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There it was.
The truth.
No fear. Not a woman trapped with no way out.
Just a black widow crawling home to the man who owned the web.
Ciro’s hand closed on the back of her neck, forcing her attention away from me. He kissed her roughly, then looked over her shoulder at me.
“Welcome to the part of the war your brother and Volkov cannot buy their way out of.”
A man grabbed my arm.
Another needle went in, this one colder.
A hood came down, cutting off the tarmac lights, Ciro’s face, and Isabella’s smile.
My body wouldn’t move. My mouth wouldn’t work. Then whatever they’d put in me dragged the rest of me under.
Chapter eight
Ishot upright, palms braced against the mattress, my heart battering my ribs as the blind panic of a night terror seized me. Men shouted and fought beneath my room, their bodies crashing hard enough to shake the floor and tear me from a deep sleep. But the scuff of boots, the men’s grunts and curses, and the scrape of the heavy wooden chair across the floor were too loud, too clear, and far too real to belong to a bad dream.
My bedroom sat directly above the dungeon, and an old brick-lined ventilation shaft from the finca’s original coffee cellar carried every sound straight up to me.
“Hold his shoulders,” a gravelly voice shouted in Spanish. “His legs. Get his fucking legs.”
“The drug is wearing off,” a second man yelled.
“No shit, you stupid bastards,” a man rasped in English. “I’d applaud the observation, but you’ve got my fucking hands tied.”
Flesh struck flesh with a thick, ugly thud. The new prisoner grunted, dragged in a breath, and unleashed a string of curses, his Irish accent roughening every filthy word. One of the guards ordered him in Spanish to shut his mouth, but from the sound of things, I doubted he’d obey.
I clutched the sheet in both fists against my chest as the pounding in my throat slowed. I glanced over my shoulder and saw 3:02 glowing red on the clock.
Damn it.
My father was home, and all hell had broken loose beneath my feet hours before dawn.
The old cellar had been quiet for more than a year, not because Father had discovered mercy, but because expanding his cartel’s reach across the northeastern United States had kept him occupied. Apparently, New York hadn’t given him enough people to hurt. He’d returned to Finca La Cruzona in full force, dragging a prisoner home with him.
A body slammed into the wall below, hard enough to rattle the picture frame over my bed.
“Get up, dumbass,” someone barked. “He’s drugged and tied, and you’re still letting him make you look weak.”
The prisoner gave a gruff, breathless chuckle.
“You should’ve moved faster.”
I knew that laugh would cost him.
I threw back the covers, unable to sit still. A terrible thought tightened my stomach.
Had my father brought Marcela back with him?
Bile rose in my throat at the thought of the traitorous bitch who’d stolen my name returning to my home. She’d used it to live freely in the outside world while I remained captive here.
The viper hadn’t been born into the Delgado family. She’d manipulated her way inside, feeding my father’s vanity and sinking her fangs in deep enough that he mistook her poison for loyalty.
