When Lies Unfold

Chapter 37

A battle churns deepwithin me on whether to wear something of my own versus that dress. The fact that Santiago gave me a choice just…matters.

Somehow, I know the man wouldn’t look down on me if I wore my own much simpler, cheaper clothing.

After a deep, fortifying breath, I reach for the dress.

The fabric molds to my curves like a lover’s hands, the hem flirting with the top of my knees and a slit along one side. With a slim diagonal strap over one shoulder, my other shoulder remains bare. I wonder if he planned it like this—to have my exposed shoulder be the one covered in inked butterflies.

Cut in a straight line, the bodice doesn’t bare even the tops of my breasts and is a much more conservative choice than I would’ve expected from him.

However, when it comes to the back, it’s increasingly more revealing. The entire length of my spine is on display, which means my tattoos are in plain sight.

The only saving grace is that my hair will conceal the part near my nape. While this dress exposes more of my body than I’m accustomed to, it’s inarguably gorgeous.

Since I don’t use much makeup, I’m ready in no time at all after I dry my hair. Once I slip the heels on, I wobble and brace a hand against the wall to steady myself.

A deprecating grunt falls from my lips because I may very well embarrass us both tonight. I’m sure Santiago didn’t consider that before demanding that I accompany him.

The knock on the door sends ripples of unease and nervousness through me. I smooth a hand down the front of my dress and exhale slowly before opening my bedroom door.

All oxygen evaporates from my lungs at the sight before me. Holy shit. Alma wasn’t kidding when she said Santiago dresses fancy for dinner.

Hovering at the threshold, he wears a three-piece suit that’s so well-tailored it molds to his body like a second skin.

Hair combed back and cinched in the usual abbreviated ponytail, the first few buttons of his shirt remain undone, revealing the menacing skull tattoo etched over his throat.

He canvasses me from head to toe in what feels more like a caress than a perusal. Once our eyes meet, his hold a gleam of approval intertwined with heated lust.

Darkly inked hands remain braced on either side of the doorjamb as his tall, muscled form haunts my doorway.

The man is undeniably attractive, and knowing he puts forth little to no effort makes it even more frustrating. It’s what spurs me to try and get under his skin.

Tipping my head to study him, I wrinkle my nose. “And here I thought maybe a fancy business dinner would give me a break from the girly hair.”

A knowing smirk tugs at his lips as he surveys me similarly. “And here I thought maybe invitin’ you to a fancy business dinner meant you’d be nicer to me.”

He leans in closer, his clean masculine scent filling the air. Lowering his voice, he murmurs, “Thought for sure all those orgasms I gave you woulda counted toward somethin’, too.”

Heat suffuses my body as flashbacks of the pleasure he’s given me flicker before my eyes. Desperate to keep my wits about me, I clear my throat and smooth a hand down my dress. “Are you ready?”

“Mm. First, I gotta know…” One edge of his lips tips up the smallest fraction. “You wearin’ panties tonight?”

I squint at him. “Let’s pretend you’re a gentleman for once and that you don’t ask me such things.”

When I attempt to duck beneath his left arm, he moves it to block my escape. A trace of amusement lingers in his dark eyes. “You and I both know nobody’s gonna mistake me for a gentleman.”

I hitch my chin a notch higher, trying not to reveal how his proximity threatens to unravel me. That his clean, masculine scent beneath the hint of cologne is as pleasant as it is.

“Ready?”

“I suppose.” I gesture toward my heels. “I should probably warn you there’s a possibility I’ll fall in these things.”

“Then let me help.” He offers me his upturned palm.

At my shocked expression, he averts his gaze and scrubs his other hand over his face. “Just this once, since you need it, maybe I can…pretend to be a gentleman.” His response is uncharacteristically muted, giving me the impression he’s embarrassed. But that can’t be.

Santiago Hernández, embarrassed? The mere idea is so preposterous, it’s laughable.

Even so, when his eyes cut to mine with a trace of hesitance, I find myself placing my hand in his. And I wish I could explain it—wish I could refute it—but the instant I do, it’s as though I’m shrouded in a thick blanket of security.

Holding my hand tight, he doesn’t rush my pace as I acclimate to walking in the heels. He leads me in the opposite direction of the dining room and to a wing of his enormous home that I haven’t yet had the opportunity to explore fully.

The instant we set foot in this particular area, it actually feels different. An ominous tension lingers as we near double doors guarded by two men clad in bulletproof vests. It’s not exactly a comforting sight.

Wordlessly, the men open the doors to reveal an enormous table that resembles something that would be found in a business conference room rather than someone’s home.

Even worse than the intimidating size of the table are the guests seated around it, chatting amongst themselves.

Painful memories rear their ugly head, and my scars ignite in searing pain.

When Santiago steps forward, my feet refuse to move. His questioning glance sparks an unwelcome vulnerability inside me.

He turns to face me, thankfully blocking me from the view of his guests. Capturing my other hand, he tugs me closer.

“Talk to me.” His barely there rumble is commanding, but the fact that he’s lowered his voice to not be overheard speaks volumes.

I study him for a beat before confessing in a whisper-hiss, “There’s a good chance I’ll embarrass you because I’m not used to attending dinners or things like…this.”

It’s the truth. I haven’t attended dinners of this caliber in years now. Back then, I always came away with painful physical punishment because I never said or did the right thing.

His brow furrows. “How you think you’re gonna embarrass me?”

I scramble for a believable response that has truth threaded in it. “Because I’m just a cleaner. I don’t do anything fancy”—I tip my head in the direction of the room—“like this.”

He stays quiet, as though digesting my words, while his dark eyes remain locked on me. Then his voice lowers to something fierce and formidable.

“Listen to me. Those people in there”—he tips his head in a discreet gesture—“regard you exactly how your body language tells ’em to. You go in there believin’ you’re just a cleaner and beneath ’em, and they’re gonna look at you like that.”

He lets his words linger between us. “But you’re not just a cleaner. Never been just anythin’. You’re Lola-fuckin’-Arias. Beautiful. Brave. Smart as hell.” Releasing one of my hands, he tucks my hair behind my ear. “That’s what you are, and that’s what you’re gonna show ’em when you walk in there.”

My throat threatens to swell shut while my eyes widen with shock. He’s under no obligation to lie to boost my ego. I’m nothing to him but a liability, as he’s reminded me time and again.

But in this moment, he’s offering me a gift. Perhaps it’s some sort of peace offering. I don’t know what he’s up to, and although he appears genuine, I know better than to think he doesn’t have ulterior motives.

He’s on one side—a criminal, a known killer—and I’m on the other. I don’t break the law. I live a quiet life. And I certainly don’t make a habit of killing people.

But right now, I’ll allow his kind, empowering words to soothe that old, wounded part of me that’s remained raw and overexposed for years.

“You with me?” His husky voice possesses more than a trace of concern.

When I give a curt nod, relief edges into his features. The hand holding mine gives a little, barely there squeeze, and a split second later, we enter the dining area.

Conversation draws to a halt, and I use all my concentration to put one foot in front of the other. Santiago guides me toward the head of the table, where two elegant place settings await us. He pulls out my chair and claims his place after I’m seated.

His commanding air is palpable as he tugs his cloth napkin from his place setting and drapes it over his lap. My fingers feel clumsy when I do the same, but thankfully, I succeed without knocking anything over.

Addressing the guests with a dip of his chin, he says, “Appreciate your attendance. Gonna eat first, then talk business. Like usual.”

My riotous nerves have me avoiding casting glances at the other guests. Evidently, I’m not spared from awkwardness, because the bottom of my stomach drops out when a female voice pipes up with, “Who’s your guest, Santy?”

I should’ve known better when she showed up in Alma’s room dressed as she was. My eyes dart to the end of the table where Keyna’s seated. A cursory glance tells me she’s the only other woman here, and I can’t help but wonder if Santiago invited her.

The thought sends irrational jealousy pulsing through me which I dutifully ignore.

“This is Miss Arias.” Santiago leans back in his chair, arms propped on the armrests. “Lola Arias.”

Keyna’s gaze narrows on me, and I brace myself for her response. “Isn’t she Alma’s nanny?” Pure distaste drips from the last word, and my spine turns to steel.

Without thinking first, my mouth fires off. “Yes. And we all know you’re his fuck buddy. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, can we eat? I’m starving.”

I brace for Santiago’s wrath, knowing I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but his unexpected chuckle has me braving a glance his way.

A hint of pride colors his features as he regards me with that scrutinizing gaze. Without breaking eye contact, he announces, “I agree with what you said, except for one thing.”

When he continues with, “Keyna’s no longer my fuck buddy,” the room is blanketed with a dangerous undercurrent. The meaning and blatant possessiveness in his statement are crystal clear.

When I cast a brief look at the other male guests, their expressions range from shock to amusement to…an imposing sort of inspection.

The latter comes from a man whose attention is riveted on me, unease causing my body to turn to stone.

Santiago lifts his hand in a signal for the waitstaff hovering nearby. “Let’s enjoy what Javier prepared for us tonight.”

A large fraction of the tense atmosphere subsides while murmurs and hums of approval sound when plates filled with food are placed in front of everyone. Some waitstaff fill water glasses while others fill wineglasses.

Once they retreat, Santiago lifts his wineglass in a toast and murmurs, “Buen provecho?1.” Everyone echoes the sentiment before beginning to eat.

A wave of déjà vu slams into me, threatening to pull me astray, as I stare down at my plate.

Salmon, topped with what appears to be a mango salsa, sits on a bed of jasmine rice with a roasted assortment of vegetables beside it.

My left hand twitches, recalling how it was once dominant and would reach for the elegant silverware during dinners like this. I curl my fingers into a tight fist in my lap and force it to stay there.

Santiago leans close to speak in a hushed tone. “Don’t like salmon?”

“It’s fine.” I have to think fast to excuse my hesitation, so I politely muster, “I was just saying a quick blessing beforehand.”

His shrewd gaze spears me, the barest trace of humor clinging to his words. “Hope you prayed for my ‘girly hair.’” With an uncharacteristically playful wink, he adds softly, “Maybe pray for my soul, too, huh?”

I roll my eyes and lean toward him, my response equally as muted. “We both know it’ll take a hell of a lot more than prayers to help you.”

Lines of amusement fan from the outer edges of his eyes, and it arouses satisfaction within me. I don’t realize my mouth has curved into a smile until his eyes drop to my lips.

My breath catches in my throat, and I avert my attention to my meal, doing my best to ignore that strange sensation.

Casual conversation flows while everyone eats, but I concentrate on each bite, savoring the delicious flavors that hit my tongue.

The man seated at the far end of the table near Keyna has been quiet until now. Assessing coal-black eyes cut to me, drifting from my face and along my upper body that’s not hidden by the table. “It’s not every day somebody new accompanies you, Santy.”

The man’s survey of me feels invasive and scrapes over my skin, but I force myself not to react. When his focus cuts to Santiago, I’m bombarded by relief.

But it’s short-lived, because the man continues with, “Surely, you can understand the curiosity that comes with that.” He sips his wine. “So, how did you two meet?”

Shitshitshit. As casually as possible, I use my fork to gather the small remainder of rice. Panic acts like a serrated blade, slicing through me, and I attempt to suppress it.

How will Santiago answer that? If he tells the truth, word will spread, and a giant spotlight will shine on me. That would increase my risk a million times over—and it’s exactly what I can’t afford.

The weight of Santiago’s attention compels me to look at him. A faint smirk briefly toys at his lips as he answers the man. “Lola and I met through an acquaintance.”

Abruptly, that smirk drops off his face. Santiago leans back in his chair, his steely gaze resting on the other man. “Now, Marcelo, I gotta admit… It’s not like you to take an interest in who I bring to dinner.”

Marcelo’s expression remains placid. “It’s only because I’ve never seen you with someone like Miss Arias before.”

His shrewd gaze scrapes over me, and when it lingers on my hands, I glance down only to have all oxygen leaches from my lungs. My left hand rests on the table beside the unused knife, my fingers tracing the base of my wineglass.

As casually as possible, I remove my hand from the table, returning it to my lap. When my eyes clash with Marcelo’s, my stomach churns at his narrowed gaze.

I startle at the weight of Santiago’s heavy palm settling overtop my left hand in my lap. My head whips around, and I peer at him only to discover he’s staring coolly at Marcelo.

His thumb sweeps over my scarred flesh and it sends a shiver racing down my spine. As discreetly as possible, I draw away from his touch.

“Someone like Miss Arias,” Santiago repeats slowly, each word possessing a lethal warning. “Meanin’ what, exactly?”

“I meant it as a compliment. She seems much less high maintenance.” Marcelo raises his wineglass in a toast, his gaze boring into me in an unnerving challenge. “It’s clear to see she’s unfamiliar with our…world.”

He reverts his attention to Santiago. The two appear to have some sort of silent exchange before they’re interrupted by the waitstaff clearing our dinner plates to deliver our dessert.

A thick slice of maracuya pie sits neatly on each plate, and my heart gives a little lurch in my chest. My abuelita used to gather maracuya—passionfruit—to make pie. As talented as Javier is, I know it won’t surpass my abuelita’s.

I pick up my spoon just as loud male voices sound on the other side of the dining room’s closed doors. Santiago’s entire body immediately stiffens beside me when the doors fling open to reveal a shirtless, disheveled Andro.

He’s barefoot and clad in a pair of low-slung slacks and an unbuttoned shirt, a wide bandage wrapped around his lower torso. He scans the seated guests, and the instant his attention lands on me, a sneer curls at his mouth.

“The fuck is she doin’ here?” Sweat beads along his forehead and upper lip, gleaming in the room’s lighting.

“Andro.” Santiago greets his nephew with extreme calmness. “You should be restin’.”

An unhinged wildness takes hold of Andro’s features while his focus remains locked on me. “I said, the fuck is she doin’ here?”

Santiago slams a fist on the table, violently rattling the dishes. Eyes flaming with anger, his features are granite hard, matching his tone. “Those pain meds must be affectin’ you. Otherwise, you’d know better than to question me.”

Tension heightens within the room, growing more suffocating when Andro advances toward us. The closer he gets, the louder every fiber in my body screams at me to run, but a heavy, callused palm settles on my bare thigh, keeping me in place.

Santiago’s fingers flex lightly, but when I cut him a questioning look, his attention rests solely on his nephew.

With a little squeeze, he releases me, and I don’t know what to make of the gesture. Is it a warning to keep my mouth shut? Is it to comfort me?

I’m not granted time to draw a conclusion. The hairs along the back of my neck stand on end when Andro hovers behind my chair.

“The hell happened to you?” One of the male guests narrows his eyes on Andro. “You get shot?”

Andro’s dark laugh acts like glass shards being raked over my skin. “Nah, but I was attacked and got fuckin’ cut open. Wanna know who did it?”

“Andro,” Santiago thunders in warning. He rises to his tall, imposing form, his face a mask of barely restrained fury. “That’s enough.”

Andro’s hands slam down on the back of my chair. “This fuckin’ whore right here attacked me.”

In the blink of an eye, Santiago has his gun aimed at his nephew. His jaw is so rigid I fear it might shatter at any moment.

Forcing my breathing to remain steady, I discreetly turn my dessert spoon around to watch Andro’s distorted form in its reflection.

“What? You gonna shoot me in the stomach after she cut me open?” Andro scoffs. “My own fuckin’ family’s turnin’ against me.”

One of the men dressed in a blue button-down shirt volunteers, “Nothin’ good’s gonna come from this, Andro.”

Before the younger man can respond, Santiago’s deep voice reverberates with authority. “You cut yourself, and everybody here knows it.” His gaze lifts past my shoulder. “Gordo, get him outta here now.”

In the next moment, everything happens in a blur. When Andro grabs a fistful of my hair, I abruptly turn in my seat, ignoring the tear-inducing agony of my hair pulling at my scalp. My movement catches him off guard, and I jab my spoon against his bandaged wound.

I’m released from his hold as he howls in pain, doubling over to clutch at his wound. I scramble from my seat only to be yanked behind Santiago’s imposing body.

With one hand on my hip, he maintains his weapon’s aim on his nephew. Gordo grabs a whimpering Andro by the scruff of his neck and hauls him away.

The disturbingly nonplussed guests casually finish their desserts while Santiago slides his gun into his holster. I suppose for people like them, something like this is commonplace. It doesn’t mean that my heart isn’t threatening to beat out of my chest, however.

The only one paying us any attention is Marcelo. Even Keyna is distracted while she flirts with the man beside her, although she intermittently casts longing looks at Santiago.

Marcelo’s keen observation is more than unnerving and fills me with a desperate need to escape his presence. The man’s eyes narrow, and his scrutiny intensifies when Santiago takes my hand.

“Excuse us while you finish your dessert.” Santiago announces this casually. “Be back shortly so we can get to talkin’ business.”

Then he hauls me from the room and away from prying eyes.