“Ricardo, why are you doing this to that poor girl? You know Tony likes her. I doubt that she even knows where Santiago is.”

Juanita was seated on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair, which she had swept over one shoulder. She knew how much Ricardo enjoyed watching the brush running through the glossy, blonde strands, so she took her time. Time with Ricardo, alone in the privacy of their suite of rooms, had been hard to come by lately.

Ricardo and Juanita’s bedroom was luxuriously appointed with the substantial, masculine antiques he preferred, mixed with softer, more feminine textiles and bed linens selected by his wife. This was their sanctuary, an oasis where they were insulated from the pressures of cartel business, and the room’s warm, family-oriented ambiance reflected as much.

Framed family photos could be found on just about every flat surface – a close-up of him holding Tony and Victor in his arms as toddlers, laughing as his sons’ chubby hands explored his face; Juanita sleeping, her blonde hair fanning out across the pillow; Victor, hair windswept and eyes defiant as he sat astride his first motorcycle; a stone-faced Ricardo standing next to Tony at the airport, just before the flight was called that would take Tony to boot camp.

 

“Ah, my Rubia, you’re forever eavesdropping on my phone conversations. You know, that curious nature of yours is going to get you in trouble one day.” Ricardo’s pet name for his wife had come about because he loved her mane of blonde hair. It was a nickname that had stuck with Juanita throughout the years—a term of endearment only her husband used.

She craned her neck to look up at Ricardo. His massive size was still an aphrodisiac after all these years, his body her erotic playground. He was her big, powerful, insanely masculine man. And he was an imposing figure as he towered over her. He reached down, picked up a strand of her hair and watched as it cascaded through his fingers. She studied the scar on his face, marveling at how it somehow added to the dangerous energy he exuded without even trying.

“Rubia, you of all people should understand the woman’s severe case of Stockholm syndrome. Unfortunately, she bonded with a fucking serial killer. Do you understand the repercussions of that? He fucked with her head so badly that now she’s defending him. Our son is only doing what has to be done.”

“She isn’t safe here with the two of you. I love you, darling, but you forget that I know what you are capable of.” Juanita had witnessed Ricardo and Antonio Wayne's ruthlessness over the years and she knew firsthand they wouldn’t hesitate to kill the woman if they saw her as a threat.

“I beg to differ…if our son can get through to her, he’ll save countless lives. Santiago will not stop killing until he’s dead. Until he has a cartel bullet in his head, he’ll continue to stalk and kill. She’s safer here than anywhere else. At least if my brother and I kill her, you’ll know we had a good reason for it.”

She rolled her eyes, his cold laugh doing nothing to put her mind at ease. But she still had to ask the one question that had been plaguing her. “Why didn’t Santiago kill Caden?”

“Evidently the dysfunction was a mutual thing. She did a number on him, too. I must say, I do respect her for that. She’s the first person I know of who has been able to outwit the son of a bitch. No small feat.”

“You know, I don’t get it. Santiago could easily have sated his need for blood like Antonio Wayne does.”

Her husband’s rich, baritone laughter made her smile as he asked, “And just how does my little brother do that?”

“Well, he’s notorious for his imagination when it comes to his sadistic interrogation techniques. I’m sure it helps satisfy his craving for blood.”

“Well, I won’t disagree with you there. Antonio Wayne does have some issues.”

“Darling, your brother is crazy and so are you,” she murmured indulgently, reaching up to briefly rest her hand along his cheek.

His face clouded over with a seriousness that carried a threat that couldn’t be denied. With one finger, he lifted her chin. “You would do well to remember that, Rubia—my devilish, blonde-haired angel. When it comes to you, I’m a man possessed. I make no secret of it. You bewitched me long ago and to live without you would be the death of me. You are my only weakness…mother of my children, keeper of my heart, and overseer of my soul. Yes…when it comes to my family, I am quite insane.”

“I love you, husband,” she said with a soft smile. “Now go to your meeting with your brother and try not to kill anyone today.”

“I can’t make any promises. But I won’t kill you—I can promise you that.”

“Trust me, I won’t let you kill me. On another note, I believe our son loves this girl, so you really must tread carefully. Don’t do anything to make your son hate you, because that, my love, would kill me.”

Before he took his leave, he bent down, kissing her forehead with tenderness a man his size shouldn’t possess. When it came to his wife, he could be as tender as he was cruel, and as nurturing as he was brutal. He was a beautiful beast and he belonged to her.

She looked down at her cell phone when it rang, and smiled. It was her best friend calling and she already knew why.