Chapter Twelve #2
Drina’s brow crinkled as though she caught the implication, too.
Enrique clasped Lourdes’s hand. “Tequila on the rocks.”
Alita’s gaze flicked down at their linked hands, and her bravado faltered. She straightened and shrugged. “Tequila it is. What can I get for the ladies?”
“Appletini.” Relief swept through Lourdes at the calmness in her tone.
“Ooh, that sounds good. Same here,” Carlota piped in.
“Of course.” Alita’s tight-lipped smile nearly cracked her face. With a final glance at Enrique, she turned on her heel and walked off. Her hips swung a little harder than necessary.
“Whew. The usual, huh?” Carlota chuckled and rested her arms on the table. “That was something.”
“Carlota,” Rubén warned, drawing out her name.
“I just want to know if the usual came before or after the tequila.”
“That’s none of your business, Carly,” Enrique bit out.
“No, but it is mine.” Lourdes withdrew her hand from his hold.
Her new fiancé blew out a long sigh. “We’ll talk later, princess. Not here.”
“Welcome,” Santiago called out as he strode over, whiskey tumbler in hand.
Startled, Lourdes greeted Enrique’s friend with a slight nod. Charm practically dripped from his smile and jet-black suit, but his gelled fauxhawk and the gold chain glinting from his open-collared shirt added a hint of danger.
“I saw you come in on the cameras.” Santiago dragged a chair from a nearby table and spun it backward before straddling it. “What’s this? One last hurrah before the wedding? And I wasn’t invited?” He clutched his chest with all the flair of an over-the-top actor.
Rubén smirked. “Good timing, mi amigo. Ricky and I texted Domingo, but he couldn’t make it on short notice. And with Zacarías in the States, our party is light. We figured you’d join us, busy or not.”
“If I cannot slack off at my own damn club, where can I?” Santiago raised his glass in a mock toast before he turned to Carlota. “Is Manuel here?”
She grimaced. “He’ll be in for the wedding. My boys won’t, unfortunately. They’re still at boarding school.”
Lourdes squeezed her friend’s hand. Carlota’s twin sons were her world, yet Manuel had shipped them off in an insane scheme to keep her from over-mothering them.
Alita returned, drinks balanced on a chrome tray. Her gaze gravitated toward Enrique as she set the tequila and cocktails on square paper coasters.
Enrique pulled Lourdes close and seized her lips in a fiery kiss.
Oh, my! Fireworks sparked in Lourdes’s mind. His hands traveled down her back in waves of dark possession. The club blurred away. Her head spun, and her heart raced. When he released her, she sucked in air. Her cheeks burned hotter than a summer day in the desert.
Alita dropped her gaze and dashed off.
“Now that’s how you deal with ex-flings who refuse to take a hint.” Drina grinned and clinked her glass with Carlota’s.
Santiago chuckled as he lit a black clove cigarette. “Ah. I was wondering what all that heat was about.” He glanced back toward the bar where the woman stood, facing away. “Don’t worry. I’ll take her off your hands, Ricky. Wipe you right out of her head.”
Enrique rolled his eyes and grumbled something under his breath.
Lourdes sipped her drink and moaned from the sweetness of the apple that cut the bite of the tequila.
A year ago—hell, last week—she wouldn’t have mustered a word against her future husband sleeping with other women.
But she was chained to Diego then. As the tasty green liquid pooled in her belly, she leaned in closer to Carlota and Drina.
They chatted about their children.
Fresh pain skewered her. Children—one of the many subjects she couldn’t speak on from personal experience. She rubbed her stomach and settled back into the booth. This was a bad idea. Coming here. Trying to act normal.
“You should’ve been here earlier tonight.
” Santiago tapped a pillar of ash into the glass ashtray on the table.
His furrowed eyebrows dropped low over his eyes.
“We had three telenovela stars sitting right in this booth. They drew a crowd so huge that we had to build a wall of bouncers for them to dance.”
Enrique cocked his head. “Sounds like a regular night. What’s with the frown?”
“Mierda.” Rubén laughed and swallowed a long draft of his blue agave tequila. “Let me guess. Nova Badillo was here.”
Drina’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? You guys know her? She’s amazing in Las Sombras del Imperio. That costuming is gorgeous.”
Enrique chuckled. “We knew her briefly before she was a star, ten or so years ago. Santi knew her better than any of us.” He smirked at the man in question. “Didn’t she dump you out of the blue to run off to Mexico City?”
Santiago’s eyes narrowed to slits. “It was a mutual dumping.”
“You drank yourself blind for two weeks.”
“You want another beat-down, Enrique?”
Rubén lifted his hand. “Let the man tell his tragic love story.”
“Not much to tell. Nova left town for her career. That was that.” Santiago swirled the ice in his glass.
“She was here with two ugly fuckers and practically screwed them on the dance floor. Phones were everywhere. Lights flashing. It was disgusting.” He rolled his shoulders. “Fuck her. She’s old news.”
“That’s the spirit.” Enrique clapped his arm.
Santiago bared his teeth. “How many of my waitresses have you hooked up with, Ricky? I know about three, maybe four. Including that one just now—Alita. You hit that, what? Twice?”
Tension sharper than barbed wire hung over the table.
Lourdes drained her glass and slammed it down. “Excuse me. I need the restroom.” She half rose, prompting Enrique to stand, and brushed past him to stomp away. Her pulse hammered in her ears, urging her on. Where she was heading, she had no idea.
“Lourdes, wait.” Enrique caught up with her at the balcony railing and gripped her arm. “Forget him. Santiago is an ass.”
“And you’re not?” she snapped, anger clenching her chest.
He cursed and rubbed his neck. “I didn’t want to come here. The second Carlota suggested it, I knew something would blow up.”
“It’s not the club, Enrique. It’s us. Our relationship. Everything is moving too fast. I don’t know who you really are. What your days look like. What your nights used to look like. I’m in the picture now. Are you still going to hunt for women at clubs?”
“Of course not. Alita was a fling. Meaningless.” He stepped closer and tipped up her chin. “I want you. No one else. I’ve risked war to make you mine. What more do you need?”
“I don’t know. All these questions and concerns are spinning through my head. I’m on edge.”
“I can tell.” He settled his touch on her waist. “Dance with me?”
She hesitated, then nodded. They descended into the heart of La Paradoja, hand in hand.
Liquor and desire perfumed the air in an intoxicating combination.
The ceiling pulsed with color. Strobe lights shifted in time with the rhythm and cast ever-changing shadows on the sea of dancers.
The Latin-infused house remix resounded off the walls with pounding percussion and a bass-heavy rhythm that vibrated the floor beneath her heels.
Enrique pulled her into his arms. “Follow my lead, princess.”
The world around her blurred into a mess of light and motion.
The beat commanded her body. Enrique’s hands guided her hips and drew her in.
Their bodies met in a sensual sway and grind sure to overload her senses.
Her every move swept her hair across her bare shoulders and back in teasing caresses.
His silky shirt bunched under her roaming hands.
Adrenaline surged. His lips grazed her neck, threatening to devour her.
Devour me. Taste me.
The naughty thoughts clenched her core. She spun in his embrace, pressed her back to his chest, and rolled against him.
The evidence of his desire pressed tight against her buttocks.
He grabbed her hips with a fierceness that set her blood aflame.
Then he slid his strong hands down her sides and raised the hem of her dress just enough to skirt the edge of scandal.
She leaned her head back against his shoulder and moaned as his stubble brushed her cheek.
The scent of tequila flavored his breath and curled heat in her veins.
Pop!
The sharp, shrill noise split the music.
Screams.
Another blast, louder.
Lourdes stumbled to a stop. Her breath caught. Shock and fear seized her heart. Enrique shoved her down and shielded her body with his as the crowd shrieked.
“Gun!” someone yelled.
Panic exploded like shrapnel. People shoved and screamed. Bodies trampled one another for cover. To flee. Glass shattered. The ceiling lights rained down in tiny shards.
Enrique dragged her through the mindless swarm like she was a rag doll.
A man bumped into her and sent her careening into another man.
An elbow struck her ribs. Pain lanced her chest in red-hot heat.
A spray of warm blood suddenly burned her arm like acid.
Lourdes screeched and slapped at the offending drops.
“Shit. Are you hit?” Enrique forced her to duck behind an overturned table. Hunching down, he ran his hands over her arms and chest to check for injuries.
“No, no. S-someone else. N-not my blood,” she stuttered, shivering all over. Screaming and gunfire pierced her eardrums.
And then, the music stopped. The blasts petered out.
“Stay down.” Enrique sprang up and yanked his pistol from beneath his jacket.
“No, wait!” Panic rising, she grabbed his leg. “Don’t leave me!”
“Carajo.” He drew her up alongside him and kissed her forehead. “It was Zayas. He had a fucking machine gun.” As he holstered his weapon, he stared up at the VIP balcony.
She followed his line of sight.
Rubén and Santiago stood at the balcony rail, faces crimped with rage.
Rascón pushed through the chaos to reach them. “Boss? You two okay?”
“We’re fine,” Enrique snapped and gripped her hand. “I need to check in with Rubén.”
They pushed through the fleeing crowd.
Glass crunched under Lourdes’s feet. Blood slicked the tile, the sight turning her stomach. Somehow, she climbed the stairs to the VIP level without hurling her dinner.
Alita and a few other servers huddled together and sobbed at the bar where Santiago shouted into his cell.
Rubén stomped over. “Police are on their way. God only knows how many people are dead.”
“Where are Carlota and Drina?” Lourdes asked, heart racing.
“Safe.” The jefe flicked his hand at the wall of muscle in front of the booth.
His enforcers and Sancho strode over with the terrified women right behind them.
“Take my wife and sister home,” Rubén instructed the men. Then he faced Enrique. “I need you here.”
“Of course.” Enrique pushed Lourdes gently into Rascón’s hold and glared at the enforcer. “Guard her with your life. If anything happens to her, you will suffer a thousand cuts before I end you.”
“Sí, El Tajador,” Rascón replied with a nod, Enrique’s alias rolling off his tongue.
The Cutter. She shuddered and glanced down at the knife holstered on her lover’s belt. She yanked away from the guard. “I’m staying here.”
“Don’t argue.” Enrique kissed her hard, fast. “Princess, please. Zayas won’t get to you at the hacienda with all those guards around. I’ll handle this.”
The jefe’s face twisted as he tugged Drina to his side. “You’re sure it was him?”
“Damn right, I am. He escaped in the crowd.”
Rubén seethed. “I’ll kill him.”
“Get in line.” Enrique turned back to Lourdes. “I’ll see you soon.”
As Rascón and the guards herded Lourdes and the other women toward the winding stairs, Lourdes glanced back over her shoulder.
Enrique’s hard gaze burned right through her.
God help her, this was all her fault. She should’ve refused Enrique’s claim and accepted Diego’s.
She never should’ve tried to break free from her place in the cartel world.
Try for a better life. The people crying below, the bodies littering the dance floor—this was on her.
No. It was on Diego. Enrique would have to stand in line, too.
If she ever had the chance, she would kill Diego Zayas herself.