Jorge.
His spine turned to ice. He blinked, trying to shake the crazy notion from his head. It couldn’t be Jorge. Jorge was dead. Ramon knew this. He had watched him die twelve years ago.
The lookalike stood up, started stalking towards their table and a swift bolt of recognition cleared the confusion from Ramon’s head.
Slowly, he rose. ‘Mateo.’
Mateo Mendoza glared at him with fierce, undiluted hatred blazing in his black eyes. He spoke in Spanish, his voice a low, belligerent snarl. ‘You’ve got a nerve showing your face around here, de la Vega.’
Keeping his cool in the face of the younger man’s hostility, Ramon tried to remember how old Jorge’s brother had been when he’d last seen him. Twelve? Which would make him twenty-four now.
Another man, roughly the same age, appeared at Mateo’s back. He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and murmured something, but Mateo shook him off.
Ramon threw a glance at Emily. A look of startled alarm had settled on her face.
Dios.
He didn’t want her to witness this. Didn’t want her in the middle of a situation he might not be able to control. Body tensed, alert,
he focused his attention on Mateo. ‘Whatever you want to get off your chest, Mateo,’ he growled, ‘this is not the place.’
The younger man drew his right arm back and Ramon knew he was about to put his weight behind a punch. He could have ducked, blocked the blow; he was bigger and stronger, so he could take the other man easily. Instead, he braced his shoulders and took the full impact of Mateo’s fist on the left side of his jaw. It hurt like hell, making a cracking sound like a gunshot inside his skull.
Emily shot to her feet. ‘Ramon!’
‘Sit down, Emily,’ he gritted out. He didn’t want Mateo’s attention on her.
‘I will not sit down!’ she cried. ‘What on earth is going on?’
Eyes narrowed, chest heaving, Mateo trawled his gaze over her, a sneer twisting his lips.
Ramon fisted his hands. ‘Did that make you feel better, Mateo?’ he asked drawing the other man’s attention.
Slicing another look at Emily, Mateo jabbed a finger in Ramon’s direction. ‘This man is a murderer,’ he spat in English, and then his friend grabbed his arm and roughly dragged him out of the bar before the burly staff member who was weaving through the tables reached them.
His heart racing, Ramon apologised for the disturbance, paid the bill and added an extra-large gratuity, then took Emily by the elbow and walked her into the street.
In a high-pitched voice, she demanded, ‘What on earth was that about?’
Retaining a firm hold on her arm, he headed in the direction of the car. ‘Keep walking, Emily.’
‘Why did you let him punch you?’
‘Because he was angry and needed to vent.’
‘By hitting you?’
‘I deserved it.’
‘What do you mean?’
He realised she was panting and slowed his stride a little. ‘I’ll explain later.’
‘He said you were a murderer.’
Ramon clenched his teeth and winced as renewed pain shot through his jaw. ‘I heard what he said.’
‘Are you going to tell me what he meant?’