“Whore” – In This Moment

6 months later

Jésus stands in the middle of the foyer surrounded by heavily armed men, and I stand in the hallway, watching. He crooks a finger to motion me over. I force a smile as I make my way into the room, and stop in front of him. "My love," he says, "I must go kill your brother and all his little friends." He strokes my cheek, and I fight the wave of revulsion threatening to rise.

"Ah, Jésus, I do hope he kills you," I say.

His face reddens, and his jaw tenses before he heads toward the door followed by half an army. Once the door closes, I turn and walk through the house, thinking about how weak Jésus is.

Wars are fought all the time. Men die for causes that are not their own: power, money, even love. But no wars are bloodier than those of the cartels. The money and power is absolute and unrivaled. Men will fight and die for such things, and Jésus is no different. The ironic thing is: I am supposed to be his collateral, the sister he kidnapped to keep Gabriel, his enemy, in line. He doesn't realize the real enemy is the one sleeping in his bed, listening to every tidbit of information. Spotting every weakness. The fact that he's gone to fight my brother instead of killing me shows just how far he's fallen into my trap.

Yes, Jésus is weak, and it will get him killed.

As I wander the near empty house, I imagine how pretty the villa would look engulfed in flames; Jésus' men screaming in agony as their skin melts from their bodies. The thought brings a smile to my face, but, alas, I must bide my time. If my brother fails to kill Jésus, I'll have to do it, and it's so much easier to slit a man's throat while he's fucking you than when he has a gun pointed at your head.

I pass the pool table in the game room, trailing my fingers over the felt on my way to the bar in the corner. I pour a glass of brandy and take a sip. The alcohol burns on its way down, and I close my eyes, picturing all the ways Gabriel might kill Jésus. It will be bloody and gruesome, of course. A death fit for a boss— a message.

There's a loud bang and the ground rocks, startling me. Bits of plaster crumble away from the ceiling as the chandelier above my head swings precariously. What the fuck? I hurry to the window. Men in black military gear rush into the courtyard. This is not Jésus, and it's not Gabe. I have to assume whoever this is, is an enemy. And as far as anyone is concerned, I'm Jésus' whore which means I'm as good as dead if they find me. The rapid pop, pop, pop of gunfire rings out, and I immediately drop to a crouch and press my back to the wall. Shit.

I crawl to the pool table and feel around beneath it. Surely these fucktards have a gun strapped under here somewhere? Nothing. Damn it! Footsteps pound down the hallway, and I grab a pool cue, snapping it over my knee. I clutch the splintered pieces of wood in each hand as I rush to the door, pressing my back to the wall. The handle lowers and the door opens before a dust covered boot steps over the threshold.

Dropping to one knee, I slam the jagged wood into the man's thigh before he even makes it inside. He screams in pain, hitting the floor with a thud. I raise the other piece of broken wood high and aim for the skin at the base of his neck, but freeze when cool metal touches the back of my head. The barrel of a gun. I may be angry and unhinged, but I'm not an idiot.

"Hands behind your back." His thick Russian accent makes me bristle.

I slowly place my hands behind me. He ties them together with a cable, then uses them to force me through the house toward Jésus' office. Of course I could fight. I could attempt to run, but I don't. I prefer to know who I'm fighting, or what I'm running from. The man drags me inside the office and forces me into a chair with my hands still behind my back.

"You stupid fucks." I laugh. "Do you know whose house this is? You will all die." I hate Jésus, but right now I hope he kills these Russian bastards.

The man pulls a cloth from his pocket and crams it inside my mouth, then ties another piece of material around my head to hold the gag in place. He pats the top of my head before he leaves. And here I sit bound and gagged, listening to an all-out war ensue.

It's several minutes before the door creaks open again, but the man who walks inside this time... well, he's not like any soldier I've ever seen. His three-piece suit clings perfectly to his muscular frame. His dark hair swoops up neatly, screaming of sex and money, and his sapphire eyes hone in on me the way I imagine a shark hones in on its helpless prey right before it strikes. Some men command power while others simply are power. This man wears it like a second skin, an impenetrable suit of armor. I've seen bad men, but this one...he's really bad. And I know instantly that I'm fucked.

He stops in front of me without a word, brushing his finger over my cheek as he reaches around to untie my gag. As soon as the gag is free, I spit at him. "Vete a la verga culero!"

A laugh rumbles up his throat. "I do love a feisty woman."

With a deft flick of his wrist he unfastens the buttons of his jacket and rounds the desk to take a seat. Leaning back in the chair, he pulls a small tin from his suit pocket and opens it, producing a cigar. He rolls the cigar between his fingers, his eyes fixing on me as though I'm something fascinating—a new toy maybe.

I watch his lips wrap around the cigar as he tilts his head, and flips a lighter open. The flame sparks to life, dancing over the end until it glows a bright, cherry red. It's such a simple act and yet he makes it look like art, a masterclass in elegant masculinity.

"Why so angry, Krasivaya?" he asks, smoke slipping through his lips.

My blood heats. "You will die Russian.”

"Hmm, I doubt that. Jésus will be dead by now." He takes another puff from the cigar. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"What's yours?"

"Ronan Cole." He grins.

Oh. Fuck. I am so ridiculously screwed. He's not just a Russian, he's the Russian. A Bratva kingpin that even the strongest of cartels have a healthy respect for. What the hell is he doing in Mexico? I'm never caught off-guard, but right now, I don't know what to do or say because the stories about this guy... He's more myth than reality. I narrow my eyes, vaguely recalling a conversation Jésus had with his second in charge bragging about how he'd refused to sell some land to the Russian. This Russian? God, Jésus never was the smartest.

Ronan's eyes spark and I study him. He's so young, maybe thirty. I expected the Ronan Cole to look just like the cliché bad guy in every mobster film: old and creepy, but…

"Now, what is your name?" he asks.

"Camilla," I say quietly.

A small smirk touches his lips, and he taps the ash off his cigar into an ashtray. "Camila Estrada?" His accent caresses my name and awareness crackles up my spine.

"Yes."

"Well, well, isn't this an interesting turn about? I was unaware that you were sleeping with the enemy." He laughs. "Your brother will be so very disappointed."

"Fuck you!"

Ronan's gaze falls to my chest before leisurely gliding over my body. "Gladly,” he says, his voice dropping an octave as though to fuck the word. I shift in my seat. "I can see why you would make the perfect ventana,” he says. “You would be an awful weakness to any man." He props his elbow on the desk and inhales another, long drag from his cigar. “Donovan!” he shouts, his gaze never straying from mine. The door opens and footsteps cross the floor behind me. "Take her." Ronan smiles. "Put her in the car."

The large man steps forward and unties me before hauling me to my feet. Fuck no, I am not going with him! I fight against his hold, twisting around to rake the nails of my free hand down his cheek. He grunts and growls, but never loosens his hold. Suddenly, Ronan moves in front of me and grabs my jaw. He pulls me toward him, pressing his hard body against mine. His domineering presence forces me into a submission I didn't know I possessed.

"Keep fighting, little kitty. I will only break you," he says on a low growl, his breath washing over my face.

“Vieta a la meierda.” I say, spitting at him.

I'm dragged from the room with Ronan Cole smiling like a devil incarnate.