“Run for Cover” – The Killers

The man with the scarred face smiles at me when I'm shoved into the chair. My eyes focus on the laptop on the table. Pain ricochets through every inch of my body. Everything around me sounds muted. My wrists are pulled behind me and cable tied to the chair.

A window pops up on the laptop screen, and my papa's face comes into view.

"Ah, Emanuel Estrada," the man with the scarred face says, smiling at my father. "I've had your pretty little daughter for three days now. Are you ready to trade yourself for her yet?" My papa's jaw clenches as he looks at me. I duck my head, unable to look at him. "I have had such fun with her." He strokes my face and bile rises in my stomach. "So sweet. So virginal. She bled all over my cock." He laughs.

"You want me to offer myself so what?" Papa says. "You can kill me and take my business?"

The man sighs. "Yes."

I fight back tears under the wave of shame that washes over me because my papa knows. He knows that I'm dirty. "Mila." I slowly lift my gaze to the laptop, and Papa looks back at me. "We don't negotiate. You know this."

I squeeze my eyes shut and nod. "I know, Papa." The first rule of business; we do not negotiate, no matter what. Weakness gives our enemies power.

"Stay strong, baby girl. Make me proud." The screen goes black, and I break down into tears.

The man growls and launches the laptop across the room before grabbing my face. "Ah, sweetheart, you and I will have such fun. By the time I send your body back to your daddy, he'll know that you died slowly." He brushes his lips over my cheek. "Painfully."

He moves to the fireplace on the far side of the room, and I whimper because I know what's coming. One of the men in the room cuts the cable ties loose, and I'm thrown to the floor. The material of my shirt is torn from me. The bandages covering my back are peeled away, pulling at my burned skin. I bite down on my lip, fighting the urge to scream.

The scarred man straddles my back, his weight making it hard for me to breathe. A sick laugh slips from his lips. "I do so love desecrating your perfect skin." The red-hot poker sears my back, the skin bubbling underneath it. He presses the poker against my skin over and over until the pain is all I feel. I refuse to scream aloud because I want to make my papa proud, but in my head...in my head I scream until my throat bleeds. I scream for the little girl I was only four days ago, now broken and rocking in a small corner of my mind. I scream...

I wake up screaming, my body drenched in sweat. Dragging desperate breaths into my lungs, I climb out of bed and pace the length of the room as I try to purge myself of the weak thoughts. It's this place, the captivity... It's been weeks, I think. Weeks in the same room. Weeks of searching every inch of the place for an escape, but there is none. There's a single window, and doors that lead onto a balcony, but it's a three-story drop. There's a guard patrol every few minutes—not to mention the cameras in the room. I'd never make the fence in time, and if I did somehow make it through all that, the trek through the frigid, Russian forest would surely kill me.

And so, I'm stuck in this room. Imprisoned with my own nightmares.

This is how it starts—holding me. And when this isn't enough for whatever it is he wants, then comes the rape, the pain, the torture. I clench my jaw and close my eyes. I can survive it, I always do. Abuse is simply a contrived attempt at gaining power, but power is all in perception. A man may gain the upper hand by raping a woman, but he loses that advantage when a woman becomes willing. Men think sex is a weapon and it is, but not one to be wielded by a man. A woman must know where her power lies and use it shamelessly. I will use whatever means necessary to succeed, and I will never lose, even if I have to sacrifice every fragmented, blackened shard of my soul to win.

My father was right; we don't negotiate and we don't lie down. We fight. In any way we can.

The little red dot to the camera blinks, mocking me. I wonder if Ronan's sitting somewhere watching me slowly fray and splinter, witnessing my weakness. I can picture the smug grin on his face, the air of supremacy floating around him, and it makes my blood boil. Taking the dressing table stool, I storm over to the corner of the room and swing it above my head. I let out a growl and smash that stupid camera off the wall. The wires tear away from the sheetrock, and the device now dangles uselessly from its cords. Fuck Ronan Cole and his fancy jail cell!

There's a knock at the door and Igor walks in, a frown set on his face. "The boss wants to see you," he says.

"Oh, I bet he does." It's fine. Let him be angry.

Igor leads me out of the room and down the stairwell to a set of double doors. He pushes open one door and walks ahead of me. Towering bookshelves crammed with antique books cover the walls. A shiny grand piano sits in the center of the room, the flames from the fireplace reflecting off its pristine surface. And there's Ronan in one of his suits, sitting on a Victorian sofa with one arm resting along the back. Igor walks over to him and bends at the waist, whispering something in his ear. Ronan's gaze drifts to me, and a wry smile tugs at his lips. "I see," he says as Igor straightens. "Just have another camera installed."

Igor shoots an angry look at me before he turns and walks through the door, leaving me alone with Ronan.

"So nice to see you again, Camilla." Ronan pats the spot next to him as his gaze drops to the low neckline of my dress. "Do sit."

I watch him carefully as I cross the room. And when I sit, I sit as far away from him as possible. He slips his hand inside his coat pocket, pulls out a cigar, and lights it, his eyes locked on me. The smoke swirls around his face. The embers catch in his eyes, and I can't help but think he looks like Satan himself.

"You will not coax a reaction from me," he says, "although I do find it rather distasteful that you would destroy such nice accommodations." He takes another puff from his cigar.

My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches. "Why bother keeping me? You have my brother running around like your errand boy, so kill me already. Threats do not evoke fear, Russian, action does."

His eyes go cold, and he leans toward me. "I want control. Power." He studies me before reaching across the sofa and stroking a single finger over my cheek.

"Fear is power."

"Fear is powerless unless there is hope."

"And I thought you were heartless. Careful," I glare at him and lift a brow. "You might disappoint me."

"I'm merciless, Krasivaya, there is a difference." He takes another puff. "Enough chit-chat, I've spoken with your brother."

My heart skips a beat, and I grit my teeth. "I can only imagine how thrilled he was to hear your voice."

"I promised him I would not kill you." His lips quirk up.

"Just kill me already. Gabe won't bend over for you, either way."

"But, he already has."

"Bullshit. A Russian will never run Juarez." I spit on the ground.

He glances at the floor with a snarl of disgust. "Not the most refined, are we?"

"My brother hates Russians even more than I do. He'd sooner watch you slit my throat than work for you." I know Gabe. He loves me and I love him, but Papa always instilled in us that the cartel— the business— must come first. We do not negotiate.

"So certain, little kitty." He laughs.

"You're full of shit!"

"I understand. I do." He nods. "It must be so hard for the leader of the Juarez cartel to come to terms that she is now in the presence of the man who dethroned her." He taps a finger over his lips.

He knows who I am, what I am. He thinks he can take my cartel from me? Deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths. I clench my fists so hard my nails cut into my palms. "I am Camilla Estrada. I will never be dethroned, Russian! Enjoy your moment of victory. It will be short lived, I assure you." I force a smile. If Gabe actually sold out my cartel to this Russian fuck, I'm going to kill him myself!

"Moment of victory?" Ronan tosses his head back on a laugh before taking another puff from his stupid cigar.

"You manipulated my brother. He's merely a pawn." Gabriel may be the face of the Juarez cartel but I created it and I control it. Always.

"I prefer the term puppet."

"He's an idiot," I huff. "He has no true power."

"Ah, ah, ah." Ronan's blue eyes dance with some sick form of pleasure. "But you and I are the only people who know he is powerless. You've allowed everyone in Mexico to believe he is the king, and so they shall bow to him, and in essence, me." He grins. "Why do you think I took you, Camilla?" I glare at him, and his smile widens. He reaches up and grabs my jaw, stroking his thumb over my skin. "You're right, your brother is a pawn. You are the queen. I have taken the queen off the board. Game over, Krasivaya."

I blink. If I weren't so angry I'd probably see the genius in it. He's played it to perfection, manipulated and orchestrated every single play until I couldn't even see it coming. Leading people to believe Gabriel was in charge when it was actually me, is the very thing that has fucked me. "Well played," I whisper.

A cloud of smoke puffs through Ronan’s lips. "I would like to tell you how very clever it was to play the wounded little fawn instead of the bloodthirsty lion."

"Fine. You have the cartel, so what do you want from me?" I'm fast losing patience, and my temper is wrapping around me like a vine.

"Everything." A sadistic smirk sets on his face, his eyes filled with promises of exactly that...everything.

He shifts and his jacket parts, revealing a white dress shirt pulled tightly over his muscular chest. Beneath that refined exterior there's something lethal and feral. I remember how dangerous his hard body felt pressed against mine, the blade digging into my thigh. The threat. The promise. Few men can make such promises, but this one.... I know he'd deliver. It shouldn't be exciting, but it is. I should be so enraged that he's taken what's mine, but I'm not.

Ronan Cole has presented a challenge: a worthy opponent.

This is not Jésus Garcia following me around with his dick out and dancing to whatever tune my manicured nails tap out. Suddenly everything that came before this feels inconsequential and insignificant. If I can win this, I will win it all. My gaze drifts over his savagely beautiful, chiseled features. What fun I could have playing his twisted game of power. My mind wanders through all the wild and dangerous possibilities. "Well, I look forward to you trying to take it," I say. It's a challenge, a threat, a plea. I don't even know anymore, but I'd love nothing more than to go to war with this bastard.

He leans across the sofa, placing his lips next to my neck. "And that everything includes you." Before I can react, he laughs right in my ear and moves back across the sofa. "Call your brother," he says, pulling a phone from his pocket and handing it to me.

"Why?"

"Don't you want to speak to him?"

"Not on your beckoning."

He thrusts the phone into my hand. "It wasn't a request."

"You want my brother to run around like your bitch, you call him." I shove the phone against his chest.

An animalistic growl rumbles from his chest. His hand strikes out like a snake, and he grabs my throat in a bruising grip, but I still smile at him. A small voice in the back of my head tells me to tread carefully, but I've always given that voice the middle finger. His grip tightens and I relish in the pain, the challenge in his hold.

"I won't dance for you, Russian."

He releases me and falls back on the sofa with a laugh. "You will, or your precious cartel will pay the price. I will pull it apart, piece by piece, ending it with your brother's headless corpse."

"You need the cartel," I say through clenched teeth.

"I don't need anything. Now call him, let him know you're safe and well."

I want to slap that smug grin off his face, but instead I stand from the couch and dial Gabe's number. I could call the Russians bluff, but sometimes you must pick your battles. I don't need to go to war with him over a phone call. Sadly, my pride doesn't agree, so I must swallow it.

The phone rings twice before the line clicks over. "Hola," Gabe says.

"Gabriel." Ronan watches me from the couch, casually smoking his cigar while commanding his little puppets.

"Camilla!"

"Put him on speaker," Ronan says. I scowl at him, and he simply lifts a brow.

"Is that the fucking Russian?" Gabe asks.

"Yeah." I put the phone on speaker. "Want to tell me why you decided to crawl into bed with him?" I can barely suppress my rage. I'm in this situation because my stupid brother got into some shit while I was behind enemy lines trying to kill Jésus and get our city back.

"It's complicated," he groans, "very complicated, but he helped us get Juarez."

"And now I'm in his house as a prisoner," I say with a snarl.

"Tell that pale fuck he can suck my Colombian dick!"

My brother is rash and can provoke our enemies like no one else, but he does have a certain way with words. I move over to the piano and lean my elbows on the top. "I've been told to call you. I'm assuming as proof of life," I say, and he sighs. "So what, he threatens to kill me and suddenly you're his bitch?"

"Mila—"

"How is the business?" There's a pause. "Gabe?"

Ronan snaps his fingers. "Enough chit chat," he says. I stare at him and lift a brow.

"Tell that shitfuck to kiss my ass," Gabe says. "Jésus is dead and the Los Zetas are after us."

"Jésus is dead?" All the pieces suddenly click together in my mind. I look at Ronan and a slow smile works over his lips. Oh, now I see. Help Gabriel win the war, and then put him on a false throne with his sister as collateral to ensure he plays nice. Clever. Ingenious really. Has Gabriel never heard that you shouldn't make deals with the devil? I take the phone off speaker and press it to my ear. "You made a deal with Ronan?" I say.

Ronan glares at me. "Hang up the phone."

"He had me by the balls," Gabe shouts.

Ronan stands, and I back away, rounding the piano to put it between us. "I don't give a fuck," I growl into the phone. "What could he possibly have on you, Gabriel, you stupid fuck?"

"Every-fucking-thing, Mila! He's like the goddamn devil. I think he owns the fucking FBI!"

Ronan must have heard that, because his lips quirk up. "Little kitty, I'm losing patience." He circles around the piano with his cigar in hand, and I mirror his movements.

"Handle the Los Zetas. Gut their fucking whores, kill their wives and children, burn their businesses to the ground. If you lose me my cartel I will hang you by your own fucking intestines, Gabriel!" I hang up and slide the phone across the piano to Ronan.

"How savage," Ronan's eyes flicker as he picks up the phone.

"I'm offended! You hold me captive while making a deal with my fucktard brother. Why didn't you come to me and make a deal?" I fold my arms over my chest.

"You can't even follow simple instructions to hang up a phone. Why on earth would I make a deal with someone like you? Such a temper." Ronan tsks. He puffs his cigar and steps to the side, and I move the opposite way.

"Ah, but anger is effective,” I say.

"But it's really not." A condescending grin crosses his face. "After all, look where it's gotten you."

"You got lucky, Russian.” I narrow my eyes at him. “We both know it."

"I'll let you believe what you must. I'd assume it's hard for someone such as you to accept defeat."

I lean forward, bracing my elbows on the piano, and his gaze drops to my chest for a second. "It's when backed into a corner that people are at their most dangerous." I glide my finger over the lacquered piano top. "Like animals."

"And it's also when people are cornered that they are trapped. Like animals." He inhales. "Let me make one thing clear, I am not one to test. You do as I say, when I say it."

"You can hold me captive all you like, Russian, but it doesn't mean I'll play the part."

"I don't know that you understand what the word captive actually means." He leans across the piano toward me, his eyes blazing with some sick form of delight.

"You wouldn't be the first man to try and keep me," I say. And they all paid the price eventually. When your father is a powerful drug lord, you become very valuable... to everyone but him.

"No, I don't try anything. I succeed with all things." He takes a drag from the cigar, allowing wisps of smoke to creep through his perfect lips. "I will keep you for as long as I please."

"Oh, what fun we'll have," I say sarcastically as I back away from the piano and take a seat on the couch. "All the shit around here I could burn." I run my finger over the arm of his velvet sofa.

His eyes study me while he makes his way around the piano and sits beside me. Maybe I should be careful with him, but I like this thrill of anticipation. I like the way my heart beats in my chest, the unpredictability of it all. He could kill me. He could kiss me. Possibilities, possibilities.

"I do not need you, Camilla. Jésus kept you to fuck you. I'm keeping you simply for amusement..." He waves his cigar through the air. "For now, at least."

Without warning, he fists my hair and yanks my face to his lap. My scalp burns as I struggle against him. He's too strong for me to fight and easily holds me down, drowning me in the spicy scent of his cologne as he presses my face harder against his crotch. "I warn you, I bite." I bare my teeth.

He thrusts his hips up, his cock swelling against my cheek. "I can smell your pussy from here," he says. "What fun you and I shall have."

My temper wars with the primal want rapidly tearing through me. I hate him, but the sexual tension between us—the promise of violence—it’s like a dizzying form of foreplay that I can't help but partake in.

Fucking asshole. "Didn't take you for a rapist."

He jerks my head to the side, forcing me to look at him. One brow subtly lifts, and suddenly he looks like a dark angel, beautiful and cold. "Now, we know that wouldn't be rape. Would it?"

"Fuck you," I spit. "I'd rather fuck a rotting corpse."

He shoves my head away from his lap and stands, glaring down at me. "I expected you to have much stronger survival instincts than this."

"Aw, are you sad because I won't suck your dick like a good little captive?" I push to my feet, instantly bringing myself chest to chest with him. The heat of his body bleeds through the material of my dress. The air crackles with tension and adrenaline thrums through my veins. I can't remember the last time I felt so alive. Ronan Cole may be a bastard, but his power is almost infectious and war with him...would be like nothing else.

"You underestimate me," he says. His hand skims my waist. "On every level." His fingers linger on the small of my back. A shiver tears down my spine before he tugs me flush against him and inches toward my neck. "Would be a pity to ruin such an exquisite face," he says before his teeth rake over my throat, and sink into my skin so hard that I gasp. And then, just like that, he releases me and takes a seat on the sofa again.

He's dangerous and powerful, and I'm drawn to him in the same way that an adrenaline junkie is to life threatening heights. I'll likely fall and die, but the trip down would be a rush unlike any other, so, I weigh my options. I could fight him tooth and nail for however long I'm here which could be infinite. Or...I could take this opportunity to get close to Ronan Cole, watch him, seduce him, work him. And when the time is right, I can either use him or kill him. I can work this to my advantage.