Chapter Ten
“Here we go,” Lourdes muttered and sank into the passenger seat of Enrique’s SUV.
The sprawling wrought iron gates of the Lozano estate opened with a piercing metallic creak that would send rats scurrying for cover.
Where the sunlight failed to penetrate, shadows loomed down the tree- and shrub-lined driveway as though to swallow her whole.
She dragged air into her straining lungs as her grim lover hunched over the wheel and followed the lead vehicle in their armed escort up the long, winding asphalt.
Two other vehicles boxed them in from behind, a surefire deterrent to an escape attempt.
She huffed. Escape, right. She’d tried to convince Enrique to do just that before they reached the Sonora-Chihuahua border, but he stayed the course.
The heavy weight of darkness clenched her chest. Within the hour, she could be in her father’s custody on her way back to Durango to marry a man she did not love.
A man she despised. She clutched the warm leather cushion beneath her to steady her trembling hands.
Enrique lightly squeezed her arm from across the gearbox. “Keep your head up. Let no one intimidate you. Whatever happens, I will have your back.”
“I know you will.” She forced a smile. The worry he tried so hard to hide from her flashed in his creased, bloodshot eyes before he faced the driveway.
The trees cleared and revealed the heart of the Lozano empire—a sprawling two-story hacienda atop a mini mountain in the northern outskirts of Hermosillo.
Nothing had changed about the glittering fortress.
Not its white adobe walls, arched windows, or terracotta roof.
Nor the cameras and floodlights lining the structure.
The SUV ahead of them stalled, then Santiago climbed out of the driver’s seat.
Once Enrique parked, he rolled down the window.
Early afternoon heat rushed in and prickled her skin.
The rest of the caravan idled behind them.
“Just heard from Rubén.” Santiago pocketed his phone and took a drag from his black cigarette.
The scent of cloves enveloped him and flowed through the open window.
“He wants you two in his office, pronto. Villegas and Zayas are with him. They took the redeye to get here in time for this meeting. Me and the guys, we’re dismissed.
” He popped Enrique on the arm. “See you later, mi amigo. Good luck.”
“Gracias.” Enrique bumped the man’s fist in goodbye.
Santiago strode back to the SUV. The caravan continued down the driveway toward the cul-de-sac, then past Lourdes and Enrique on their way out.
“It’s just us now.” She repressed a shudder.
“Us against the world. Time to face the firing squad.” Enrique killed the engine and slid the key fob into his pants pocket.
She climbed out on unsteady legs and inhaled a breath so deep her lungs burned.
The rich scent of earth and the lush greenery around the house filled her nose.
The statue of an angel in a gorgeous fountain reigned over the dusty front yard while the cityscape beyond the desert hillside gleamed like sunlit jewels in patches of high rises and smaller buildings.
The muted roar of traffic mimicked the soothing drone of distant thunder.
Farther down the driveway near a copse of trees, a half-dozen black-garbed men lurked beside two shiny vehicles with the glowers of vultures on the prowl.
“Gracias a Dios.” Her hand fluttered over her mouth. “Yago is alive. Those are my father’s enforcers.”
“Someone did a number on your bodyguard.”
Enrique’s droll reply pursed her lips as he reached her side. Her father probably mangled Yago’s face with his fists. At least, he didn’t kill the man.
“Come on.” Enrique steered her toward the house on the cobblestone path.
One of the massive front doors swung open, and an eight-year-old girl in a blue dress bolted outside. Her glossy raven-black hair whipped behind her.
Lourdes’s heart skipped.
Sera hugged Enrique’s legs. “Papá Rubén said you were coming today. He’s very upset with you.” She beamed up at him, then frowned. “What did you do?”
Enrique grinned and picked up the child. “I’ve been naughty. Do you remember Lourdes?” He rested his free hand on Lourdes’s arm.
Nodding, Sera reached over and wrapped her little arms around Lourdes without ever leaving Enrique’s embrace. She pulled back. “You were at Mamá and Papá Rubén’s wedding.”
“That’s right. I was honored to attend.” Lourdes hooked a lock of the girl’s soft hair behind her little shell of an ear. How she longed for a sweet child like Sera to call her own.
“Sera, let our guests come in,” Drina called out from the half-moon stoop. Despite her tight grin, she waved in greeting.
Her beautiful black hair, kind eyes, and strong-willed demeanor had won Drina Cabrera the heart of a man Lourdes once thought impenetrable. The new cartel queen was nothing to trifle with.
Lourdes followed Enrique into the spacious foyer, where he set Sera on her bare feet.
Antique furniture and rustic décor welcomed her in earth tones and softened the brilliance of the high ceiling, silver-veined marble floor, and grand staircase.
The dried flower swags hanging above the paintings and mirrors perfumed the air with the scent of home.
Only this wasn’t Lourdes’s home. Not even close. If worse came to worst, she would leave an imprisoned woman. As squeaky, childish voices echoed from the living room, likely from a cartoon, she straightened to her full height and tugged on her blouse to smooth out any wrinkles.
Drina closed up. “Don’t worry, Lourdes. Rubén is on your side even if he may not act like it.” She hugged her, then drew back and punched Enrique in the shoulder.
“Ow. What was that for?” He scowled and rubbed his abused skin, though he winked at the wide-eyed Sera.
“You know what you did,” Drina hedged, nodding toward her daughter. “I swear, when I heard, I choked on my quesadilla.”
He chuckled and gave her a one-armed hug. “Well, I’m sorry for that. Santi said we’re due in the office?”
“Right away. Head on back.” Drina grasped Lourdes’s hand. “If we can, I’d love to talk before you leave. I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m fine, really, but a talk sounds wonderful. How far along are you?” she asked, delaying the inevitable.
“About five months.” Drina placed her hands on her rounded stomach. Her flouncy blouse and leggings barely concealed the swell of her pregnancy. Her brow furrowed. “We’ll find out the gender next week at the ultrasound.”
“I’m so happy for you.” She truly was. Drina deserved all the happiness she could get. Yet Lourdes couldn’t fathom why the woman would frown over getting the gender results.
Months earlier, Rubén had rescued Drina from a vicious cartel only to keep her captive himself. Despite the odds, they fell in love. Given that they had known each other years earlier and she had his child without him knowing, their road to reconciliation had been rocky at best.
Lourdes had only met Drina twice before—at a fundraiser back in May, and then later at Drina’s wedding.
After Lourdes followed Enrique through an open doorway past the stairs, she trailed behind him toward a door at the end of the long corridor, which branched into another part of the house. He knocked so hard on the barrier that she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Enter!” Rubén called out, his voice unmistakable.
Enrique rolled his shoulders and strode into the jefe’s personal domain.
Lourdes joined him and shut the door. The familiar stench of her father’s cigar smoke churned her empty belly.
Her father, her ex-fiancé, and her former brother-in-law turned toward her from the long rectangular conference table.
The heat of condemnation blazed in their narrowed eyes as though all this was her fault. Perspiration beaded on her forehead.
“About damn time.” Rubén stubbed out his cigarillo in a crystal ashtray from the head of the table and rose to his feet.
The handsome man was the epitome of peacemaker and death bringer.
The white line slashing through his eyebrow and the tattoo of wings embracing a crown on his neck added to his dangerous allure, though his casual cable-knit shirt, pleated navy slacks, and brushed-back hair softened his hard-worn edges.
Enrique guided her over and offered the Lozano jefe his hand.
After Rubén shook it, he pulled Lourdes into a light hug. “Be brave, sister,” he whispered and met her square in the eye, letting his words sink in. Then he pivoted to stand beside his chair.
She swallowed past her tight throat and dragged her gaze to the banes of her existence.
Gerardo Villegas—thick gray hair, bushy mustache, stone heart. His broad shoulders filled out his wrinkled suit jacket while his paunch pressed against his white button-down.
Diego Zayas—attractive in a hawkish sort of way with a long, hooked nose and sharp widow’s peak, the features inherited from his aristocratic Spanish European ancestry that he boasted about at every opportunity.
Though he was only forty-some years old, he already had three ex-wives and a dozen children between them and his mistresses.
The last thing she wanted was to join the ranks of his breeding mares.
The men leaned back in a matching set of swivel chairs, giving off the ridiculous illusion of calm and control. If not for their livid gazes, they might’ve succeeded.
Walnut-paneled walls caged her in just as they had three years earlier when Ovidio Lozano, her monstrous father-in-law, shamed her for never giving him a grandson and demanded she return home.
The now-deceased jefe glared at her from his portrait past the conference table, his painted image much younger than the brutish, grayed patriarch she’d feared.
Rubén’s sharp-eyed portrait hung beside those of his father and grandfather, the cartel founder, to commemorate the start of his reign.
“Take a seat.” Rubén swiped his hand at the nearest chairs.