As soon as I get back, Michael greets me at the door. "Boss wants to see you," he says.

I sigh and limp towards Jésus' office. His eyes meet mine the second I push open the door. His dark brows pull together as he rests his elbows on his desk. "What happened?" he asks. He takes a cigarette from his pocket and slowly places it between his lips, lighting it. The click of his lighter snapping shut sounds entirely too loud in the silence of the room.

"I was shot." I point to my leg, stating the obvious.

He inhales a deep breath, his eyes locking onto the bloody bandage wrapped around my thigh. "Where were my men?"

"In the car," I say carefully.

"Who was it?"

I shrug. "I don't know. He shot me and took the money. Maybe one of Gabriel's men, I can't be sure."

He studies me through narrowed eyes for a moment. "Michael!" he shouts.

A few seconds later Michael walks into the office. "Boss."

"You let her get shot?"

Michael eyes me. "No, it wasn't his fault," I say.

"You let my woman get shot!" Jésus’ cheeks turn red, his nostrils flaring as his hand moves to the desk.

BANG.

Warm blood splatters the side of my face and I close my eyes, swallowing back the horrified scream that tries to make its way up my throat. No matter how long I live in this world of criminals, murder and corruption, I will never get used to the utter ruthlessness, the complete lack of morality that comes with it.

"The doctor will be here soon," Jésus says. "You can go."

I nod and leave the room, my stomach churning uncomfortably. He's mad, but I don't know whether he's mad at me or the situation. I'd rather not stick around to find out.

* * *

I wake up when I feel something sweep over my arm. My eyes take a second to adjust to the darkness of the room. My head spins slightly from all the pain killers the doctor gave me. I can just make out Jésus sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in his trousers, no shirt.

"Jésus, come to bed," I say.

"Victoria," he breathes, a soft smile touching his lips. I roll onto my back and he reaches for my face, gently trailing his fingertip down my cheek. "So beautiful."

I inhale a shaky breath, fighting my hammering pulse. Jésus is a monster, a murderer, a drug lord. He does awful things without feeling an ounce of remorse, and yet that side of him doesn't worry me. This is what scares me, the moments when he's kind and gentle. The moments when he treats me like a lover, something valued and precious. I lie here in silence, just waiting.

"Such a slut," he whispers, trailing his hand down my body until his fingers brush over my bandaged leg. The smile fades and then he grabs me by the jaw with his free hand, his fingers digging into my skin so hard I can feel the bite of his short fingernails. "I know what you did, Victoria. Maybe one of Gabriel's men? Jude Pearson was at El Pedro tonight, and you were in there for quite some time. Did he shoot you, or did you shoot yourself to protect him?" He grabs my thigh squeezing. I scream out and he laughs. "Was this before or after you fucked him?"

My heart leaps into a sprint and I sit up, trying to pull away from him. He releases me, and I dive for the other side of the bed, but he grabs me around the waist, yanking me back. I struggle, but he lays his weight over me, pressing me into the mattress. "Stop," I plead.

Laughing, he wraps his hand around my throat. I turn my head to the side as his lips touch my cheek. "You betrayed me, Victoria.” I close my eyes fighting back tears. My mind short circuits as his hot breath blows over my neck and his fingers tighten on my skin. “After I gave you everything. And you gave him my fucking pussy."

"I didn't!"

"You still want him, but you won't let me have you. What makes him so good? Am I so bad?" he snarls.

I buck beneath him, fighting before I snap. "You took everything from me!" I shout.

He shoves me down on the bed hard, and I cough against his brutal hold. "No,” he says, a flicker of amusement in his voice, “but I'm about to." He roughly yanks the material of my dress over my thigh. Complete panic consumes me. He slams his lips over mine, and a muffled cry slips from my lips. "I wanted you to come to me, chiquita, but you've been a bad girl. I want you, and now I'm going to have you."

He tears the thin dress down the front, baring my breasts to him. I fight, clawing at his arms as he tries to pin me down. "Such a shame about that scar," he says, on a laugh as his palm glides over my right breast, brushing over the ugly scar tissue from the bullet that nearly killed me. "But then, someone already fucked you up long before that." His fingers trail down my stomach, following the long line that runs from my sternum to my belly button. His hand dips lower and lands on the inside of my thigh. Wrenching my legs apart, he grinds his hard cock against me. Bile rises in my throat and I shove him, but it's pointless. The harder I fight him, the rougher he is. I thrash and claw at him until he smacks me across the face so hard that my head snaps to the side and blood wells in my mouth.

"Don't move!" he growls.

I freeze and he pulls away from me, roughly yanking at his belt as he kneels over me. This isn't happening. Not again. A man took everything from me once, but never again. I tilt my head back looking for something I can use as a weapon. Anything. With a thrash of my legs I kick him in the stomach hard enough to push him away, and I scramble for the bedside table. He grips a handful of my hair and I scream.

My fingers wrap around the wire of the lamp as he tosses me down on my back. I yank the wire, grab the base, and swing the lamp at his head. It shatters against the side of his face, sending pieces of shattered porcelain everywhere. He falls off me, but only for a second, and then he's right there, his face an inch from mine, his body crushing me into the mattress. Blood trickles from a cut at his hairline. "You're going to pay for that one, chiquita. I'm going to fuck you like the slut that you are, the bookies whore." He shoves his trousers down and fists his dick. My stomach rolls and my breaths become nothing more than rapid pants. He grabs my thighs, a sick smile working over his lips. "I bet your pussy feels amazing," he says, laughing.

The shame and degradation wash over me, stealing all sense of who I am, making me feel weak and powerless. Images flash through my mind, Joe holding me down and forcing himself inside me, him branding me. My hands scramble around on the sheet beneath me until my fingers brush over a large piece of broken porcelain from the lamp. I clutch it in my hand, gripping hard enough to slice my palms. Mustering every bit of strength I have, I drive it into the side of his neck. His eyes go wide, all the colour draining from his face as he coughs. I ignore the pain in my hand, ramming the shard further into his neck. Blood runs down my arm. It drips on my chest. I shove him off and straddle his prone body.

"Fuck you, Jésus," I say, wrenching the shard out of his neck.

Arterial spray shoots across the bed, and he clutches frantically at his neck. He opens his mouth and tries to shout, but I slam my hand over his trembling lips. I hold him down, watching him bleed out, and I feel nothing. This man would have raped me. He took my daughter, he used her to keep me here. He is scum, and his pathetic death is nothing but justice. His movements weaken and his breaths become gasping pants, like a fish out of water. And finally, he goes limp. I fall off him, sitting on the blood-stained sheets as I try and catch my breath. I glance at Jésus, then at the door. Now I'm fucked. I hated Jésus, but he was the only thing keeping me alive here. I leap off the bed and run to the bathroom, stopping in front of the mirror to look at my reflection. Blood coats my chest and neck; my torn dress is splattered with it. I pull the dress over my head and turn the taps on, attempting to wash the visible evidence off because I don't have time to shower. One of his men could come in here at any point and see their dead boss on the bed.

I go to the closet, take out another dress, and tug it over my head. As I’m smoothing it out, I go to the bed and toss the duvet over this body, hoping it will buy me a little more time if anyone takes a quick glance. I open the bedroom door and look out in the hall. There are two guys walking with their backs to me at the end of the hall, so I slip through the door, closing it behind me. I'm not a prisoner here as such. I can walk the halls freely, but someone might wonder why I'm not with Jésus at this time of night.

I calmly make my way through the house, keeping my gaze fixed on the floor. The guards pay no attention as I make my way to the front door. There's a line of SUV's parked outside the house. I keep walking until I find Jésus’ Hummer, and open the door. I yank the sun visor down and the keys fall into my lap. Taking a deep breath, I shove the key in the ignition and start the engine with a roar. The second I reverse; I hear a bullet ping off the hood. Fuck.

I slam my foot over the accelerator and floor it down the drive. Bullets ricochet off the car like rain, but there's a reason I picked this one. It's bullet proof. I charge towards the gate, bracing as the car crashes right through the steel and taking it off its hinges. The car jolts awkwardly and there's the sound of metal grinding against metal before I'm flying down the long, winding road that leads down to the city. I clutch my phone, pressing Gabe's number and holding it to my ear. It rings and rings before it goes to voicemail.

"Damn it, Gabe!"

The loud, rapid fire of a machine gun rings out along with the chink, chink, chink of bullets hitting the back of the car. I drive as fast as I can, passing the boundaries of Juarez city. I could try and call Jude, but I don't think he'll answer, and I don't have time for that right now.

I fumble with the phone that Ronan's man gave me and press number one. It rings several times before Ronan picks up.

"Ah, Victoria."

The turn I need to take creeps up on me in the dark and I nearly miss it. I slam my foot over the brake and jerk the wheel to the right. The car spins around and screeches around the corner, taking out a road sign. People leap out of the way, horns blare and bullets fly. I just need to make it to Gabe.

"Jésus is dead!" I shout over the noise. "You need to get Cayla."

"Already taken care of. I have the little one," he says. But he didn't even know Jésus was dead. I frown down at the phone in my lap.

"What?"

"I have your child. I'll be in touch, Victoria." And the line goes dead. What the hell? He screwed me, I know he did. This horrible feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. The Russian has my daughter and this time, I have absolutely no idea how to get her back. I need Jude. I need Gabe. I need help.

I try and call Gabe again, and again it goes to voicemail.

"Gabe, I swear to god..." Another hail storm of bullets hit the car. "Pick up your fucking phone!"

I glance at the mob of cars following me in the rearview and push the accelerator all the way to the floor. Looks like I'm bringing this shit show to him then.