“Since about five minutes ago; right about the time I realized my sister started the next phase of this fucking war.”
“What?”
Leaving the burning ember tucked between his lips, he pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls until he finds what he’s looking for. Taking a long drag, he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and holds up a picture. “Look familiar?”
My knees nearly buckle. No. That can’t be right. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Nora, my dock hand. She was on my payroll. One of my inside plants who I compensated very well to clear all my shipments. And that thing she’s on,” he says, his middle finger tapping the rectangular thing beneath her, “is a metal slab at the medical examiner’s office. Another man on my payroll was about to perform Nora’s autopsy when he sent me this photo. And that, dear sister,” he hisses, jabbing the same finger toward the center of the screen, “is the same scarlet letter carved into her chest.”
I can’t breathe.
“S isn’t for slut, Lola. It’s for Santiago.”
Breathe. Just breathe.
Dropping the half-smoked cigarette onto the pavement, Santi stomps it out with the heel of his shoe while shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I told you to stay the fuck away from Sam Colton!”
“I have! What the hell has he got to do with this anyway?”
“Mamá.”
The word is like another deep slice to my skin. Our father has sheltered me from most inner workings of the family business, save one. Mamá’s role in the eighteen-year Carrera/Santiago feud is something that even the great Valentin Carrera could never hide.
Not when the ripple effect lasted well into our childhood.
A temporary alliance between Dante Santiago and my father turned into a third-party massacre at my Tía Adriana and Tío Brody’s wedding. My mother, pregnant with me at the time, got caught in the line of fire, and it nearly killed both of us.
Papá laid the blame at Dante Santiago’s feet, swearing vengeance against his cartel and its bloodline.
I shake my head. “But that has to do with the Santiago Cartel, and—”
“Colton is the Santiago Cartel!” he roars. “He’s operating under a false name, María.” I wince at his mocking growl of my alias. “He’s Sam Sanders, otherwise known as Senator Rick Sanders’s stepson. You know, the former New York kingpin turned New York politician. Dante Santiago owns New York,” he stresses, shoving a hand through his thick, dark hair while pacing in front of me. “Jesus fucking Christ, Lola!”
The way he spits out my name, it might as well be a curse word.
“How could I have known that?” I insist, my voice shaking as I defend myself. “You and papá won’t tell me anything!”
Santi stops his maniacal pacing right in front of me. “You weren’t on a date last night. You were with him. No me mientas! Don’t lie to me.” His bitter expression turns deadly as he backs me against the building. “Troy Davis has been dragged from his hospital bed and is being chained to a metal beam right now,” he seethes, caging me with both hands. “His death is going to be long and painful before I shred him into unrecognizable ribbons of flesh. It’d be a shame if he suffers for someone else’s sins.”
My stomach lurches. “Fine! I was at Sam Colton’s party, but I swear Troy did put something in my drink. The last thing I remember is him taking me upstairs.”
My brother’s eyes are wild and crazed with hate as he draws his arm back and drives his fist into the wall. I cringe at the sickening sound.
“Sam didn’t touch me, Santi!” I scream, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “We never even spoke to each other.” Words as painful as they are accurate.
I’ve never had to fight for a man’s attention, but at that party, I locked gazes with the brooding boy with the dark eyes. I bit my bottom lip, letting it slowly slide through my teeth…teasing him. Enticing him…
And then nothing.
Sam fucking Colton regarded me as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience.
I never wanted Troy Davis. I simply wanted to force Sam’s hand.
Guess the joke’s on me.
“You think he didn’t touch you?” A cruel smile peels across Santi’s face. “Are you sure about that, chaparrita?” Cupping my chin, he leans close enough I can smell the nicotine on his breath. “This is why papá didn’t want you in America. You’re too innocent. Too fucking trusting.” His dark eyes flash with a hint of sadness as he pushes off the wall and walks away.
“Where are you going?” I call after him.
“To clean up your mess.”
“Santi!”
He pauses, but doesn’t turn around. “You’re my baby sister, Lola. A Carrera. By defiling you, Colton has fired the first bullet.”
I wince at the ruthlessness in his voice. “What are you going to do?”
“Fire the last.”
I shouldn’t warn him.
I should go back to my apartment and let Santi dish out whatever punishment he sees fit. After all, Troy tried to rape me, and Sam… Oh my God, did Sam Colton fucking brand me? We’ve never even said two words to each other before, but it seems he’s happy to let his knife do the talking.
I shouldn’t warn him.
The words repeat in my head as I pull my car into his driveway. They burrow deep into my psyche as I climb the marble steps toward his front door. They slice into my heart as I reach out a shaking finger and ring the doorbell.
Nothing.
I ring it again.
Nothing.
“Sam?” I press my face against the narrow window beside the door. There doesn’t appear to be any movement, but I still call his name. “I know you’re in there, Sam Sanders,” I say, hissing the now-familiar last name. “You don’t know who the hell you’ve fucked with. Why don’t you come out here and face me now that I’m conscious?”
Nothing.
Shit.
Exhaustion and nerves hit all at once, and I collapse forward, dropping my forehead against the glass. Heaving a sigh,
