Fuck that.
Not so long ago, he ruled the New York underground for Santiago. Now, I want a piece of his former action, and Santiago, my godfather, is the man to give it to me.
Running the edge of my knife across the unblemished plains of Lola’s stomach, I follow the curve of her hipbone all the way to the black borderline of her panties. She moans again, and slurs out a word, but her eyes never open.
My lips twitch as an idea forms. The blade makes a shockingly white indentation before the first bud of crimson blooms.
I work quickly after that—a master of my wicked art—marking her flawless skin just left of her hipbone with a single letter that spans a couple of inches wide, and deep enough to scar.
S for my initial.
S for Santiago.
Rising from the bed, I admire my handiwork. What I’ve done to her is far worse than what Troy Davis could ever do. I’ve fucked with her body, and tomorrow that letter will be fucking with her mind.
I’ve finally announced my intention as a player in this war, but best of all?
I’ve made Lola Carrera mine.
Chapter Three
Lola
I wake in my apartment to the sound of my teeth chattering, each clap of enamel chipping away at my brain. Prying my eyes open, I wince at the sharp haze filtering through my lashes.
Fuck, it’s bright.
I lift my arm to block out the sunlight, but the damn thing feels like a sack of bricks. Since gravity is waging war against me, I give up, letting it flop back down. Big mistake. The moment it lands across the bridge of my nose, I let out a hoarse cry as dozens of sharp knives plunge into my skull.
“What the hell?” My voice is barely audible. Rough. Brittle. Like my Tío Mateo sounded after taking a bullet to the chest a couple of years ago.
But I didn’t get shot. This is Camden, New Jersey, not Mexico City.
Blowing out a queasy breath, I dig my elbow into the mattress and sit up, my body accompanying my chattering teeth in a symphony of tremors. When a sudden wave of nausea hits, I swallow hard, unsure if I’m going to black out or defile my bed.
Breathe, Lola.
Dios mío, I must have had more to drink than I thought.
As my spinning head settles, I recall the single Bacardi and Coke I nursed all night. I was reckless, not stupid. I only allowed myself one drink, but I remember stumbling up a flight of stairs and then down a long hallway. Someone was with me, but I can’t…
Beep! Beep! Beep!
“Argh, fuck!” Grabbing my head to stop the sound of my alarm from shattering my eardrums, I roll over, a sharp pain radiating across my abdomen as I search for my phone. “Shut up!” I growl. Dragging it off the nightstand, I hit all the buttons at once, praying one will stop the incessant noise.
Finally, silence.
Tossing it on the mattress, I flop back onto my pillow, when it hits me.
“Shit! Santi…” I’m supposed to meet my brother for lunch. Adrenaline spikes through my veins as I throw my comforter across the bed. It isn’t until my feet hit the floor that I realize I’m naked.
Dread fills my chest as I force pieces of last night from behind the distorted opaque window clouding my mind. How did I get home?
Slowly, more jagged memories work their way out of the fog and into the light.
No, no, no. I couldn’t have.
Troy Davis.
His hands.
A bed.
“Get ready, baby. I’m gonna treat this pussy good.”
“No…” I breathe again, searching between my legs for signs of my worst fear. But there’s no blood on my thighs, and I don’t feel violated.
That’s when a dark crimson stain catches my eye. The one smeared across the inside of my white comforter. It mocks me, daring me to come closer.
So, I do.
But as I twist toward the stained blanket, I draw in a sharp breath as another stinging pain shoots from my hip. Slowly, I glance down to see what could’ve caused such an ache.
What I see turns my blood to ice.
I’m bleeding all right, but from something much worse than a dick. Midway between my navel and left hip bone, someone carved a letter into my skin.
No, not someone. Troy Davis.
A fucking S.
I scream out of anger and frustration. I don’t have to guess what that letter stands for. It speaks for itself.
Slut.
That motherfucker has no idea what he’s done. One word…one whisper from me, and I can’t count the number of ways he’d suffer, or the pieces of him that would end up scattered across all five boroughs.
And then I’d end up right back in Mexico behind the iron bars I just escaped.
That’s why I’ll keep Troy’s assault and desecration to myself, as will every single one of my friends if they know what’s good for them.
As far as they know, I’m María Diaz, the child of Cuban immigrants. They smile their plastic smiles, flip their blonde hair, and link arms with me, all while pretending they don’t know exactly what I’m capable of.
They do. They just choose to lock it behind their gated suburban lies.
Fear is a deceptive spiritual guide.
However, I shove everything away to deal with later. Always later. I can’t afford to let the great Santi Carrera, my big brother, and the heir apparent of my father’s empire see weakness.
Because God forbid I have a say in anything.
Santi left me alone in Mexico City two years ago to come to America and take control of our family’s New Jersey’s cocaine distribution. No one asked me what I wanted.
Stay in Mexico and marry a nice boy, Lola…
Well, fuck that.
Since my brother left, I’ve moved heaven
