Chapter 28
Madison
Restriction and protection aren’t the same thing.
Well, that was… a lot.
Tío Felix having a history with my SpyderMan, and being involved in a kidnapping plot.
Wesley jumping between me and a gun… telling my tío he’d die for me.
Die for me?
I shiver and glance over at him, and find him squeezing the steering wheel so tightly that the leather creaks under his hands.
What a mind-fuck. We’ve both been stuck in this loop of disbelief and trying to process ever since we left Mama B’s.
We went back to the hotel, but we only stayed long enough to load my suitcase and cat into a surveillance van that’s jam-packed with so much tech and equipment I nearly creamed myself.
And now we’re on our way out to the ‘burbs.
It’s kind of funny, but of all the things that have happened in the past few days, it’s the fact that we’re on our way to Mansion Row that feels the most unreal.
Streets widen, trees appear, and suddenly there’s room to breathe. It’s flatter out here, with parking lots instead of rows of two-story buildings right against the sidewalk. People have yards, and homes are set back off the street.
Wesley turns into a neighborhood, and I am momentarily stunned by the sight of homes bigger than entire apartment complexes near where I live.
We drive past plots of land that are probably called estates or some shit.
One has its own tennis court. One has a series of buildings—I bet the help lives in one.
And Wesley lives here? Shit, I’ve been in the wrong business…
We pull up to a huge iron gate and I watch, completely awestruck, as he inputs his fingerprint and the gate slowly swings open for us.
Now that we’re here, I realize we made the entire journey in silence. I wonder where his head’s at, because mine is spinning. “Dios, you weren’t kidding, huh?” I joke, trying to break the spell. “This place really is a fortress.”
He looks over suddenly, eyes wide with surprise, like he’s just remembering I’m here. His expression shifts quickly through contrition, then relief, and I watch as his body language completely changes. As the gates close behind us, the rigidity in his posture melts away, and he reaches for my knee.
When he rubs his thumb along my inner thigh, the gentle touch sends a spark up to my core that makes me shift in my seat. Put it away, Madison—this isn’t the time.
My stomach starts twisting into excited knots as we head up a driveway so long I wonder if it has a street sign.
We pull up to an eight-car garage, and the door rolls up silently, apparently motion or weight activated.
The van fits in a spot between a big, shiny SUV and a Mustang.
The cars keep going down the row, with a silver Mini Cooper and blue sedan that’s the most normal of the bunch.
Neither of us moves when Wesley cuts the ignition.
“Is it because of Tío Felix?” I ask softly.
“What?”
“This… distance? I’m assuming you’re not sure what to say to me—I mean, we just drove in complete silence for, like, half an hour.”
He looks like I’ve struck him. “What? No! No…” he sighs, runs his hands through his hair and gives it a frustrated tug. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I…” He reaches for my knee, covering it. “I have a tendency to close off when I’m processing.”
Grateful for the warmth and contact, I cover his hand with mine.
Just another example of how we know each other, but we don’t know each other.
I’m sensitive to being shut out, and he processes in silence.
We’ll have to be aware of that moving forward.
“It’s okay. It was a lot,” I agree wryly. “Are you okay?”
“I am now. Now that we’re here. Now that I can finally do my job and protect you properly,” he says, tightening his grip. The feeling of his huge, warm hand squeezing me somewhere so delicate sends a zing of excitement to my core.
You’re mine. I take care of you.
I would give my life for hers.
He keeps saying stuff like that. And I know they’re not just words and empty promises.
He literally stood between me and a gun—even though my tío never would have shot at me, he didn’t know that.
And the memory of the grim determination on his face twists up my stomach and sends a little thrill shooting through me because no one has ever cared so much about my life.
But still, I can’t let him shoulder this burden. “It’s not your job to protect me, you know.”
“Agree to disagree,” he counters, eyes boring into mine. “I just want to keep you safe. Always.”
“Always safe,” I repeat with a little breathy laugh. “It’s a nice concept, but there’s no such thing.”
“Agree to disagree,” he repeats.
I crack a smile, but I’m confused. “Where is this coming from? I mean, don’t get me wrong—it’s hot as fuck when you claim me like that.
I mean, damn,” I say, fanning myself and making his lips twitch.
“But promising to give your life for mine is… It’s”—too much—“not like it’s your fault I’m in danger. ”
“It is my fault your life is in danger.”
I roll my eyes. “Why, because you’re a hitman?
Wesley, I’m not exactly innocent in all this.
I stole that data. I chose a dangerous path in life, and I always knew this might happen.
” When he doesn’t look convinced, I try another angle—teasing him.
“What are you gonna do, wrap me in bubble wrap? Take away my internet privileges?”
When he answers my playfulness with a contemplative look—like he’s fucking considering it—I scowl and level my finger at his chest, poking hard. “Let’s get one thing straight, nerd: my life is not your responsibility; it’s mine.”
He opens his mouth to argue, and I poke him again. “Shh. I’m not done. You are not going to blame yourself for things that happen that are out of your control. We are going to take this data point—thank you very much, General—and use it to be smarter.”
“You’re right about that, of course… but this world is so dangerous,” he says softly, gesturing around him at what he clearly means by this world. And obviously he’s not talking about an eight-car garage. “You’re a target now. And if something happens to you…”
I know he means well. I feel some of my outrage wash away like a wave on the sand. The sand’s still wet—I’m still left with the emotions—but the reason is gone. “You know I’m smart and capable, right?”
“Of course.”
I smile at how readily he answered. “Well, sometimes the smartest thing you can do is acknowledge when you don’t know something.
And I know that you know better than me about what’s going on and the inherent danger.
I mean, you saved me—I’m not making light of that.
I know that you’re trying to help me and keep me safe.
” His shoulders sag, and he looks relieved, but I’m not done.
“But… I’m an adult, and my own safety is a discussion I get to be part of. Okay?”
Abuela—as much as I love her—controlled me for years with it’s what’s best for you. How do you argue with I’m just trying to help? You can’t. The best intentions are like a warm jacket that doesn’t fit. You know why someone would want you to wear it, but it’s not right.
It took me a long time to embrace who I wanted to be, just because it was different from who she thought I should be.
“Restriction and protection aren’t the same thing. That’s called benevolent control, in case you didn’t know. I learned that one in therapy,” I add with a smirk. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he repeats.
But I can see in his eyes that we’ve only put a pin in this conversation. That’ll have to be enough for now.
He collects my bag from the back, I take the cat carrier holding Some Bills, and together we head towards the mansion.
First impressions are important—they set the tone.
You can’t take them back, and most people are judgmental enough to hold the first five seconds of meeting you against you—I know I am.
Abuela has drilled this into me from birth.
It’s why we have car lipstick. It’s why I don’t leave the house with wet hair.
It’s why I feel naked without my gold hoops and pretty nails.
And it’s probably why my heart is pounding now.
Some combination of heading inside to meet Wesley’s team of trained assassins and lovely girls, and the fact that this place is like a cathedral of excess.
As if the fingerprint access gate or eight-car garage weren’t enough, the walk across a flagstone patio towards carved, polished hardwood front doors really drives it home.
They look like they should be answered by a butler.
“Wait, do you have a butler?” I gape, adjusting my hold on Some Bills’s carrier.
“What? No,” he chuckles as he offers his thumb for another fingerprint reader.
No wonder he called it a fortress. This place is secure. Even I can feel some of that $10 million tension leeching out.
I follow him into a fuckin’ foyer with marble and brass and two sets of stairs.
I swear, everything about grandeur is designed to make you feel small.
The sound of the wheels of my suitcase is like nails on a chalkboard, the grinding and squeaking reminding me I got it for $5 at Goodwill.
My head falls back as I take in the sparkling chandelier, smiling in spite of myself at the dancing rainbows the crystals cast on the wall.
Shit, I’ve definitely been in the wrong business…
“One second, I’m going to pop into the loo.”
“Take your time. I’ll stay right here,” I mumble. My voice comes out dampened through my stretched throat as I crane my neck to try to see the landing at the top of the stairs. Is something… moving up there?
One of the narrow doors behind me shuts, and I glance around just in time to miss which one it was, since there are two. That probably means one is a closet. I wonder if that’s created any drunken mistakes—if anyone has ever accidentally peed on a coat.