I shut my eyes briefly. Closure.
“I don’t need it,” she said immediately.
I blinked my eyes open against the awning’s bright lights. I hadn’t said the word aloud. Had I? What the fuck was wrong with me? Words never slipped out if I didn’t mean them to.
“If you’re doing all this to give me closure over something, don’t,” she practically pleaded.
Of course I was doing it for her—but I was no saint. I had my own selfish reasons too. I turned back for the hotel and jogged up the steps to check the lobby for Daniel. “You don’t even know what I’m trying to find.”
“It doesn’t matter, Cristiano.”
“It does to me.”
“But why?”
I massaged my jaw, thinking. “Tiny Dancer” played over the hotel speakers, and it was damn loud. When had I last put on a record and listened all the way through? And what kind of a thought was that right now? The song carried outside as I returned through the revolving doors and headed for the car.
If Natalia knew why I was gone and I came home empty-handed, she’d never fully open for me. Without this, there’d always be a part of her heart I’d never touch, no matter what happened. I knew it. She knew it. She was the one who’d sworn to me that without closure, she and I could never reach a level of complete trust.
“You don’t have to do anything for me,” she said. “Not if it, you know—not if you’re not safe.”
Her measured words spoke volumes. If Natalia didn’t want me to put myself in danger, that meant on some level, however deeply buried—she might . . . care about me.
And not only was it hard for her to say, but after eleven years of seeing me as the worst man in her life, it was probably impossible.
I was moving from monster to the man she’d call husband.
But that alone wasn’t enough. I wanted it all. I wanted her to ask for what she wanted. And I hoped what she wanted—was for me to come home. “Natalia. What are you trying to say?”
“I . . . I want you to—to—”
I missed the end of her sentence as my ears began to ring. I stretched my jaw, working it side to side . . . only to realize the sound was coming through the phone.
A piercing wail that drowned out Natalia as my spine went rod-straight.
My heart thudded in my chest as I strode to the car. I’d recognize that alarm anywhere.
“What is that?” Natalia yelled over what I knew was an earsplitting noise on her end.
“The house alarm. Where are you?”
“The bedroom—”
“Get down to the panic room, through the cellar—like Alejandro showed you, Natalia. Now!”
The ground under my feet turned to jelly, and I stumbled as I rushed to the Suburban.
When death strikes, don’t fall down.
I righted myself, ignoring the way my head swam.
“Your car, señor de la Rosa.” I turned and came face to face with one of the young valet parkers. I looked over his head for Max at the same moment the kid lunged into me full force. My shoulder flew into the Suburban’s side panel. Pain radiated from my bicep as I bounced off it, swung at him—and missed.
I never missed.
What the fuck?
Bright lights burned my vision. Whether the house alarm echoed in my ears or blared from my cell phone, I wasn’t sure. Natalia.
My back slammed up against the car door as I was pummeled again. The valet did the best he could to get in my face while I towered over him. I could easily pick up two of him and crack both skulls together—but my reflexes had slowed to the point that I could barely even push him off.
My mezcal. It’d been fucking drugged. I gritted my teeth and tried to propel myself forward. I had many lives depending on me—including Natalia’s.
With the bolstering thought, I managed to knee the valet in the balls, and a sharp pain burnt up my stomach to my chest.
He disappeared, but I couldn’t move my head fast enough to get him in my sight.
My muscles fatigued, and I had to steady myself against the car or I’d fall. My phone, still in my hand, vibrated and lit up with Natalia’s name for the third time in one night.
I stared at it, willing my hand to move so I could answer it. I swiped my finger across, but couldn’t get the phone to my ear. “Natalia,” I managed to grate out.
And her piercing screams answered.
No. Fuck! No. The alarms. The cellar. Was she in there? I tried forcing the question from my mouth.
With a flash of motion at my side, the valet threw himself at me again. “A gift from Belmonte-Ruiz, cabrón,” he said. “You’ve fucked with us for the last time.”
Time slowed. I blinked against the blinding lights above the awning as they brightened and sharpened. Elton John’s crooning slowed to a deep, lethargic warble. My head fell forward, and I caught sight of a bloodied knife in the valet’s hand. Where was the blood coming from? And why was it dripping at my feet?