When Lies Unfold

Chapter 5

It comesas no surprise when I’m ushered toward a black Toyota Fortuner with blacked-out windows. This particular model is pricey as hell, but it’s probably a drop in the bucket for a cartel leader.

It’s a major consolation that I’m not being held at gunpoint, nor is anyone dragging a hood over my head and zip-tying my wrists.

My cross-body bag is currently in the custody of Henchman Two, who’s in the front passenger seat while Henchman One drives. My cell phone was also liberated from me, of course, which isn’t the least bit surprising.

In the backseat, I’m trapped between two intimidating men who exude a cloying, menacing air.

The man on my left answers to “Gordo” and evidently doesn’t mind being called “Fatty.” He could easily pass as a professional wrestler instead of some maniacal narco’s henchman. His shoulders are so broad that his poor shirt appears like one stretch at the wrong angle will make the fabric rip at the seams.

On my right, of course, is the man who held his gun to my head. Santiago Hernández. I’m not deluded enough to believe he didn’t consider killing me right there in that bedroom. I know he did. I could sense it. But somehow, by the grace of the universe or God—or both, possibly—I convinced him not to.

For now, at least. I know he’s not letting me off the hook this easily. Nothing is simple when it comes to narcos. That much is common knowledge.

He doesn’t trust me, which I’m certain comes with the territory when one’s in charge of a well-known cartel.

But I’ve also perfected the art of reading people over the years. While he has threatened me, he isn’t planning on killing me tonight. Otherwise, he would’ve already done so.

Whatever his men dug up on me must’ve set him somewhat at ease. I know I’m boring. I don’t have much of a life, and I prefer it this way. It’s safer.

There’s security that comes with knowing I’m on my own. That I’m resilient enough to take care of myself. That I’ll never again put my trust in anyone else—least of all another man.

That familiar phantom pain sears through my left hand as if it’s been alerted to my train of thoughts and the reappearance of memories I’ve attempted to lock away.

Fingers pressing into the knotted flesh beneath the colorful ink, I massage my hand before the heavy weight of Santiago’s gaze settles on me. A prickle of awareness skitters down the length of my spine, and I quickly sandwich my hands between my jean-clad thighs and sit up straighter.

The last thing I want or need is to show this asshole how much he’s shaken me, because I know his type. Men like him get off on intimidating and terrorizing others.

I pretended not to recognize his name, and he appeared to believe me. I was desperate to appear as innocent as possible in order for him to consider sparing my life.

I wasn’t entirely sure it would work, but thank fuck it did. Only now, I have to work even harder to suppress my nerves. Because being in the presence of Central America’s number one drug cartel leader isn’t for the faint of heart.

Although I’ve heard of him before, I’ve never sought out photos of the man. That’s why his physical appearance came as even more of a surprise.

He doesn’t have that slimy way about him—the stereotypical gelled hair and pristine clothing that makes him look like he’s playing dress-up in someone else’s suits.

I’m not saying he’s not well-dressed; he is. His clothing is perfectly tailored, and he seems at complete ease in the expensive designer shirt and slacks like it’s second skin for him.

As my attention drops to his shoes, cloaked in the shadows of the car’s interior, I recall noticing them earlier inside the house. Their shine was slightly marred by the thin layer of dust and dirt prevalent during the “dry season” or summer. It was an interesting contrast to the otherwise perfectly put-together exterior.

He’s also much taller than I would’ve anticipated and alarmingly handsome. I hate admitting the latter—especially about a criminal—but it’s true.

His black hair is shaved close on the sides with the longer, top portion tied back, leaving the barest inch of a ponytail and a faint dusting of silver at his temples. Black scruff covers his jaw, but it’s been spared of any silver.

His fierce features hold a harsh rawness, those sharp, angular cheekbones giving him a sleek but dangerous intensity. Faint lines fan from the outer edges of his eyes, and on anyone else, I’d assume it was from smiling. But not on this man. No…on him, these are likely from him squinting, narrowing those eyes on an enemy, or quite simply someone who’s pissed him off.

In the dim interior of the vehicle, my eyes roam over him surreptitiously. Tattoos begin just beneath his chin and cover his throat, exposed by the top two unfastened buttons of his shirt.

Shirtsleeves, cuffed at his elbows, display his corded forearms. Nearly every inch of that exposed skin is covered with swirls of black ink, some depicting various arrangements of skulls and machetes, with fancy script dripping down over his fingers.

While his nose appears to have been broken more than once and his mouth remains set in a perpetually grim line, when we were face to face earlier, his eyes had spoken volumes to me.

Those eyes—the darkest shade of brown bordering on black—illustrate far more than the man himself could ever let on. His tell me he’s not only witnessed horrors but delivered them.

Willingly.

And I’ll be the next recipient if I don’t play nice. If I’m not smart. If I make even the slightest misstep.

Those lines fanning from his eyes combined with the dusting of silver at his temples and the unspoken experiences his eyes hold are the main indicators leading me to believe he’s older than me.

With Gordo taking up far more than his allotted space beside me, as much as I try to curl into myself, the bumpy road jostles me. This causes my arm to graze against Santiago’s, and I tense.

His low rumble reaches my ears. “Easy, Miss Arias.” If I didn’t know better, I’d say a trace of amusement laces his words. “No harm done.”

The silent yet lingers between us, as dense as a thick layer of fog covering the mountains most mornings. Though I attempt to shirk off the claws of fear that grip the nape of my neck, I’m not entirely successful.

I’ve done so well in pushing past my debilitating fear of men like him. I refuse to let him upend the life I’ve made here.

If I play along, continue my innocent act, and prove to him I can keep my mouth shut, surely, he’ll move on to killing others?—

“Here we are.” Santiago’s voice drags me from my thoughts a moment before he exits the vehicle. He stands by the door, waiting for me.

Another black SUV is already parked in front of my little casita?1. One man stands stiffly beside it as if he’s been designated as a sentry. I slide across the seat to exit, and the man addresses Santiago.

“All clear inside.”

Of course,he’d sent someone to inspect my home. I’d expect nothing less. As much as I hate the idea of someone pawing through my sparse belongings, I’m relieved I don’t have anything they’d be interested in.

I ease to my feet beside Santiago and… Damn. He’s a fraction less intimidating seated beside me compared to towering over me like this.

Illuminated in the bright moonlight combined with the flickering light outside my front door from a few feet away, he surveys me critically before addressing his men. “I’ll be a minute.” His attention cuts to me, arrogance oozing from his words. “Gotta be a gentleman and see Miss Arias inside.”

I start toward the door of my casita that shines like a beacon of safety. My feet carry me up the three small steps to my door.

“A gentleman.” The muttered words escape me before I realize it, and their derisive quality can’t be missed. He cinches my upper arm in a tight, punishing grip that halts me in my tracks.

Dark and lethal, his tone possesses a danger so tangible it sends a chill straight to the marrow of my bones. “You tryin’ to imply I’m not a gentleman, Miss Arias?”

To lie or not to lie.The thought strikes a split second before I stifle it. Because I’m Lola Arias, and I don’t cower to any man.

I’m not the young, na?ve girl I once was. I’m not someone easily pushed around—literally or figuratively.

I made a promise to never suppress my own voice. When I finally broke away from my shitty past, I vowed never again to be the weak, spineless human I’d once been.

I turn and meet his scrutinizing gaze. “Do you want an honest answer?”

“Always.”

“Then, yes.” My tone is curt and no-nonsense. “I was implying you’re not a gentleman, because you don’t strike me as one.”

His grip loosens, but his penetrating stare continues holding me captive. “That so?”

I offer the briefest nod before gesturing toward his hold on me. “Can I go inside now?”

A pregnant beat lingers before he relinquishes his hold and drops his hand at his side. I reach for my door only to stop short, realizing I don’t have my bag with my phone.

When the object itself is thrust in my line of vision, I snatch it without a thank-you and paw through it to ensure everything’s still intact and my phone’s tucked inside.

I reach for the door handle and rush inside without a backward glance. My words spill out in a grumble, because I’m pissed at having my privacy violated and having my life threatened. Not to mention, the stress and exhaustion from the additional cleaning and disinfecting of all the bloodstains has tipped me over the edge.

“Next time you have someone inspect my home, make sure they lock up behind themselves, okay?” I use my foot to shove the door closed behind me, but the sound of a heavy palm slapping against it stops it.

Ignoring the menacing silence that follows as the door closes with a soft click, I toe off my shoes on the mat.

Two skinny floor lamps illuminate the meager interior space as I drop my bag on the small wooden table that wobbles on its uneven legs. Thankfully, my keys are sitting there, delivered by the assholes who entered my home uninvited.

“Nice place you got here.”

I whirl around and pin him with a hard glare. His remark, saturated with arrogance, causes me to fist my hands at my sides.

“I’m sure it’s not up to your standards, but it suits me just fine.”

Dark brows descend and brackets form on either side of his mouth. The surrounding air feels as though it’s turned cooler. “You got a mouth on you, don’t you?”

I lift my chin a notch. “I may not have much, Mr. Hernández, but I’m a hard worker, and everything I have has come from that.”

Lips flattening as he studies me, his eyes scour over me for a long moment. It’s so lengthy that I’m tempted by the urge to fidget beneath the weight of his scrutiny.

“I wasn’t bein’ facetious.”

My brain screeches to a halt, replaying his words, and I blink. Did he read a dictionary?

As if privy to my thoughts, his gaze hardens while his jaw turns to granite. “Figures you’d assume I wasn’t intelligent.”

When he resumes his inspection of my home’s interior, I’m torn between relief and remorse that I’m no longer his center of attention.

What the hell?I mentally shake off the odd reaction as I watch him and wonder why he’s here with me. Alone.

My thoughts race. Could I fight him off if he tries anything?

I have sharp enough knives, but that kind of weapon makes for a mess. Not to mention, he may be older than me, but his solid build indicates he’s no stranger to working out. It wouldn’t be a fair fight by a long shot?—

“Not here for that.”

Startled, my gaze crashes into his. The barest hint of amusement flickers there before disappearing so fast I wonder if it was my imagination.

“Then what are you here for?”

He cocks his head to the side. “My men checked your work back there. You did well. There’s no trace that anythin’ happened.”

“I hold true to my promises.”

He lets out a grunt that implies he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. Walking farther inside, he inspects the kitchen and the small table nearby. I’m not sure what he expects to find in this small one-bedroom home.

“You like to cook?”

I blink, unsure of where his line of questioning is leading. “Sometimes.”

When he trails his fingers along the cheap countertop, it serves as a blunt reminder of how I traded in a spacious kitchen with granite countertops to drool over for this abbreviated cooking space.

But I don’t regret it for even a moment.

He lifts his fingers and inspects them. “You don’t slack off in your own cleanin’, either. Impressive.”

I barely resist rolling my eyes. Instead, I cross my arms, wishing he’d get to the point and leave.

He stops at the loveseat that’s seen better days. I reupholstered it two years ago, finally making the secondhand furniture my own. In a wicker basket beside it is a clear zippered case with sewing needles and thick fabric swatches.

When his attention snags on it, my breath lodges in my throat while my left hand erupts in pain once again.

He muses, “Wouldn’t have guessed you had a thing for sewin’,” before leveling me with a questioning look.

I don’t say a word. Instead, I regard him as he approaches much like a stealthy lion might creep up on its prey.

Once he’s directly in front of me, I’m forced to tip my head back to meet his gaze. Yet again, I’m assaulted by his nearness and clean, masculine scent.

“You better not talk to anybody.” An arctic air of malice blankets his command.

“I told you I wouldn’t.”

He leans in, bringing his face closer to mine. Why would the universe bestow thick, long eyelashes on a man like him?

His next words dust over my lips with his minty breath, his tone gravelly. “See, now…I don’t have much faith when it comes to people’s promises.”

As I peer into his dark eyes, a shiver travels down my spine…but it’s not entirely out of fear. It’s partly a foreign sensation I haven’t experienced in years.

It’s also wholly unwelcome—especially pertaining to this man.

“You can have faith in mine.”

His voice drops even lower. “Yeah?”

Held captive by his gaze, I nod. “Yes.”

A beat passes before he murmurs, “What’s the last thing you sewed?”

What? I blink up at him, unsure of the abrupt change of topic. His random question is anything but; I know this inherently. He’s not the kind of man who does anything without a specific purpose.

“A button.”

His jaw works while I maintain eye contact, refusing to give him any reason to doubt me. “Why butterflies?”

If I thought his sewing inquiry threw me off, that’s nothing compared to this one. He’s questioning my tattoos now?

“Why not?”

He’s instantly in my face, the tips of our noses a breath away from touching. His eyes flash with the promise of violence. “Seems you got a serious problem with answerin’ simple questions.”

I refuse to back down and give in to his intimidation tactics. “Or I just don’t appreciate being interrogated after a long night of work.”

His features harden even further, the demand evident in his clipped tone. “Answer the question. Why butterflies?”

My brows rise in disbelief, my tone matching it. “You’re asking about my tattoos?” Gesturing with a tip of my chin toward the exposed ink along his throat, I counter, “You should know tattoos tend to be personal.” I hold his gaze steadfast, my tone resolute. “It’s not something I share.”

Ohhh, he doesn’t like my answer—or lack thereof. Not one bit. That much is evident when the brackets framing his mouth deepen even further. It’s a pity, too, because his mouth is quite nice.

Too bad it’s connected to an asshole criminal.

Voice like steel, his tone holds an authoritative bite. “I don’t trust you, Miss Arias. Not one bit. And I don’t leave loose ends. But there’s somethin’ about you I can’t quite put my finger on.”

He leans back, assessing me critically. “A part of me wants to believe you don’t wanna be involved in this shit you wound up in. That you’ve got no intention of runnin’ your mouth.”

“Because I don’t.” I supply this quickly—truthfully. “I want nothing to do with any of this.” My following words emerge as sharp barbs. “I don’t go around murdering innocent people.”

A harsh, derisive sound rips from his throat while his features grow stormy. “You think Rafa was innocent?”

Though deceptively calm, his words are veiled in pure menace. “He would’ve fucked you like a goddamn animal if he’d found you in that house.” After he lets that taunt hang between us for a long moment, his voice drops even lower as he dips his face closer to mine. “And the more you resisted, the more he’d get off on it.”

Terrifying images flicker in my mind, and he seems to pick up on it. “Yeah…don’t be thinkin’ some savior died tonight.” That perceptive gaze narrows, boring into mine with unyielding intensity. “Ain’t nobody gonna miss that fucker.”

I hitch my chin higher, resisting the temptation to break eye contact. “I just want to pretend this night never happened. So, rest assured, I have no intention of telling anyone about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” My response is heavy with exasperation. “Look, I’m exhausted. That was an enormous home I just cleaned by myself. It’s late, and I have to be up early to clean at least a handful of homes tomorrow. So, if you don’t mind, I need to shower and get some sleep.”

A slow, cunning smirk forms on his lips. I wonder if this is the final vision his victims see before they meet their demise.

Just because he’s spared my life—so far—doesn’t mean he has a soft spot. It’s all calculated. He’s a lowlife, just like his murderous nephew.

“I’ll be watchin’ you, Miss Arias.” He delivers this ominous threat in a barely audible murmur. When he leans in again, his proximity has goose bumps rising along my skin. “Every fuckin’ move you make. And the moment you fuck up”—he has the muzzle of his gun pressed beneath my chin in a move far too fluid and unnaturally soundless—“nothin’ll stop me from pullin’ this trigger.”

The cool metal is unforgiving against my flesh, prodding in a way that’s far too familiar.

My throat turns bone dry while my mouth feels as though it’s been filled with sand. When I attempt to moisten my lips, his focus drops, riveted to my tongue’s quick movement.

All oxygen is robbed from my lungs and the air flares to life as though it’s been electrified. Those obsidian eyes flicker with what I’d assume was heat if it were anyone else but him.

When he speaks in a low, gravelly tone, each movement of his full lips holds my gaze captive. “Good night, Miss Arias.”

It shouldn’t sound like a caress. Not from this man. That’s what I repeat internally, because…shit.

My entire system must be out of whack. That has to be it. Years of avoiding men. Of celibacy. Of getting my life back on track after my dreams were stolen from me.

It’s all taken a toll, and now, my proverbial compass that’s supposed to point toward a nice, attractive, nonthreatening man is severely damaged.

With that subdued farewell, Santiago lowers his weapon and strides toward the door, exiting quietly. Even in his absence, he’s polluted my home with a dense, malicious smog.

I reach the count of ten before my knees go shaky, and I slump back against the wall.

Five years.I rebuilt my entire life, and now one man—one undeniable asshole of a man—is threatening every part of it.

My legs quiver, and I crumple to the floor. Curling my knees against my chest, I wrap my arms around them and stare sightlessly across the living room.

I have no choice but to prove to a cartel leader that I’m trustworthy.

And I will. Fuck Santiago Hernández and his doubts. His threats. His arrogance.

I haven’t made it this far by being easily tripped up by some vicious criminal.

I sure as hell don’t plan to start now.