I have no idea what I’m doing. I came here with no plan and no forethought. All I know is that I can’t get Santi’s words out of my head.
“Sam didn’t touch me, Santi! We never even spoke to each other.”
“Are you sure about that, chaparrita?”
I thought I was. But fuck, I can’t remember much of anything. And if Santi is right, and this S carved on me stands for Santiago, at some point late last night, I was alone with Sam Colton.
Something dark and forbidden flares inside me. Something I can never speak of or acknowledge. The thought of Sam touching me should sicken me, but it doesn’t.
It excites me.
“It’s just the drugs,” I say with a groan, pushing away from the house. “Whatever Troy slipped in my drink messed up my head.” Sighing, I turn to leave, when a yellow paper stuck to the far side of the door catches my eye.
The closer I get; I realize it’s a Post-it Note someone has scribbled on. Ripping it off the door, I read it word for word and line for line. Then I read it twice more. Each time, more heat crawls up my neck, staining my face.
As I read his words for the fourth time, I swear I can feel him watching me.
The mouse’s job is to not get caught… Unless that’s what she wants. Better luck next time, chaparrita.
Chapter Five
Sam
Senator Rick Sanders doesn’t raise his voice.
Even as a kid, growing up with my bratty twin half-brother and sister, I can’t recall a single time he yelled at us to, “go tidy our rooms,” or for me to, “stop fingering that hot girl in the pool when there was a bedroom upstairs.”
His methods of showing his displeasure are far more refined. When he’s really pissed, like he is now, his gray eyes darken to cold steel and the sharp lines of his Armani suit take on all the comfort of razor blades.
It’s his tone that chills the most. His easy drawl drops to a low and vicious rasp where every word, every vowel, every inflection returns to the tough Brooklyn streets where he grew up.
“What the fuck did you do, Sam?”
“You know what I did, Daddy-O, and you know why I did it.”
Leaning back in my chair, I gaze unseeingly at the white architrave in his five-million-dollar penthouse apartment home office. I was summoned here first thing, which I was fully expecting. My two bodyguard-cum-jailers work for him, not me. I knew a call to the senator would have been made the moment Lola Carrera walked into my apartment.
Still, they have their uses. Tapping phones is another trick I learned before my eighth birthday. After that, I graduated fast. These days, there isn’t a computer system I can’t hack, which is why I know my worth to an organization like Santiago’s.
Has she woken up yet? Is she hurting? Did she find the note?
“Nina is angry with you as well.”
“Why?” I scoff. “She’s not my mother. The first Mrs. Sanders is dead, remember?”
So is my deadbeat, piece of shit dad, if we’re skipping down that happy trail. He was found with his throat slit the day Rick discovered I wasn’t his. My stepfather doesn’t like loose ends.
“Manners, Sam,” he mutters, his subtext clear. Stop acting like a dick.
I can’t help it. Lola is mine, not theirs. Still, Rick’s been a pretty good father to me over the years, so I need to lighten up a bit.
“You’re just a kid playing in an adult world with very adult rules.” The senator fixes me with a glare, and I return it with a grin.
“Want me to tell you how pretty Lola is, Daddy-O? Are you jealous? Before my stepmother came along, you’d screwed half of Manhattan’s trophy wives, plus their mothers-in-law.”
There’s a deep rumble of laughter from behind me. It’s a slow, dangerous sleeper of a sound, but it hits me like a steam train. Spinning around, I see the tall, inimitable, scary-as-fuck figure of my godfather darkening the doorway.
“The boy’s got your mouth, Sanders,” he says, striding toward us. Black jeans. Black shirt. It’s kind of fitting after all the death he’s dealt in the last fifty years. “I believe the age-old nature versus nurture debate just got resolved.”
“Go fuck yourself, Dante,” my stepfather drawls, not surprised in the slightest by the Colombian’s appearance. He tosses a couple of photographs across the desk at him. “Turns out we share the same exquisite taste in women if the Carrera girl is anything to go by.”
I catch a sideways glance, and my stomach drops. They’re all of Lola from last night, approximately thirty minutes before Troy exited stage left at a crawl.
The senator grins when he notices the look on my face. “We expected you to screw her, not brand her, you stupid dickhead.”
Wait, what?
“What happened to the pissed-off stepfather routine?” I say, blindsided as fuck.
Rick’s eyes glint in amusement. “He’s taking a cigarette break.”
“You knew she was here all long, didn’t you?” Shit. Shit. Shit. “When did you tell Santiago?”
“Santiago knew the moment she graced American soil,” my godfather interrupts, cocking a dark eyebrow at me. “When my enemy’s daughter happens to sweet-talk her way out of her heavily-armed Mexican compound and within touching distance of my territory, it would be remiss of me not to welcome her with open arms…”
Before I fucking crush her with them.
I fill in that last part for myself.
“You played me, Daddy-O.” Shades of red start misting up my vision.
“Reverse psychology, Sammy-O,” he says, handing my own mockery back to me, fighting another grin. “Tell the cool kid to stay away from the hot new chick on campus, then watch the sparks fly.”
“It was a test,” I grit out.
“A test,” he confirms.
“You never had any issues about me working for Santiago.”
“Sam, I’d be the last fucking prick to lecture you about blurred lines and morality, but if you’re planning to dance on the
