after what he’d said? Was he trying to impress The Godfather as all men did?

True, Lucas’ words were often harsh, but when no one else was around, he acted differently. And his actions didn’t match his words, which had cut deep. Was she uneducated? Yes. Was she sheltered? If living on a bad man’s hacienda and seldom allowed out of his sight counted, then yes. Was she an immature brat?

I don’t know. What are twenty-one-year-old women supposed to act like? The only examples Mia had were from books and movies.

In El Padrino’s office, the pilot had barely acknowledged her except for his insults. But no one needed to tell her if he’d showed concern, The Godfather might have shot him with that gun. Then her heart leaped when Lucas grabbed the revolver away and took control—of The Godfather for heaven’s sake. In her eyes, Lucas was a hero just for disarming him and walking out the door alive. Mia had never seen anyone do that. Why hadn’t the pilot killed El Padrino and assumed the role of the don? Gulping and drawing a hand to her throat, Mia realized how much she’d wanted Lucas to pull the trigger. She’d scooted to the edge of her chair. She’d held her breath. But then the pilot snubbed her and shoved the pistol in the back of his pants.

Nothing made sense. Yesterday, Lucas had wrapped his arms around her and made her feel safe. Would he turn on her, too? Would he expose her to El Padrino?

If so, then why did he kiss me? His lips were gentle and soft and made me feel like he cared. Until…

Doubt clawed her insides. Had Lucas been acting? If so, was his act for her or for The Godfather? She had to know.