Not Really Over (Mariposas #2)

Prologue

Natalia

California, Four Years Ago

If I could have any power, I’d pick telepathy. A mild form of torture for some, but I’d love to be able to know what churchgoers are thinking as we walk right up to the front pew.

I want to know how much they judge us for being the biggest crime family in LA, and still having the gall to come to Sunday mass.

An old woman shifts on her bench, the wood creaking stiffly, humid heat clinging to the back of my neck. The sensation only amplifies the feeling of being stared at by dozens of people.

She looks up from her phone and freezes, her eyes fixed on my face before trailing down the rest of my body.

It takes everything in me not to hide my stomach behind my Bible. Too big—just like everything about me. But my dress is nice—expensive and flattering, and on this Sunday morning, it will have to be good enough.

There are some things money can’t buy, even if I am the daughter of LA’s biggest drug trafficker.

The woman’s eyes trail over my shoulder, to my sister, Sylvia, her lips firming into a disapproving frown, the expression worsening when her husband gives my big sister his undivided attention.

Sylvia just has that effect on people. And sure, she may still be wearing the same miniskirt she wore to a random party last night, but she’s just the type of woman to stand out in anything. She always looks…perfect. Sultry. Sexy, without trying in the least.

Even now, when she’s barely sober from whatever drugs she last took. I take her hand in mine as we finally walk to the front of the church, something twisting in my chest when her hand feebly squeezes mine back.

The air around us feels thick when we finally walk up to the front pew. I turn, gripping the cool wood and sliding onto the bench—freezing when I notice the man sitting on the other end, watching me.

There’s a stranger in my seat.

“What’s the hold up?” Papa mutters, craning his neck behind me. He makes contact with the stranger and pales.

Papa moves jerkily, shoving Sylvia and me away from the stranger, using his body as a barrier as we take our seats.

I’ve been surrounded by men my entire life, but none of them looked like this. Even his profile is striking. A proud nose, tall and straight, framed by an equally strong jaw kissed by a spider tattoo skittering up his neck.

The stranger turns to stare at Papa, unblinking, as they enter some type of weird staring contest.

For once, it doesn’t feel like my dad wins.

And then the stranger moves on, his eyes sliding to Sylvia with no interest, the way one stares at a car passing down the street.

I’m last, hiding behind my sister. A lifetime of being overlooked for someone who looks perfect—not that I mind. I’m not cut out for the attention. I’m not expecting the man to see me at all.

Which is why his gaze feels like a bolt of lightning when he leans forward, eyes fixed on me as he looks through both Sylvia and Papa to find me.

I inhale a choppy breath, my hands tingling from the weight of his gaze on my face. I don’t even last a second—snapping straight to attention in my seat and pretending he’s not there.

“Who the hell is that?” Sylvia whispers in my ear, thankfully ignoring the embarrassing blush on my face.

“Who cares?” I mutter. “Whoever he is, he’s probably bad news.” My sister flips her bleach-blonde hair over her shoulder, a wicked smile on her lips.

“Maybe it’s time for the black sheep of the family to…help out, hm?” I want to protest, but settle for biting my lip. Men that look like sin, like that man at the end of the pew, usually want nothing to do with good daughters who listen to their fathers.

He looks like a force of nature, and I’m most definitely not that. Sylvia is probably more his speed. She isn’t scared of anything, of anyone. My sister is fearless. I wouldn’t call myself a coward, but…taking risks isn’t my strong suit.

Papa slides down the pew, speaking in hushed tones with the stranger. His neck gets red, and a little vein starts popping in his forehead. I can’t make out what they’re talking about, but the young man next to him remains unruffled, speaking quietly.

Whatever he says, it calms down Papa enough for him to snag his phone from the breast pocket of his jacket and make a call, coming to his feet and giving the man a meaningful look before he walks to the back of the church.

Sylvia nudges me, a coy smile on her face before she turns to make eyes at the handsome stranger. Is there anyone in this family that isn’t obsessed with him?

No, no, there isn’t, I decide, glancing right along with Sylvia out of the corner of my eye before pulling out my worn Bible and pretending it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

But the stranger pays her no mind. At some point, Sylvia gives up. She jumps to her feet, ignoring my alarmed look as she squeezes past me in the pew and walks down the aisle.

Where is she going?

I tamp down the urge to look after her like a kid left at the store and focus on the big, shiny cross at the altar. Papa will be back soon enough.

And yet, I can’t stop looking at the man from the corner of my eye…

The man screams of bad decisions and reckless desire. He’s like a supermassive black hole, swallowing up the air around him until the only thing left is a deafening chasm. He commands attention, all of it.

Men don’t notice me lingering in their periphery.

And if they do, they quickly do everything in their power to pretend I’m not there.

So I can’t help but take advantage of that fact, turning to study him surreptitiously.

I’m not sure when I’ll be next to someone so powerful again.

Someone who doesn’t cower under Papa’s temper, who isn’t scared of him.

The stranger leans forward, resting his arms on his thighs, the fabric of his pants stretching tight over his quads.

I glance up absentmindedly and freeze. He’s staring at me, those fathomless black eyes watching me as I lust over him.

I nearly break my neck in my haste to look straight ahead, embarrassment washing over me.

Every rational thought flees my brain as I descend into internal screaming, my fingertips digging into the palms of my hands to keep from fidgeting. Now I’m a pervert. Great.

The pew creaks on the far end, where he’s sitting, and a wave of disappointment washes over me. Of course he doesn’t want to linger where the weird big girl is ogling him.

But retreating footsteps never come. It takes me a moment to realize he’s sliding closer, and closer, until he’s just a couple of feet away.

Heat unfurls in my stomach slowly. My brain short circuits–I’m not sure if I should look at him or pretend he doesn’t exist. Mass begins, the priest taking his place up front, but I can’t pay attention.

The stranger’s eyes trace my body like hands, drinking in my breasts, my legs, the curve of my hips and stomach.

It takes me three tries to work up the courage to turn and look at him.

Unlike me, he doesn’t show a lick of embarrassment at getting caught. No, he looks his fill, like he has all the time in the world. Like he likes what he sees. His gaze is blank when he finally looks up at my face.

I gulp. “Hi.” I’m such a chicken. Why am I such a chicken?

“Hello.” His voice is low and rough and a touch husky. Heat flares through me at the sound of it, and I can only wonder what it sounds like whispering dirty things in the dark.

Get a grip.

“I’m Natalia.”

“Matias.” The name doesn’t sound familiar, but then again, I don’t know any of Papa’s friends or foes. The less I know, the less I’ll have to forget when I put this life behind me. And I will put this life behind me…one day.

Matias’s tongue peeks out from his mouth for a second time, running along his bottom lip for a moment before disappearing.

If I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man with such a pretty mouth.

Full lips, accentuated by a trimmed goatee and mustache.

Never thought I’d find that facial hair combo sexy, but here we are.

He’s probably a great kisser, but this man doesn’t really look like the cuddling type. No, he’s probably one for a quick, hard fu?—

“You come to mass every week?” The words are like a bucket of cold water. What the fuck is wrong with me? Is this what it feels like to be in heat?

I nod woodenly, suddenly hyper aware of my surroundings. Papa’s men watch us like hawks, but Matias doesn’t seem to be worried.

“I come to mass on Sundays.”

“Only Sundays?”

“I have classes the other days of the week.” Well—online classes—but still.

He nods like this makes perfect sense. We sit shoulder to shoulder for a drawn-out moment before I notice the rhythmic motion of his hands.

He’s got an inky, black knife in hand, opening and closing it absentmindedly as he looks around the church.

Matias catches my gaze and stills.

“You ever used one of these before?” I shake my head. Papa doesn’t like it when I handle weapons. Like it would somehow ruin me if I did.

But Matias doesn’t care. He closes the blade and presses it into my hand slowly, the rough pads of his fingers tickling the palm of my hand, sending bolts of lightning through my limbs.

I inspect it carefully, reading the logo, turning it this way and that, relishing the residual heat from his palms on the metal.

“You have to press the release button here,” he says quietly, reaching over and engulfing my hand.

I’d always considered myself a little tan, but his hand next to mine looks dark, and the contrast excites me.

My hand is swallowed whole by his as he shows me how to hold the knife and open it without stabbing myself.

The heat from his open palm sears through my skin, feeding a low, buzzing heat in my belly that only worsens when he looks me straight in the eyes.

“It’s spring loaded.” He whispers near my ear, like I’m supposed to understand whatever that means. Matias places my thumb on a button on the handle and tells me to push.

A moment later, all becomes clear when a black blade shoots up at the end of our joined hands, glistening in the low light streaming in from the windows. A rush of excitement courses through me at the sight, and I can’t help but smile wide at the knife in my hand.

“That’s good. Keep practicing.” I catch a little peek of inky black tattoos where his wrist meets the cuff of his shirt before the hand disappears, leaving me to play with the blade. If Papa saw me, he’d have a heart attack.

I like it.

Matias plucks the Bible off my lap and thumbs through it, glancing at some of the passages I’d underlined during mass and bringing the book close to his face to read some of the notes I’d made along the margins, like he actually cares about the little words written there.

For a moment, it almost feels like we’re friends.

He gets to the end and plucks my scraps of doodled pages, looking at them through thick lashes with something that resembles amusement.

“The priest gets a little long-winded sometimes.” I whisper, not realizing how close we’re sitting until he stares up at me. His eyes are deep brown, so dark that I can’t make out where his irises end and pupils begin.

“What, you don’t follow along with every word he says?”

“Not when I can help it.” I admit with a small smile, wondering if he can see how badly I wish I had the balls to break out of this shell.

I go back to playing with the knife in silence, already dreading the moment when he asks for it back. I like the way it feels in my hand.

Something buzzes in his pocket, and just like that, I know that our moment is over. He closes my Bible with a quiet thud and places it back on my lap. I stuff down a sigh and hold out his blade to him, but Matias surprises me by closing my fingers around the knife.

“Keep it safe for me. You can return it next time.” Next time…?

The pew groans as he climbs to his feet. As soon as he stands, the church goes into action, at least a dozen men in the crowd also coming to their feet and filing out without a word. He brought his own men into our church?

He follows my gaze and smirks one last time.

“Nos vemos, Florecita.”

The click of his shoes is the last thing I hear before the service resumes.