Solomon (Club Sin #6)

Epilogue Part 1

epilogue part 1

Inez

M y stomach roils.

I've been treated fine so far—after I surrendered, they zip-tied my hands behind my back and blindfolded me. I spent an untold number of hours in the backseat of a vehicle, jouncing, sliding, and toppling this way and that as the vehicle navigated the treacherous roads. Unable to use my hands and unable to see to brace and shift my weight through turns, I slam from one side of the bench to the other, cracking my head and bruising my shoulders.

I can tolerate this.

The man driving chatters idly to his friend in a dialect I do not know. I ignore them, and they ignore me.

We make another wide turn, and then the engine strains as we ascend a long, steep hill. We even out and then continue straight, going across what feels and sounds like grass rather than dirt or tarmac.

After a minute or two, I hear the roar of a propeller-driven aircraft—double prop, it sounds like. My next ride.

The vehicle lurches to a halt, doors open and thud closed. A door opens on my right, and the noise of the propellers is abruptly louder. Hands grab me and help me out of the vehicle and to my feet. I could snap these zip-ties easily, but to what point? Might as well let this play out, for now. I can't put off dealing with Rafael any longer, anyway.

"A step," a male voice says behind me in Spanish.

I step up, and hands steady me as I ascend; the hands push my head down under a door frame, I assume, and then turn me left. I walk a few feet, and then I'm stopped. The zip-ties are cut, and a gun barrel is pressed to my temple.

"Not move." More Spanish from someone for whom Spanish is not a first language. "Sit."

I'm guided to a seat, and then my hands are zip-tied to the armrests.

Hands buckle me in and miraculously do not take any liberties with my body in the process.

A few minutes later, the airplane door closes, and the propellors increase in volume; the aircraft lurches gently, and then I’m pressed back in my seat as our velocity ramps up, and then my stomach drops away as we go airborne.

I allow myself to rest. I can't see and can't move, so I may as well sleep.

I tune out the drone of the airplane, drowsing at first and then eventually falling asleep.

I'm shaken awake by the stomach churn of descent and the lurch and bark of tires as we touch down. There's waiting and taxiing, and then the aircraft halts, and the propellor noise reduces to a fading whine as they're powered down.

The zip-ties are cut once more. "Up. Hands behind back."

I comply, and my hands are bound once more. I'm assisted off the airplane and into stifling heat and humidity. Hands guide me across the tarmac; a jet screams overhead.

I hear a car engine idling, and I'm helped in, still bound. These seats smell like leather, and the interior is cool and quiet. I'm buckled in, the belt tugged taut to prevent me from shifting too much.

"Any trouble with her?" A male voice asks, this time by someone who does speak Spanish natively.

"No, chief. No trouble."

"Good. Mercado is waiting for her."

The vehicle slides into motion; this ride is smooth and easy, sparing me the jouncing and crashing. Music plays from the front seats, and I recognize a radio station local to the area near Rafael's compound.

The sound of the airport fades, and the road gets a little rougher.

"Apologies for the rough ride, Senora Sousa. We will be there very soon."

Senora Sousa? I almost laugh out loud—I was married to him against my will, raped, hunted, and now kidnapped, and yet they address me as if I'm his wife ?

I say nothing.

“Very soon” must mean something different to him than it does to me because we bounce along for another fifteen or twenty minutes before we slow; a window hums open and tires crunch on gravel. Low mutters in Spanish, which I only catch some of— she's here, the boss is in the something .

My blood boils, and my stomach curdles. My pulse pounds in my ears. It's hard to keep my breathing slow and even.

I'm here.

I'm back.

In a matter of minutes, I'll be face-to-face with Rafael again.

There's no way to mentally prepare—he's capable of anything. I think he'll try to convince me to simply tell him, first. He'll likely be genial, acting as if it's so good to see me, playing up the charm that he can turn off and on at will. When that doesn't work, he'll try coercion. Eventually, violence of one sort or another.

No matter—I will endure what I must for my boy.

I never gave him a name. I remember him as a tiny, nearly weightless bundle cradled against my chest as I dragged myself through the jungle, mile after mile. I hitched rides with locals, slept where I could, begged and stole to keep myself alive. I still have scars on my feet from the barefoot trek to Goiana.

I do not know how I survived—toward the end, I was so starved and dehydrated I could summon no milk for my son, and he began to weaken. A native woman found me, and they helped me. Nursed me to something like health and took care of my boy. The moment I could stay on my feet, I thanked them and left. Years later, I went back and found them bringing gifts.

I often wonder what his life is like. What he looks like. How he is doing. I am tempted, nearly every day, to use my resources to find him. I could, easily. But if I don't know, I can't give him up, no matter what Rafael does to me. That’s my secret, one not even Lorenzo is aware of: not even I know where my son is now. See, I lied to Lorenzo. He found a good family, and I told him I left my son with them. But I didn’t. I watched that family for several days, and I didn't like them. I couldn't say why, just a feeling—a mother’s intuition, perhaps. So I found someone else.

A young woman. Sad and lonely, a widow with a good government job and retired parents she saw every day after work.

I may have barely escaped with my life, but I did not escape broke—I had quite a bit of money hidden in various accounts. I gave the woman the Colombian equivalent of a million US dollars to take my son and adopt him. I used a contact of Lorenzo's to create an identity for my son, complete with false adoption papers in his new mother's name—which I carefully avoided learning.

Then, I disappeared. I never looked back. Perhaps the woman is still living where she was when I found her, but I advised her to take her parents and the boy and move—far away. Out of Colombia, even. Perhaps she listened to me, perhaps she did not.

Rafael Sousa will never know his son. The boy will never know his true parentage.

My heart breaks anew each day—I miss him. But it was the only choice—the only way to give him a real life.

My thoughts turn to Lorenzo—as they always do.

God, that man.

I had no right to drag him back into my life. I did it because I am selfish and because I could not stand the thought of Solomon and Scarlett suffering for my sake. When I found out it was Rafael's men who took Solomon, I felt a rage so potent it nearly consumed me. Even my employer did not dare get too close to me until I’d regained control—perhaps because he, of all people, knows me best.

Better than Lorenzo, even, in some ways. Not physically—our relationship is not like that. It is a business relationship and sort of a mentor-mentee one. I respect him, but I do not love him, and I am not attracted to him like that, although he is, objectively, an extraordinarily attractive human being.

My heart belongs to Lorenzo. Always has, and always will.

I assume they're on their way to find Lash by now.

Lorenzo.

We nearly slept together in that hotel in Quito…I wanted to, dearly. But I knew this was coming. I knew I had to face Rafael before I could allow myself to have Lorenzo. Stopping before we got too carried away was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life—truly. All I wanted was to feel his arms around me again. To feel his stubble on my cheeks, on my thighs. To kiss him. To taste him. To feel him slide inside me.

I know the men think I'm an ice queen—I am. I’ve had to be. The icy walls surrounding my shattered little heart are all that have kept me sane in these last years. They gird me. Keep me from losing my mind, from going mad with grief, with sorrow, with rage.

But deep inside, in the part of me only Lorenzo has ever seen, I'm a much different person. Sophia does exist. She's shackled inside the tower of ice, bound and gagged, chained to the agony of my past—the betrayal of my father, those three days of hell I spent chained in a basement room, raped by countless men, the forced marriage to Rafael, my father's subsequent murder at Rafael's hands; being held down as a doctor paid by Rafael forcibly removed my IUD so I could bear Rafael's child; the nightmarish birth, alone, in agony, terrified; the seventeen minutes I spent in a red haze, slaughtering everyone in that estate—every cook, every maid, every guard, every stable hand, every groundskeeper, all while bloody and naked, trailing placenta and umbilical cord while the midwife cared for my child. When I was done, I took my son and killed the midwife as well.

My nightmares are not of being raped in that cell or days alone in the jungle. My nightmares are of what I did that day.

Sophia exists, yes. But who is she? A feral animal? A cowering simpleton, too traumatized to even speak? A creature of psychopathic rage?

I am all of those things.

But who is Sophia? If I allow Lorenzo to melt my walls, as I know he could if I were to let him, who would I be? Inez is my armor. I have always understood that. Inez is a persona, like an armored mech suit from science fiction films.

I saw Scarlett come alive under the constancy and warmth of Solomon's love. I envy her that. I had hoped it would happen when I sent her on that wild goose chase—all I had was a possible location, a rumor of a whisper. She pulled it off, as I knew she would. And my god, Solomon exceeded my expectations. He opened himself to her immediately and willingly. He let her be herself. Let her push him, but not too far.

And I envy them that.

Again, my thoughts return to Lorenzo. No matter how I try to avoid it, he fills my mind, as he has for so long. For always. I knew I would love him the moment I saw him. He was so young, then. A boy, barely old enough to shave and drive but hard-faced and wise beyond his years. There was only the hint of the man he would become back then. Tall, still a little gangly. But his smile, my god. He was standing guard at the end of the hallway where my bedroom was, dressed in a black T-shirt and camo pants, holding an Uzi as if he knew how to use it. I, just a girl myself, albeit one who at sixteen was already a seasoned killer and my father's anointed executioner, took one look at Papa's new bodyguard and knew he would be mine.

It was against the rules—for him. I didn’t care. I should have, but I didn't. I was foolish. Arrogant. I didn't want the keys to Papa's kingdom—I saw the suffering of the women he trafficked, and I hated it. When one of his men went rogue with money or drugs, I had to hunt him down. I had to kill him. I had to kill his family and his friends—I hold a secret I've never told anyone: I didn't always kill the women and children. I became somewhat of an expert in helping them disappear while making it look like I killed them. I just...I suppose perhaps I had a tiny sliver of conscience.

I hated it. I hated all of it.

I hated my father for what he made me do. I hated him for what he stood for. I would walk the streets as I hunted my prey, and I saw the victims of our drugs strung out and listless in alleys. I saw people sobbing as their daughter or sister disappeared into my father's brothels. I saw it all, and I hated it all.

I was relieved when Papa chose Rafael to take over. The relief was short-lived, though.

Lorenzo.

See? Always back to him.

He saw me. He knew who I was. And yet, he also saw something else. He saw me . He saw something in me that I never have.

I wasn’t a virgin when I took him to my bed. Neither was he. But still, it was like the first time for both of us because our connection was something not of this world.

The months that followed, sneaking around to meet Lorenzo? Bliss. I thought I could get away with it. I thought I was hiding it. I should have known better. I overheard two of Papa's men discussing their orders to garrote Lorenzo and dump him in a swamp for touching the boss's daughter.

I tipped him off and told him to run. Join the military—one of the few places Papa couldn't reach him. So, Lorenzo went back to Brazil and joined the army and became an operator, then a spy, and then a junior case agent before finally retiring to work freelance, as he does now, often in close coordination with the Brazilian government.

When I saw him again in that parking garage, my heart nearly burst through the ice. I wanted to leap into his arms and beg him to kiss me.

But I couldn't. I dared not.

I can't let my walls down. I can’t let him melt the ice.

I need it to survive what's to come.

Inez has one more mission.

Her last one.

Kill Rafael Sousa, the drug lord known as Mercado.

The SUV—I assume a top-end Range Rover—glides to a halt. The engine shuts off. Doors open and close. Mine opens, and I’m unbuckled. Hands help me out.

"I am going to remove your blindfold now, Senora Sousa. It will be bright on your eyes." The voice from earlier—solicitous, respectful.

I do not answer. Simply stand and wait, eyes closed. The blindfold is removed and light lashes my eyes. I squint one eye open, blinded by brilliant sunlight. And then the other, slowly letting my pupils adjust.

"Are you ready, Senora Sousa?" The speaker is a short, slender man in his late forties, balding, with a terrible mustache. He's wearing a custom navy blue suit, bulging at the left chest with a shoulder holster.

I stare at him, giving him my coldest, most venomous gaze.

Like everyone else before him, he quails away, paling. "Th-this way, please,” he stammers.

I very nearly smile to myself at his reaction. But that would spoil the effect, so I don't.

I take stock of my surroundings. We stand on a gravel driveway, the stones white and neatly raked. Behind us is a wide grassy circle, at the center of which is an ornate marble fountain. The driveway circles the fountain and runs ruler-straight to the south between a tunnel of arched trees, their manicured branches and leaves providing cool shade. Before me, the house, although such a word barely covers the ornate monstrosity.

It's a mansion of epic proportions, a veritable Versailles. White marble blocks polished to ashine, a roof of scalloped slate tiles, multiple chimneys, three stories. A balcony with an elaborate wrought iron railing overlooks the fountain—beneath which is the porch, held up by ionic columns, stone lions guarding the stairs. A verdant, manicured lawn stretches away in every direction, rolling across dozens of acres. Half a mile or so from the main structure is a horse barn, as massive and overly ornate as the house, with white three-row fencing extending away to encompass even more acreage of prime grazing land. Glossy-backed horses amble in pairs and singles. In one of the turnouts, a stable hand scoops manure into a wheelbarrow.

A helicopter, a former Soviet gunship, perches insectlike on the lawn a few hundred yards from the house, bristling with rocket launchers and machine guns.

Everywhere you look, armed men roam the grounds in pairs, wearing mirrored sunglasses and earpieces.

My skin crawls, and I turn my gaze up to the balcony.

A tall figure stands at the railing. Trim waist, narrow shoulders, black hair slicked back, wearing white slacks and a white linen shirt open to mid-chest, sleeves rolled up.

Rafael.

I swallow hard, my stomach turning and churning, blood running cold. I hold his dark gaze, however, expressionless and even.

I'm not afraid of you.

"This way, please, Senora Sousa." Rafael's sniveling toady gestures solicitously toward the fifteen-foot-high polished mahogany front doors with the antique bronze lion-head knockers.

I ignore him, not even looking at him as I ascend the steps with an attitude and posture that says, hopefully, that I'm doing it of my own volition and not because he told me to.

As I approach, the doors swing inward on oiled hinges, each one held by an armed guard. Within, black-and-white checkered tiles spread away from the foyer; a crystal chandelier hangs fifty feet overhead, sunlight refracting through it to send rainbows glittering and dancing on the walls, floor, and ceiling. A suit of armor, likely actually of medieval vintage, stands on a pedestal in the center of the foyer, wielding a halberd. More suits of armor line the walls to either side. Twin staircases arc in graceful half-spirals up to a second-story landing.

Straight ahead, a glimpse of a kitchen, glass doors, and the backyard beyond.

"Sophia." Rafael's voice echoes down to me.

I look up—he stands at the top of the stairs, hands on the railing, smiling in greeting. "Welcome."

I stare up at him.

"What, no greeting for your beloved husband?" He smirks as he says this. He snaps his fingers. "Bring her."

Hands nudge me toward the stairs, and I climb them, dread filling me with each step.

Dread and hate.

He hasn't changed much, despite the years. A few more lines on his face, a deeper sense of certainty regarding his place in the world. He's still absurdly handsome in a rakish, hawk-like, prima donna sort of way. His dark brown eyes are sociopathic and empty despite the gleaming, white-toothed smile he shows me—a shark's grin.

I stop a few feet away from him, back straight, holding his gaze without flinching, without showing any emotion.

"You look well, Sophia." He scans me. "As lovely as ever."

I hold my tongue. He'll get to the point eventually.

My silence annoys him, though. He's used to having an effect. Instilling terror.

I am the terror. I am the nightmare.

It seems he has forgotten.

I have not.

He regards me for a moment. "Surely you have something to say to me, Sophia. It has been many years, after all, and you are my wife."

My eyes burn as I stare at him, refusing to so much as blink.

He sighs. "It's like that, is it?" He's been speaking in English, I only now realize—flawless, unaccented English. He could be from Ohio.

"Your friends are guests of the Croatian government, by the way." He juts his chin at someone behind me; a small tablet device is thrust in front of my face, showing Sol, Scarlett, and Lorenzo surrounded by agents in the Zagreb airport. "I tipped off a business associate. I felt you and I would need time to become...reacquainted."

Fuck.

I show nothing. Certainly not the thread of panic that blossoms in my belly.

"I am well aware of your little group of outcasts. I am sure they will attempt to rescue you, and I have taken appropriate measures. Soon, you will all be my guests, and then the real fun will begin."

He watches me closely, looking for a reaction. I give him none.

"Well, the years certainly haven't softened you, have they?" His hands go into his pockets, and he stalks around me. "I was content to let sleeping dogs lie, as it were. But then, a would-be rival attempted to assassinate me. They failed, but they killed my girlfriend and our son."

I'm tempted to bait him with a statement of sympathy, but I can't bring myself to do it. No point.

A sigh, frustrated and long-suffering. "Cut to the chase, is it?" He leans his backside against the railing and crosses his arms over his chest. "Very well. You know what I want. Give me the identity and location of my son, and you and your friends will be allowed to live. No questions asked. It can all be over right this minute, Sophia. His name and his location."

I am no lady, but I’m still woman enough to find the way men hawk and spit disgusting. In this case, however, I'll make an exception. I hawk snot and saliva and spit it directly into his face.

Blinding light bursts behind my eyes with a vicious lance of pain—I'm knocked backward, unable to catch my balance, I hit my ass hard, biting my tongue. Agony throbs through my skull where Rafael's thug pistol whipped me.

A deafening blast concusses my eardrums—a massive revolver firing. A body thuds to the ground.

"No one lays a hand on her but me." Rafael's voice is a serpent in the grass, soft and slithering and deadly. "You understand me?"

"Yes sir," comes the answering chorus.

"Clean this mess up." His hands grasp me by the elbows, and he hauls me to my feet. "I apologize for that, Sophia. My men are quite loyal, you see. You should not provoke them."

I'm dizzy from the blow, my vision swimming, my head pounding. Blood trickles hot down my face and pools coppery in my mouth. I spit blood at his feet rather than at his face because I may as well space out the agony coming my way.

"Tough as ever, I see. A blow like that would have kept most men I know on the ground." Black spots swim across my vision, and nausea bubbles through me—I have a concussion for sure.

Rafael dabs at my face with a handkerchief. "Sophia, Sophia, Sophia. You can't just play nice? Tell me where he is. He'll live in the lap of luxury. He'll have everything he could ever want. Wealth, power, women. I suppose that last one isn't a selling point for you, though, is it?"

I allow him to dab the blood away because as much as I want to jerk away, it would serve no purpose. Spitting in his face was calculated—proving a point.

"Still won't speak, eh?" He steps backward and hands the bloody handkerchief to someone; he sighs. "I do not want to have to do unpleasant things to you, Sophia. Truly, I do not. Notice, none of your friends were harmed, no matter how many of my men you killed? I just want my son."

I speak for the first time. "You will not believe me, but I truly do not know. I made sure of it."

"Ah! She speaks!" He rubs his forehead with his foreknuckle. "You are right; I do not believe you. What, you expect me to believe you dropped him off at an orphanage? Or a fire station?" He shakes his head. "No, carino , I do not believe you would do that. Not after what you went through for him."

I shrug. "Believe what you want, Rafael. It is the truth. I do not know his name or where he is. And if I did, I would not tell you. So do what you want to me. It's all been done before."

He nods. "Yes, yes. You're very tough, I know." He paces back and forth in front of me a few times. "Tell me something, carino . That godawful mess you made at your father's estate. Did you enjoy it?"

I frown at him. "What?"

"Thirty-two people—nineteen men and thirteen women. I wish I had a video recording of your rampage. It must have been incredible." He laughs, a merry little thing that's almost a giggle. "My god, the blood! So much blood. You even murdered the stablehands! The midwife!"

"But not you."

He smiles, shakes his head. "No, not me. I bet you wish, however."

"No, not really."

He frowns. "No?"

"It will be much more satisfying when I kill you this time around."

He sniffs a laugh. "You think so, eh? Well, I imagine you would be dreaming of that. I don’t begrudge you the dream, but I must say I find it very unlikely, even for you."

"I'm going to rip your intestines out and strangle you with them, Rafael. Out of spite and out of principle that the world will be a better place without you in it. And then I will never kill again." I don't know what possesses me, then. "I have nightmares of that day. I was out of my mind. I see them in my sleep."

Rafael pierces me with that blank, sociopathic stare. "Do you? Hmm. I suppose I always thought you were like me."

“You know you're a sociopath?"

"Of course I know. There's nothing to be done about it, but it's good to know oneself." He turns away, thinking, and then back to me. "Sophia, do you know why I killed your father? Aside from the obvious."

"Aside from the obvious?"

"Are you a parrot, now?"

"The obvious being taking over his empire."

"Correct—aside from that."

I shake my head. "No, I have no idea. I never even considered there was another reason."

"Greed was a large part of it. Self-preservation was another. He was starting to see certain parts of me that he didn't like. The parts you always saw. He was going to have me killed."

"Then why marry me off to you, if he never intended to make you his heir?"

"He was going to wait until you sired a whelp, of course. Once he had a male heir to take his ill-gotten crown, I was going to end up at the bottom of a swamp." He shrugs. "So I struck first. But there was another reason that very nearly trumped all the others. Can you guess?"

I shake my head, making my vision swim and my brain throb. "No. I couldn't begin to guess."

"For you. Because of what he did to you. I killed all the men who raped you, you know. After I took power, I found out who they were, lined them up, and shot them, one by one, with my own hand. You were never going to marry me willingly—I knew that and so did he. But that? It was unnecessary. Barbaric. It ruined you. You went into that nasty little room one person and came out another. A broken, pathetic, miserable, shattered little eggshell of a person. If he had just locked you up until the wedding and drugged you into compliance, everything would have been different. We would never have had a real relationship, of course. I'm not capable of such things, for one. You would never have come around to caring for me, for another. But we could have had a business alliance, at least. I run the business and you run the dirty work. You're damned good at it. But no. Your father was a monster, and that's coming from me ."

Jesus.

Maybe it’s the concussion, but…that actually makes sense. And honestly, he’s right. I saw him for who he was. I knew he was a sociopath, although, at sixteen or eighteen or twenty, I didn’t have the understanding of what that meant. I just knew he wasn’t right. But he was hot, and he seemed to like me insofar as he liked anyone. Had Papa not drugged me, I eventually would have seen the wisdom in working with him. I could have steered him away from trafficking people. I’d have had my boytoys, and he'd have had his little whores, and it'd have all been very Narco .

I look at him. "I almost wish that had happened, Rafael."

"I do wish it." He sighs. "You really won't tell me?"

I shrug. "I really don't know. I made sure I didn't so that when this happened, he would be safe from you."

"I won't hurt him, carino . I want to give him all of this, one day."

I nod, knowing it's futile. "I know. That's exactly what I'm protecting him from."

He sighs sadly. "But you do know how to find him."

I don't answer. We both know it's true.

"I believe you, Sophia.” he steps close, brushes at the gash on my temple, examines the blood on his thumb, and then licks his thumb—it’s an absent-minded thing, not meant to scare me. Which makes it all the scarier. “Unfortunately, I'm going to have to make you talk. Or at least try."

"I won't tell you, Rafael. You're wasting your time."

“What about your friends? I can make another call and have them sent to me. Perhaps watching me carve pieces off them will change your mind."

I don't answer that either.

He shakes his head. "It is good to see you, carino . Even under these circumstances." He flips a hand at me. "Take her to the barn and lock her in with Demon."

Fuck. What the hell does that mean?

I don't bother asking. I'll find out soon enough.

As his men haul me away, I can't help but worry about Sol, Scarlett, and Lorenzo.

Lorenzo most of all.

Because Rafael was right about another thing: I very well might break if I have to watch him torture them.

I hold onto my faith in their abilities. But even more than that, I have faith in Lash.

See, I know more about him than I've let on. Of all the Broken Arrows, he's the most dangerous.

The deadliest.

The secret?

He swore an oath, just like the others. But unlike them, his did not contain the prohibition against killing.

My employer’s orders. I questioned it at the time.

Now?

I'm starting to understand.

Lash is going to have to save us all.