The second I step out of his office, Arturo’s housekeeper, Elena, appears from around a corner and gives me a warm, if pitying, smile. She’s a pretty, fifty-something woman with a gray streak through her wavy, shoulder-length black hair. During my brief stay before, she seemed to have a preternatural sense of the needs of the house’s occupants at any given moment.
“Mr. Black, do you remember the guest room you stayed in last time you visited?”
“Ah, I’m pretty sure I can find it again,” I say with a nod and a smile.
“Good. I’ve set clean towels out and took the liberty of collecting a few of your brother’s things and packing them in a bag for you, along with toiletries. Take your time and find me when you’re ready. I’ll make sure you get something to eat before you leave.”
My stomach practically vibrates at the suggestion of food, and Elena gives my arm a pat before turning to walk back to another part of the huge house. I’m tempted to follow her and eat first, but catch a glimpse of a ravaged, dirty man in a large mirror on the wall beneath the stairs. I decide I don’t want to sully any more of the house than necessary, so I head up the stairs and find the posh guest room overlooking the pool.
The sun has finally emerged from beyond the clouds, turning the pool and gardens into a serene landscape that belies the war raging on another front between the man who owns this place and his rival in Mexico. My entire family is tangled up in it, whether we like it or not.
I wonder if Mom had any inkling of how deep we were with Arturo before her stroke. I refuse to blame her, even though Mad told me the story he’d pieced together from what Mom and Celeste had shared with him about Mom’s history with Arturo. Our mother is at the core of this war too, every bit as much as Lola Flores.
I begin to strip, taking a deep breath and letting myself relax just a little. The white tile of the spacious bathroom is deceptively pristine for all the blood on the hands of the owner of this house. At least he’s on our side, which makes it easy to stomach. Though I doubt he’d have heeded my request if I hadn’t used Elle as ammunition.
I’m not stupid enough to believe Flores is just a weapon I can point and shoot at whoever does my family wrong. I could just as easily have wound up on the wrong end of his wrath three years ago, and know I have my brother’s relationship with Arturo’s daughter to thank for my life right now, not to mention Arturo’s hatred of Amador.
My life, such as it is.
I pause before stepping into the shower and brace my hands on the counter, staring at myself in the mirror. Dark tattoos cover much of my torso, except for an enormous scar that makes a long, pale track down the center of my chest. There’s a smaller one on my back, right through my brother Sam’s very first masterpiece. They had to cut me open twice that day—once to repair a hole in my lung and again to pull the bullet out of my spine, slicing through the gorgeous koi fish tattoo Sam designed and inked for me against my better judgment, but to my extreme delight after it was done. My baby brother has some serious talent, and I hope like hell I live to let him touch it up and cover the scar.
Staring at the scar that extends down my sternum, I picture the pretty blonde doctor from the hospital again. I remember her face clear as day from the first time I saw her three years ago. Her face was the last one I expected to see in the middle of all this, but she didn’t remember me when she caught me in Mom’s room this morning.
But how could she? I don’t exactly resemble the same cocky ass who tried to pick her up three years ago, even though I was lying in a hospital bed, fresh out of surgery from being fucking tortured, and it still hurt to breathe from the bullet wound they’d just repaired. My face is a mess now just like then, but my hair has grown out and I’m sporting a beard to boot.
Not to mention that as far as she knows, you died, asshole.
I never forgot her, though. For some crazy reason Dr. Nicolo’s face found its way into my dreams on some of the darkest, loneliest nights until I made my way into Rafael’s inner circle. He was Zavala’s head of security, my first mark at the compound whose trust I needed to gain to access Zavala’s servers and find the intel I was sure he had.
I’ve always been good at making friends, and often used that talent to my advantage. This job was no different, so when I found a way in with Rafael, I took it. It just happened to be an interest near and dear to me: my love of classic cars.
In our meager time off, he and I started a project restoring a ’69 Mustang with his wife, Emilia, frequently looking on, and sometimes lending a hand when she wasn’t immersed in her painting. Over the months of working together for Zavala and working on the Mustang in our off-hours, Rafael and I bonded, and if it hadn’t been for my own necessary lies to him and his wife, I might have considered them true friends. Now, thanks to Amador, they’ll never have a chance to learn the truth.
My teeth involuntarily clench at the memory of Christmas
