Three fucking days.

Three long, weary, annoying days, and not one sign of him. Not one message or phone call. I’ve kept my eyes open and my ears peeled. I haven’t even heard his men speaking to him on their phone calls.

I’m starting to think he’s not going to show up at all—that I gave up a life back in Colorado to get nothing in return.

On top of that, Mrs. Molina came here yesterday. She still can’t stand to look at me. She hasn’t spoken one word to me since her arrival. She looked me right in the eyes then passed right by without a single word.

Instead of eating breakfast at the table with her—something she’s done each morning while here—I tell Emilio to bring mine to my room.

Of course Clark doesn’t give a damn. He enjoys the buffet breakfasts at the table with Jefe’s mother. She doesn’t speak to him much either, but I can always hear him trying to start conversations and getting dry responses in return.

I also hear him trying to get Patanza to open up.

Today he’s swimming in the pool, Patanza keeping watch of him, her gun tucked in the holster at her waist, arms folded.

“Come on, mamacita!” I hear Clark call to her from my room. “You look hot, and I don’t mean that in the physically attractive way. I mean you’re sweating and shit, your hair all damp. Jump in the pool with me. I’ll cool you off…or warm you up even more. Whichever way you want it, baby.”

“Shut the fuck up already,” I hear her snap at him, but I’m almost certain I hear a dip in her voice, like she doesn’t fully mean it. Like she…enjoys it.

I know for a fact that he’s getting to her in some way, because when I walk out to the pool, needing a word with him, he steps out and winks at her. She jerks her gaze away, muttering something in Spanish, but I see the color bloom in her cheeks. She turns her back so we can’t see, but I notice it.

Clark is not an ugly guy. He’s a Nicotera, and Nicoteras are far from ugly. I’m certain she finds him attractive, but she’ll never admit to it. Not an American man. Not for Patanza.

Later that night, I think I’ve had enough. I go out to the pool, not even changing clothes. One of my guns is in a lace holster strapped around my thigh, beneath my skirt, just in case.

I’m becoming more and more paranoid with each passing day. Sooner or later, I’ll start to wonder where his men’s loyalties lie. They won’t be with me. I have to be prepared. Por si acaso.

Emilio brings out the tequila I requested, placing the tray with a shot glass, a full bottle of tequila, and a water bottle on top of it, down on the table behind me.

“Gracias, Emilio.”

When he’s gone, I pour myself a shot, but instead of drinking it, I stare at the amber liquid, my stomach churning.

I can’t drink. I’m too bothered. Too nervous.

Sighing, I place the shot glass down and walk close to the edge of the pool, studying the wet stones of the man-made waterfall.

The water trickles from high above, pouring into the pool below. My eyes drop to the crystal-blue abyss, focusing on the calm ripples.

I have no idea what the hell I’m doing anymore—no idea why I’m even here. I should have thought this through. I should have considered the peace I had there, in Colorado—maybe started over—but Clark was right.

I was a threat to his family.

They don’t deserve to die because I’m a target of one of the most powerful women in this drug industry.

He needs to show tonight, otherwise I’ll be making plans to leave and be on my own. I can’t stay here forever. It’s not safe to be in one place for too long.

It’s well past midnight, and no one has heard from him since the call Emilio made before we flew here.

I pick up the water bottle and open it.

I take a few hard gulps before placing the bottle down on the table, but as I lean over, I hear footsteps behind me.

I pause, spotting the familiar silhouette. Broad shoulders. Large chest. Thick legs, clad in black dress pants. Through the corner of my eye, I see him stop several steps away, his fingers sliding into his front pockets.

“You still haven’t learned, have you?” His deep, husky voice does something to me.

For a split moment, I can’t tell if the rush coursing through my body is due to my masked excitement, or because he just does this to me—swirls everything up inside me and twists it, making me loathe and adore his voice all at the same time.

It’s been days since I’ve heard it. Listening to those voice messages over and over again wasn’t the same. I couldn’t feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. Couldn’t see his eyes dilate as he spoke. Couldn’t smell his breath, which always seems to smell like a hint of mint and traces of weed.

He takes a step forward, and out of instinct, my hand touches the gun tucked in the lace holster strapped around my thigh.

“Don’t be dumb, Gianna. Why else would my hands be in my pockets?”

“How should I know?”

“You should know I’m not walking with my hands tucked away to make you feel safe.”

I turn slowly to face him, my fingers still touching my thigh. I feel the hard edge of my gun, finally meeting his hard brown eyes.

He draws a pocket-sized pistol from his pocket as soon as our eyes bolt, taking several steps closer.

When he lifts and aims it, my breath falters, but I don’t let him see my worry. I conceal it, holding his gaze as he takes the final step toward me, pressing the gun under my chin. The coolness makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

“The one thing you should have learned while in this country is to never let your guard down. Whether you knew I was coming or not, you should have been prepared.” His voice is gravelly, heavy. Almost foreign. He watches my face, looking for any sign of weakness. His face hardens, the skin tightening around his eyes when I don’t budge or flinch. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice low, keeping the gun steady.

“To help you,” I answer, voice soft.

“Does it look like I need your help?”

I look him over, mainly his face. His eyes are tired and red-rimmed. They’ve always been cold, dark, and empty, but not this cold. Not this vacant. There is no thrill, drive, or fire in them. There is only…darkness.

“I don’t care if you need it or not. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You brought a family member into this. One I already don’t trust.” He presses his body to mine, lips on the shell of my ear. I can smell the liquor on his breath, strong and pungent. “Should I go kill him? You know, primo por primo.” Cousin for cousin.

My eyebrows draw together in an instant.

I shove him hard enough to make him stumble, snatching my gun out of the holster as soon as his hand shifts. He already has his pointed at me by the time mine is in the air, but I don’t let up. I aim mine right back at him.

“Go ahead and do what you want to me,” I say through clenched teeth. “Get it out. Punish. Slap. Punch—do whatever you need to do. It wouldn’t be the first time. I don’t care what you do to me, but you aren’t touching a hair on my cousin’s head.”

A very faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but his eyes remain the same. Black. Icy. “You think I don’t want to kill you? That I won’t?”

My finger remains steady around the trigger. “You can’t fool me, Draco. I heard the voice recordings. You’re trying to prove something to me—that you aren’t vulnerable to me—when I know the truth. You thought I wouldn’t show after hearing that, but here I am.” His smile fades, grip tightening around the handle of the pistol again. “How could I not?” My voice cracks on me, making me sound so damn weak. “Why couldn’t you just tell me how you felt in person? We could have worked something out.”

I take a small step forward, but he tenses up, keeping his gun pointed directly at my head.

I don’t care.

I lower my gun, tucking it back into the holster.

His breathing picks up. He pants through flared nostrils, the rims of his eyes glistening as they hold mine. With his lips pinched tight, he steps toward me, pressing the gun into the center of my forehead.

I lift my free hand, grabbing his forearm.

He doesn’t waver.

Doesn’t flinch. The gun barely moves an inch.

I hold his cold, empty gaze, pressing on his arm, forcing it down.

He lowers it inch-by-inch, lower and lower, until the gun is at his side.

Those vacant eyes become cloudy. They glisten. They’re heavier.

“You didn’t give me a chance to say what I had to say,” I whisper, and my throat thickens with want. With need.

“Back away from me, Gianna,” he growls. “I swear I will rip you to fucking shreds.”

I ignore him and clasp his face in my hands, forcing his eyes on mine. “I’m sorry, Draco. I’m sorry for not trusting you. I’m sorry for setting Henry free. I’m sorry that I made your life worse. I—I’m sorry about…Thiago. It was all my fault. I know it. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. I know you hate apologies, but I’m telling you now. I’m so, so sorry about everything.”

He stares so hard, I feel like he’s looking right into my soul. He’s do damn quiet that I panic inside, begging him to say something with me eyes.

Then something happens.

Something that both terrifies and relieves me.

Something I didn’t think could ever happen.

A wet trail slides down his cheek through that blank stare. I’m sure it’s the only tear that has left him since his father died.

He vowed to never look weak—to never reveal. To always be like a vault.

Guarded.

Solid.

Hard to break.

The Jefe doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t show weakness.

He doesn’t…he can’t…

“I want to hate you,” he grumbles, grabbing my face, holding it much tighter than I expect. One of his hands wraps around the back of my neck, the other clutching my ponytail. I gasp when he yanks on it, exposing my neck, forcing me to look at the sky. The tip of his nose starts at my collarbone and trails up to my earlobe. “I want to fucking kill you just as much as I want to love you.”

My heartbeat goes unsteady, my breaths a tattered mess when his lips touch my chin. On his breath, I smell the liquor even more now. It’s strong, like he drowned himself in it before finally coming to face me.

He eases up on my ponytail, and I lower my head, eyes dropping to his. Our lips are close. So close.

His warm, familiar scent is way too comforting to me. His lips touch mine, just a soft, feathery-light touch.

“I want to fuck you. Kill you. Hate you…love you.” He frowns, looking me deep in the eyes. “Do you see what you do to me? You confuse the fuck out of me.” He releases my hair and pushes me away.

My breath comes out winded, chest working hard as I focus on him.

He stares right at me.

“Well, hate me first,” I say, breathless. “Hate me for as long as you need to, just promise to love me just as much as I love you later.”

His chest works harder, his breathing uneven.

I take a step, and so does he.

And before I know it, I’m rushing to him, my body slamming into his. I’m wrapped up in his strong arms, my legs hooking around his waist.

His groan is heavy and solid, humming through my body, sparking the illicit flame inside me again. He spins around, marching away from the pool.

My back slams onto a cold glass table, and he shoves my skirt up. I sit up, clawing at his belt buckle, unzipping his pants in the process.

He shoves my hands away, reaching down and gripping my blouse, ripping it apart at the collar. The buttons fly, scattering on the ground.

He forces my back down on the table, drags my hips to the edge, and maneuvers between my legs, bringing a hand up to my throat and gripping it. His hot, thick cock presses on my thigh, eyes fierce—blazing with hunger.

Ah, there it is.

The fire.

The power.

That sweet, sweet domination.

The Jefe I know and crave.

No words are spoken as he uses his other hand to lift me up, getting a better hold around my throat—just enough for me to breathe, but not too much. It’s like he wants to strangle me, but by the way his thumb caresses the crook of my neck, it’s like he wants to keep me forever.

He holds the back of my neck tight, and then he’s inside me, filling me up.

His strokes don’t start light and easy. No, they are hard, quick, almost frightening. The hand around my throat moves up to lock my face between his fingers, eyes still trained on mine. His nostrils flare as he thrusts powerfully, hips propelling, pounding so hard the legs of the table rattle.

Soft, sweet moans escape me.

I shouldn’t be so pleased.

He’s not fucking me with love.

He’s fucking me with pure, violent hatred.

He hates me right now, but if this is how he wants to own and handle what he hates, then so be it.

He can own it. He can own me. He can hate me as long as he stays buried inside me.

He picks me up off the table and starts to bounce me up and down on his thick cock. Not once does he pull his eyes away. I don’t bother looking away. His face is solid, serious. Other than his flared nostrils and the tight grip he has on my ass, I wouldn’t be able to tell he’s enjoying it. He’s holding on tight, breathing heavily.

“Fuck your hate out,” I tell him.

“Shut the fuck up,” he grumbles, but I hear the strain in his voice.

I hold him tighter around the neck, bringing my face down, pressing my lips to his.

He tries to resist, but the groan that rips through his body is proof enough that he’s obsessed with the idea of this.

He can hate me all he wants right now, but by the end of this, he will love me again.

He will trust me.

He will be my king, and I will be his reina.

He snatches his mouth away, lifting me up high enough to remove his cock from my pussy.

He places me on my feet, twisting me around and forcing my face down on the table. He grips my hip with one hand, using his other to clutch and wrap my ponytail in his hand.

Each thrust fills me up.

Every plunge is powerful, and met with a swirl of my hips and a tight, hungry clench below.

“I want you to hate me,” he growls, slamming his cock deep.

“No,” I pant.

“You should be afraid of me, Gianna,” he says through clenched teeth. “You have no idea how bad I want to choke the life out of you right now.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” After I say that, he pulls the band out of my hair and my ponytail falls, my hair curtaining my face.

“You are heaven and hell,” he rasps. “Peace and chaos.”

He holds my hips tight, and another hard groan rips through his chest. He’s coming. Knowing that pleases every fiber in my body.

He stills inside me, his forehead dropping down on my spine.

He picks his head up and pulls out rapidly, as if realizing his body’s betrayal. He zips himself up as I sit up. My shirt is a shredded mess, revealing my lacy nude bra. He looks me up and down, like he knows I’m a beautiful, dangerous mess and can’t help being addicted to me. Like he hates me so much, but loves me all the same.

“You are not helping me. I have this handled.” He gives me his back. “You came back for nothing. Waste of time.”

I walk up to him, but don’t touch him. “I’m helping you, Draco. Fuck Yessica. She doesn’t scare me. We can take her down.”

He walks away, shoulders hunched. I chase after him, clutching his wrist and spinning him around. “Draco!”

“Fuck off, Gianna! Just go back to where you were!”

“No!” I grip his arm tighter. “I’m not going back, Draco, and you can’t make me! If you want me there, you’ll have to drag me back yourself, but trust me, I will put up a fight this time.”

His jaw pulses, brown eyes sweeping my body, trying to make me feel puny. Insignificant.

Screw that. It won’t work. Maybe it did before, but not anymore.

“What the hell can you do that I can’t?” he challenges, getting closer to my face.

“I can be myself,” I answer. “Be what she’s always wanted to be—La Patrona.”

He tips his chin, studying my eyes. “She will kill you as soon as she sees you. All of Mexico is on the hunt for you.”

“Then let them look. That doesn’t scare me.” I step, pressing a hand on his cheek, the pad of my forefinger running over his cheekbone. “Let me fight with you, Draco. You aren’t alone anymore. Let someone you care about be there for you.” I narrow my eyes as he does his. “I know you’re thinking you have to get to her immediately, but you don’t. Sit. Plan. Think things through. She will not make a fool out of you again, do you hear me? Not while I’m alive and breathing. You will get your revenge. She will pay for what she’s done and so will Henry. You just have to be patient.”

He pulls his eyes away, removing my hand and adjusting the collar of his shirt. He rakes rough fingers through his hair, sighing hard. He’s agitated. I get it.

With stitched brows, he says, “If you die, it will not be on my conscious. You wanted this, not me, so fight all you fucking want, but you won’t be doing me any favors. I don’t need your goddamn help.” He turns sideways, giving me one last look before storming away, right to the wide open entrance.

This time I don’t chase after him.

He needs space.

He’ll have it tonight, but tomorrow, I refuse to be ignored.