Chapter 1
F allon
There was a beautiful symphony in the act of deceit. Sight. Sound. Taste. Touch. All working together in an artistic dance of wills. He’d yet to learn mine was much stronger.
When he did, it would be too late.
Men like the stunning monster in the ten-thousand-dollar suit were like the worst vermin on earth. Cockroaches. Big, brown, and ugly.
Although if I had to admit, this particular cockroach was passable enough. Maybe even considered sensual in a predatory kind of way: dark hair framing a chiseled face, tall and muscular with broad shoulders, and dark, piercing eyes that could condemn a man with a single look.
However, the moment I laid eyes on the man who’d been responsible for kidnapping my sister and terrorizing my family, spots of crimson had formed in front of my eyes. But there was more, a secret that had haunted my family for years, a past life that had resurfaced.
Now fury had been unleashed.
With a single man responsible for the destruction of my world.
Navarro Delgado.
The merciless commander of the Torres Drug Cartel.
I wished him a torturous death. The key being I had full intentions of completing the task myself. Maybe I could keep his cold, dead heart in a glass jar like some boys did with bugs they’d scavenged from the mud.
The thought of inflicting pain brought a smile to my face.
Maybe I’d watched one too many Bruce Willis action flicks, which were my favorite. I’d certainly consumed more glasses of wine during the last couple of days than any human should be allowed. All in an effort to boost my courage.
So here I was intent on committing a crime.
As he strolled through the club, acting very much like the king of crime he’d become, I studied every inch, my gaze lingering on his carotid artery.
He was flanked by three of his soldiers, brutal savages who enjoyed the same rush of adrenaline I was feeling.
Even the brutal act of slicing open Navarro’s jugular wouldn’t satisfy the rage that continued to build deep inside.
I wasn’t usually prone to violence.
I’d never been a woman hell-bent on revenge.
I’d never craved ending a life the way I’d felt over the last few days.
After years of hard work and time spent healing, I’d earned the bohemian lifestyle of a famous artist. Critics called me a talented painter who thrived on portraying the colors of the world, depicting the deep-seated emotions that would captivate an audience.
The quote was from my last gallery showing in Chicago during the days when my life had been turned upside down. Up until then, my mantra and my life had been simple and peaceful.
Sleep late. Work hard. Play even harder.
Coffee injected intravenously in a continuous stream.
Ocean breezes.
A quaint house with just the right vibe to inspire my wild imagination.
Dating? Men?
On the backburner, but certainly the subject of many paintings in vibrant colors. That way, I could work on managing my anger and hatred for the species with a dick stuck between their legs.
Now I was using the angst to fuel the hunger that had nothing to do with hot, rough sex.
I’d never been the girl who’d craved seeing slasher flicks with her girlfriends, squealing even though the victim on screen was an idiot and deserved to die for his or her stupidity alone.
I’d protected small animals, rescuing everything from butterflies who’d lost their wings to squirrels who’d been attacked by the neighborhood cats.
I’d taken the time to nurse them back to health much to my mother’s chagrin, even indulging myself and urging everyone in my family to watch as I ceremoniously set them free.
I’d been the soft, sweet girl, the one in pigtails with freckles haphazardly stamped across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose.
Once upon a time I’d fainted from the sight of blood.
I’d been the kid all doctors hated, screaming and crying every time I received a single pinprick of a needle.
I’d also been the girl who’d fantasized about fairytale endings and heroes on big, brooding horses saving the day.
That wasn’t reality.
No longer could I pretend the ugliness wasn’t real.
Tonight, I was a femme fatale, a black widow.
A killer.
I shifted closer and at this point I should feel panic clawing at my heart, a reminder that I was in over my head.
But that’s not what was happening.
My heart was pulsing rapidly, but that was from giddiness. It had taken me days to track him down, two more to study his actions, his regular routines firmly embedded in my mind. I’d hoped for a single kiss of karma that would allow me to get close.
She’d smiled kindly on me, obviously loathing chauvinistic men who believed women were nothing but disposable toys.
Here it was.
That very moment when I could exact my revenge.
The larger-than-life killer was taking a night off, enjoying the perks of being a monstrous leader.
I continued studying him from far enough away that there wasn’t a chance I was being lured into a trap. Being careful was the only way I’d have a chance of gutting the man I hated with every ounce of my being.
Sadly, I was forced to remind myself my sister’s life was at stake.
She was alive. I felt her presence all the way to my bones.
We were so close I’d know if she’d been killed.
The kidnapping was bad enough. Retribution for the past was the delicious, ripe cherry on top. He would suffer the way I knew she had.
The way my…
Memories were brutal, often shoved inside a padlocked box for months, even years. When they surfaced, they were often deadly.
The Spaniard was devastatingly handsome, but if eyes were the truest expression of a man’s soul, his was obsidian black. That didn’t mean his lethally dangerous looks and powerful demeanor weren’t attractive. Quite the contrary. He was gorgeous, a man wrapped in sin and a ten-thousand-dollar suit.
His long dark hair and chiseled jaw were enough to land him on People Magazine as one of the Fifty Hottest Men in the World. Yes, I had envisioned tangling my fingers in his thick curls, but only in the context of fisting a handful, jerking back his head and driving a sharp knife into his neck.
He was intimidating just by existing, a man who controlled every room he walked into. Only he didn’t simply head into a location, he owned it just by walking inside. I’d learned to read people very well and he truly believed he was bigger than the law and that decency didn’t apply.
I took a sip of my drink while he commanded attention from the bartender. People had scattered the moment he’d walked in, giving him and his entourage a wide berth. If I had to admit the truth, doing nothing more than continuing my observation would be satisfying, but I refused to lose my nerve.
It was time.
I only hoped the dangerous Underworld King was prepared to meet his maker.