When Lies Unfold

Chapter 74

Gordo pullsthe vehicle around to the entrance of Santy’s home, and my stomach sinks at the sight that greets us.

“You had to expect this.” Gordo sounds like he’s holding back a laugh.

Santy leans against the open doorjamb, arms crossed over his broad, bare chest. He’s barefoot and clad in only a pair of black slacks.

And he looks pissed.

Reluctance and trepidation slow my movements, and by the time I exit the vehicle, Gordo’s already rounding the front.

His tone is jovial and at complete odds with Santy’s dark, menacing expression. “Told you we’d be back soon.”

Santy doesn’t spare him a glance. His focus remains locked on me as I edge toward the open doorway. Razor-sharp barbs line his tone. “You left.”

“You were sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake you.” It’s a pitiful excuse, and we both know it.

His gaze narrows, spearing me with accusations. “But you were fine runnin’ off with Gordo? Is that it?”

Before I can fire off a response, Gordo slings an arm around my shoulders. “She sure was. We went for a lovely stroll through the jungle by moonlight and?—”

The punch comes out of nowhere, but Gordo’s head barely moves from the impact. He rubs the side of his jaw, eyeing Santy with amusement. “Feel better now?”

“Not at all.”

“Yeah, well, that’s all you get”—Gordo scowls—“’cause once you pull your head outta your ass, you’ll remember that I’d never fuck around with Lola.”

He drops his arm from my shoulders and flashes me a quick wink before stepping around us and heading inside.

Santy and I remain immersed in a smothering, tense silence until he finally speaks. His voice is muted and hoarse. “Woke up without you. Didn’t like it.” That muscle in his cheek flickers. “Thought you’d left already.”

I give my head a little shake. “I wouldn’t leave without telling you.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets, and without a belt, it causes his pants to ride even lower. His entire inked torso is on display, including the strip of dark hair leading from the base of his belly button and disappearing behind his pants.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, and we won’t get to have that talk we need to have.”

Those husky words cause my gaze to abruptly lift to his. Wariness edges to the forefront of my emotions. “What talk is that?”

Instead of answering, he tips his head, gesturing for me to head inside. “Let’s go to my office.”

He waits for me to precede him inside before we fall into step, walking side by side in silence. Once we enter his office, he closes the door and sits behind his desk.

I lower myself to the chair opposite him, my muscles growing impossibly taut with apprehension by the second.

Dressed in only a pair of pants, he should look far less intimidating than he does in his usual tailored designer button-downs. Yet when he leans back in his leather desk chair, he still incites the impulse to fidget beneath the heavy weight of his stare.

His inscrutable expression gives away nothing. “How you feel about today?”

I take a second to answer. Because honestly, I know this is the right thing to do. I hold the power to get Alma back with her father, where she’s safe and loved.

But my feelings? Those are messy and beyond convoluted. A small part of me is terrified to confront the monster who robbed me of so much. One who forever changed the trajectory of my life.

Another part of me is antsy and determined to do whatever it takes to ensure that Hidalgo never takes another breath. Even if it means sacrificing my last breath.

As much as I’ve struggled with the knowledge that I’m a murderer, there’s no way I plan to turn myself over to Juarez and the US authorities. I escaped a nightmare of a prison once, and I refuse to return to a different brand of one.

I offer Santy a succinct response. “I feel confident.” It’s mostly true, because I am confident I’ll succeed, regardless of what it costs me.

My main goal is to see that Alma is safely returned to Santy. The rest—marring my soul further by murdering Hidalgo—is just a bonus.

Pitch-black eyes probe mine as if they’re attempting to sift through my thoughts. Something flickers across his features before they turn more severe, instilling a deeper wariness that seeps into my bones.

Without tearing his focus off me, he eases his chair a few inches away from his desk. His voice is a scratchy rasp, his tone filled with a command as he raps his inked knuckles against the desk’s surface.

“Come ’ere, Miss Arias.”