When Lies Unfold

Chapter 4

Motherfuckin’ Andro. If he weren’t blood, there’s a good chance his brains would be scattered right alongside Rafa’s.

While he had no goddamn business goin’ after Rafa, I’m not about to shed a tear for the bastard. Rafa was nothin’ more than a nasty fucker who didn’t hesitate to take what wasn’t his. Drugs. Money. Cars. Women. It was all fair game to him. But the women part I really had an issue with.

No real man rapes women. That shit’s for weak, entitled betas. So, yeah, I’m not heartbroken over his death, and I’d place bets that a bunch of others’ll be toastin’ to him leavin’ this earth.

As if that’s not enough, I’ve been dealin’ with Hidalgo’s retaliation for his business contacts choosin’ me over him. The little bitch has been actin’ like a dictator for too long, and I keep comin’ away with more and more of his associates because of it.

“Uncle Santy, he was a trait—” My nephew’s excuses are cut off when I backhand the fuck out of him.

He stumbles backward, blood tricklin’ from his lip, before he spits and stands up straighter. My nephew’s become a punk who thinks he deserves to be in charge of operations. But he’s made it crystal-fuckin’-clear that I can’t trust him and his ego.

I’ve done my best to allow him the opportunity to prove himself, but all he’s done is show that he needs to be on a short fuckin’ leash.

Andro’s glare threatens to flay me with anger, but I don’t give a shit. He’s fucked up yet again. On top of that, he thought it was a brilliant idea to use one of these secluded, luxury properties to do his dirty work.

A motherfuckin’ property he didn’t have the sense to clear first to ensure there weren’t any goddamn witnesses. At this point, I’m convinced he’s got shit for brains.

“Hand over your weapons.” I hold out my palm.

His eyes flash with defiance before he relinquishes his gun, roughly placin’ it in my waitin’ hand.

When he doesn’t relinquish anythin’ else, I raise a brow. “All your weapons.”

Like a spoiled brat who’s just had his favorite toys taken from him, Andro purses his lips before reachin’ for the small pistol strapped to his ankle and hands it to me.

Without missin’ a beat, I hold out the weapons for Gordo to take and jab a finger at my nephew. “You’re not to leave the house without my permission. You’re not to go anywhere without supervision. Understood?”

Petulance cloaks his protest. “I don’t need a fuckin’ babysitter!”

“Then stop actin’ like a goddamn child!”

Our gazes remain locked in a staredown until he finally looks away. He doesn’t realize that each day that passes, he proves even more that he’s not a lion.

He’s a sheep in lion’s clothin’. A wannabe. And fuck if I wanna deal with it, but I never got a choice in the matter. Andro’s father’s been six feet under for years now, and my sister followed suit shortly after, leavin’ me as the kid’s only survivin’ family.

Fuck if he isn’t provin’ to be just as worthless as his mother but an even bigger drain on my patience.

My nephew’s lips curl in a sneer when he glances past me at the woman who’s on her hands and knees cleanin’. “Since when do you leave witnesses alive?”

My fingers encircle his throat in a punishin’ grip as I slam his body against the wall. There’s nothin’ that pisses me off more than my motherfuckin’ authority bein’ challenged.

His eyes grow wide, bulgin’ as I apply more pressure to my grip. “Nobody questions me.” I grind out each fury-coated word from between clenched teeth. “Least of all a young punk who thinks he knows everythin’ but fucks up every goddamn thing he touches.”

My nephew’s entire face is now red. I release my hold on him abruptly enough to cause him to brace himself against the wall while he gasps for air.

“I’m sorry.” His apology is breathless, his voice hoarse. “I was just tryin’ to?—”

I wave off his excuse. “I don’t wanna hear it, Andro. Once again, I’m here cleanin’ up your motherfuckin’ mess. Now, do as you’re told and go home.”

His eyes remain downcast as he shoves his way out of the house. I silently signal two of my men to follow him and ensure he doesn’t fuck up more shit for me. They trail him, their exits near soundless.

In Andro’s absence, the atmosphere loses a fraction of its tension, and I turn my focus to the woman cleanin’ like her life depends on it.

’Cause it does.

My nephew may be a hotheaded know-it-all punk, but he spoke the truth when he said I don’t leave witnesses alive.

I never leave loose ends. It’s somethin’ I can’t afford.

This one, though…this particular woman intrigued me from the start. I’m excellent at readin’ people, and she’s the embodiment of contradictions.

Brave for not runnin’ off. No…she stayed put and calmly bargained with me.

Bold as fuck, ’cause she sure as hell didn’t start shakin’ like a leaf when I’d had my gun against her head.

Smart for thinkin’ of a way to prove herself worthy—at least momentarily.

Na?ve ’cause she’s got no fuckin’ clue just how precariously her life’s holdin’ on by a thread.

Beautiful, in an understated manner, like she’s purposely downplayin’ her attractiveness.

The intel on her was limited. On paper, she’s borin’ as fuck. Twenty-nine years old. Unmarried. No children. Her only known relatives are distant cousins who live on a farm up in Santa Heredia.

She’s a loner, with the exception bein’ a coworker she sometimes hangs out with. No social media accounts, which in this day and age can be suspicious, but if she’s a genuine loner, it makes sense to shy away from that sort of shit.

She’s a hard worker and never calls in sick. She pays her rent in cash and is always on time. Her boss, Aarón Madrigal, pays her in cash, leavin’ no paper trail whatsoever.

I know the bulk of Aarón’s employees are legit and on the books, but he’s got a few who aren’t. That’s ’cause of his soft spot for women who’ve fallen on hard times. Fuck knows, he and his mother are all too familiar with that sort of thing.

I still plan to pay Aarón a visit, however. I wanna hear it straight from him that Miss Arias isn’t a threat. Even so, it doesn’t mean I won’t be keepin’ tabs on her.

One thing’s for sure: her photo ID didn’t do her a damn bit of justice. She’s far more attractive in person.

Her hair’s cut short in the front, a dark fringe that falls barely past her brows, while the rest remains long and gathered at her nape in a low ponytail. The end reaches the middle of her back, shiny and smooth lookin’.

She works efficiently, scrubbin’ at the grout of the tiles, then wipin’ it clean to check her progress. The movement draws my attention to her arms, one bare of ink while the other’s covered in it.

Tattoos of blue morpho butterflies decorate her left arm, the artwork extendin’ from beneath the shirtsleeve and endin’ at her knuckles. Those same blue morphos peek out from beneath the left side of her collar, inked along the left side of her neck.

Those blue butterflies ignite a flash of memory, but I smother it. Nothin’ good comes from revisitin’ the past.

She doesn’t appear to wear any makeup, either. Other cleanin’ ladies dress nice and do their hair and makeup regardless of the kind of job they’ve got. But not Lola Arias, it seems.

One thing I did notice when I found her hidin’ in that bedroom was the small, pockmarked scars along her cheeks and near the corners of her lips. Not sure what they’d be from, but they looked a few years old.

Now, thick rubber gloves cover her hands as she finishes vigorously wipin’ down the floor where the body had been. Gotta give it to her, ’cause no traces of blood remain.

My men removed the body almost immediately. They know the drill, and I have no doubt they’ve already sent Rafa through the woodchipper. It deposits everythin’ into the jungle—where it’ll serve as food for the scavengers and compost for nature.

Determination lines her features as the lean muscles of her arms flex in time to each harsh swipe of the large cleanin’ rag. A pair of jeans encases her ass, moldin’ over the slight flare of her hips.

I cut a sharp glance at my men who stand closest to her, only to discover they’re transfixed by the sight of her ass. When I clear my throat, their eyes jerk to mine, and they at least have the decency to appear embarrassed before schoolin’ their expressions.

Miss Arias climbs to her feet and surveys the space, as if makin’ sure everythin’ meets her cleanin’ standards, before her obstinate brown eyes clash with mine. “All done.”

With the bucket handle gripped in one gloved hand and the rag draped over the bucket’s side, she strides toward the laundry room. One of my men follows her, a hand on his weapon, prepared to draw at any time.

Precautions. This life is filled with ’em.

The slidin’ glass door, tile floor, walls, nor the chair hold any trace of what happened earlier, but my men will do their own inspection to be certain.

When she returns, my man nudges her to stop in front of me. She’s got balls of steel that I begrudgingly admire. Not many people would stand before me like this. Usually, their knees give out and they cower.

Not her, though. She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin to peer at me as though she’s prepared herself for whatever’s to come—even death. Equally admirable and strange, it’s a rarity to witness.

While I study her, she brazenly returns the gesture. My fingers flex with the urge to draw my weapon. I don’t fuckin’ trust her—hell, it’s quicker to list those I do trust—and I sure as fuck won’t hesitate to put a bullet in her if she tries somethin’.

I know I’m a bastard, and while killin’ women isn’t somethin’ I get off on, I do what’s necessary to keep shit straight. To maintain control.

“I cleaned everything. There’s no way anyone will detect anything happened here.” She speaks with a certain confidence that indicates it’s not an empty promise. But I haven’t made it this far by takin’ people at their word. Promises are too damn easy to make.

Even easier to break.

I take an abrupt step closer and don’t miss the slightest flinch she gives before liftin’ her chin to continue meetin’ my gaze. Interestin’. So, she is afraid of me.

Good. She should be.

Beneath the lingerin’ scent of cleanin’ detergents she’s used, I detect the faintest hint of coconut. Nothin’ about coconut is unique here; you’d have trouble walkin’ five feet without encounterin’ a coconut tree. But on this woman, it somehow eludes bein’ stereotypical and cloyin’.

It doesn’t, however, mean I’m goin’ soft. Lola Arias is unique and intriguin’, and my gut instinct—which never leads me wrong—tells me she could be useful to me.

For now, at least.

“People don’t tend to stay alive once they’ve witnessed shit like this.” My tone is menacin’ ’cause I speak the fuckin’ truth. But somethin’s makin’ me hesitate to follow through on my usual protocol.

Her bare lips press into a thin line as if attemptin’ to censor her response. Her eyes give her away though, screamin’ at me to fuck off. “I won’t say a word to anyone. I’m not a threat to you.”

I make a noncommittal sound. “You might think so, but I don’t make a habit of leavin’ loose ends behind.” A beat of silence hangs between us before I tip my head to the side, studyin’ her closely. “You know who I am?”

“No.” Her answer’s instant, with no hesitation whatsoever. Either she’s a magnificent liar or she’s been livin’ under a rock. That’s not my arrogance talkin’; it’s pure facts.

Not only do I have a stronghold over this area, but my territory extends well past our northern and southern borders. Central America itself is my fuckin’ domain.

Because of that, my reputation’s well-known and the majority of law enforcement officers are on my payroll. Most local business owners are, too.

One of whom happens to be Aarón, her employer.

“I should introduce myself properly, then.” When I edge even closer, the flicker of her pulse in her neck defies her bold, brave fa?ade. In the blink of an eye, I have my gun’s muzzle beneath her chin, and her lips part a fraction before stampin’ shut.

“I’m Santiago Hernández, and I rule this place.” I wait for a flicker of recognition across her face, but nothin’ comes. Her only reaction is the flash of anger that ripples over her features.

“Word on the street is a certain cop has his eyes on you.” I bring our faces closer, my tone lethal and low. “Which means I can’t take your word that you’ll keep your mouth shut. I’ve got no way of knowin’ you won’t go confessin’ everythin’ to the cops.”

Her jaw goes tight, those brown eyes spearin’ me with obstinance. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” Her voice is clear, tone firm and resolute. “And if I say I promise I won’t tell anyone, I mean it.”

A caustic, derisive sound rumbles in my chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her eyes never leave mine, and fuck if a hint of admiration at her ballsiness doesn’t rear up inside me.

Our gazes hold a long beat while my men remain poised to jump into action if necessary. Howler monkeys sound in the distance, loud and echoin’ through the jungle, but I never tear my eyes off her.

I scan her features for any semblance of dishonesty before lowerin’ my gun to my side. My trigger finger’s still twitchy as fuck, though. “I’ll be watchin’ you, Miss Arias.”

My voice drops an octave, and that pulse in her throat goes wild. “I catch you runnin’ your mouth to anyone, it’s all over. Understood?”

She replies with zero hesitation. “Understood. I won’t say a word to anyone.”

“Good.” I dip my chin a fraction, never breakin’ eye contact. “That’s a smart choice.”

“So…this means we’re done here.” She glances at the area she’s just cleaned before her attention returns to me. “We’re even.”

A rumble climbs up my chest, and I shake my head. “Oh no, Miss Arias. We’re not done. Not even close.” With a smirk, I add, “As a token of your goodwill and promise that you won’t talk, I expect you to keep me informed if anybody comes around askin’ any questions.”

She lifts her chin a notch, eyes flashin’ with irritation. “No one will be coming around asking any questions because this place is spotless.”

I raise my brows a fraction, and her mouth flattens. “I suppose we’ll see.”

She flexes her fingers on her left hand before curlin’ them inward. Flexes, then inward again. But only the left. The hand that’s almost entirely covered in ink.

When she notices my attention lingerin’ on it, she immediately stops. “Is that all, Mr. Hernández?”

I barely resist the urge to laugh at her formal use of my name. Mr. Hernández. Nobody calls me Mr. anythin’. It’s either boss to my men or motherfucker to those who hate me.

Gordo’s the only one who’s earned the right to call me anythin’ different. We’ve been friends the longest and survived tragic shit most would consider nightmares. Still, he only calls me by my first name when no one else is around. He’s a stickler for followin’ protocol.

“Mr. Hernández... So prim and proper.” I repeat this slowly, my tone encased in amusement. It serves to piss her off if the stiffenin’ of her shoulders and clench of her jaw are any indication. “No, Miss Arias. That’s not all.”

Every trace of humor in my voice abruptly dies as I narrow my gaze on her. “We’ll see to it that you get home safely and”—I pause—“I’ll have eyes on you in the meantime. You know…in case you forget your promise.”

A caginess edges into her features, eyes dartin’ to the men surroundin’ us. “I can get home without any assistance.” Obstinance bleeds through in her voice. “I’ve been getting by just fine by myself, so I’m certain tonight won’t be any different.”

My smile isn’t kind, and she goes rigid the instant I flash it. “Oh, but I insist, Miss Arias.” My voice grows quieter, lowerin’ to a murmur, but it holds a threat that’s evident for anyone with two fuckin’ brain cells. “And I won’t have it any other way.”

Mouth tense, her eyes narrow a fraction. “How do I know you won’t just kill me on the drive home?”

My smile evaporates; my answer is succinct and honest. “You don’t.”