Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
The innocent act was bullshit, so he decided to poke the sleeping bear. “You used to, but you’ve grown soft. And gay. So gay your pretty wife is at home right now bouncing on a harder, straighter dick.”
“What the fuck did you just say to me? You’re going to find out exactly how gay I am when I fuck your skull through your asshole, motherfucker. You’re fucking dead.”
“Yeah, that tone. Here she is.” He handed the phone to Franchesca.
As she listened, her breath wheezed, and her eyes grew wide. When she handed the phone back, he disconnected and placed a larger bill in her trembling hand. No translation needed for hush money. It was a universal language in this town.
He left her staring at the money and slipped into Lucia’s unit through the closet.
Other than the muted glow from a night light in the wall, her windowless space was dark. He did his best to seal up the passageway. She needed a lock or something to brace against it. Something to keep trespassers like himself from breaking in.
At least, she wouldn’t be sleeping here alone anymore, and when he left Caracas, she would be with him.
Switching on the ceiling light, he scanned the barren room, which entailed a single-person mattress, mini fridge, sink, toilet, and shower head that aimed at an open tiled space.
Her boots and a small stack of clothes sat in the corner. On the counter was the bag of tea, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a generic bottle of hair and body wash.
That was it? A lump formed in his throat. Everything she owned would fit in one small bag.
There were no cabinets or pantries, so where was her food? Her dishes and cookware? Hell, she didn’t even have a stove.
His attention zeroed in on the fridge, and he yanked it open. The scanty contents wobbled on a single shelf—a sandwich of bread and pork, strawberries, bananas, and coconut cookies. The only food in her possession was what he’d bought her.
She has nothing.
No one should live like this.
A restless pang clenched behind his sternum, and his muscles burned to do something, anything, to fix this.
But he couldn’t fix it. Not without risking her life.
Phone in hand, he paced the room, back and forth, back and forth, staring at the screen.
It was time to call Matias. The cartel capo could find the best doctors and bring them here. According to Cole, it would take weeks, but Tate could at least get that ball rolling.
Drawing a calming breath, he dialed the number by memory and hovered his thumb over the button that would connect the call. And he hesitated.
I’ll be dead within hours. Long before they can diagnose me.
Lucia knew how resourceful Matias was, yet she’d begged Tate not to call him or Camila. She was fucking stubborn in her conviction that Badell held the only antidote.
Then there was Cole’s warning that Matias wouldn’t have enough men and sway here to fight Badell.
Fuck! He erased the number on the phone and slumped against the wall. He needed to talk to Lucia first. Then he’d call Matias.
Over the next hour, he listened to her dinner conversation with Badell. Strange how she was allowed to keep her guns in his presence. Though there was a span of time this morning when it sounded like they’d been taken from her. Was it when she received her injection? If she was given medicine, Tate didn’t hear it happen.
As long as he keeps my condition a secret and the antidote locked in his safe, I can’t leave.
Where was the safe? Did she have access to its location? Were guards posted in every room?
There might’ve been guards where she met Badell for dinner, but it was just the two of them talking and eating. The discussion focused on business—police activities, competitor secrets, and weapons suppliers. If Tate were a government spy, the information would’ve been gold. But he didn’t give a shit about Tiago Badell’s dirty affairs.
The entirety of his concern focused on the brown-eyed beauty who was sitting with a man who could kill her on a whim. Meanwhile, Tate paced her apartment with knots the size of Texas tying up his insides.
When she finally left the compound, he turned off the light, stood behind the front door, and listened to her footsteps through the receiver. When Van called to tell him she was in the alley, he silenced the phone and waited.
The seconds felt like a marathon—sprinting pulse, labored breaths, the urgent need to cross the finish line.
She was his finish line, and when she opened the door, it took every ounce of his self-control to remain silent and still.
Close the door, Lucia.
The instant she did, he launched…right into the barrel of a gun in his face.
“It’s me,” he whispered into the darkness.
“What are you—?”