“I hate these fucking things too.” He sips from his glass, gulps, and sucks air in through clenched teeth. “The sooner I get Tommy back to the city, the sooner we can put that bastard behind us.”
I cock a brow at his statement. “You didn’t like Elias?”
Shane’s shoulders bounce in a noncommittal shrug. “You can’t pick your relatives, right?” His voice rumbles under the music. “There’s a long line of people who’d want him dead. Most of these fuckers in here are celebrating, not mourning. But the asshole was still family and whoever pulled the trigger will die a slow, painful, gruesome, nasty—” A pretty servant catches his eye, abruptly stopping his detailed description mid-flow. When he winks, her face heats hotter than the sun. “That, right there, is the only good thing about these gatherings.” He chuckles to himself.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend waiting for you back in the city?” Aside from his facial scarring, the guy has good looks in a roguish, masculine way. Like a bare-knuckled, no rules in the ring fighter or a motorcycle gang member. “No special someone?”
He narrows his eyes at me and then his head shakes side to side. “Guys like me don’t hold on to the idea of forever, kid. In this job, women are a threat and a distraction. We don’t get close for a reason.”
The second I go to speak, a flurry of semi-quivers dwindle, animated chatter quickly fades, and all eyes turn to the doorway. My heart skips too many beats. Tomás leads his three brothers into the lavish room, his complexion cast in shadow, his shoes clipping the solid floor.
With a ragged sigh, I fumble the loose sable strands hanging over my breasts and slide an arm across my midriff. It’s pathetic how I react to the sight of him. To the man who thinks he owns me.
Teresa appears from the parted crowd wearing a simple form fitting dress the color of midnight. She struts toward the four men and stops before Tomás. Her arm curls around his elbow, she tilts in her high heels, and pecks his peppered jaw.
“It’s done.” He nods.
“Thank you. And his ring? Did you ever find it?” The second she references the ring I stole, my belly flips like it’s thrown from a jet plane without a parachute.
Tomás shakes his head. “It’s gone, Mama.”
‘Very well.” Teresa unhooks her arm and moves to Giovanni, hugging him close.
As she offers her sons condolences for the loss of their father, Tomás’ eyes scan the room until the hunter finds his prey. Our eyes lock—solemn ebony to awestruck amber.
My knees wobble when his mouth twitches to a faint smile. Somehow that barely noticeable quirk reaches inside me, its unintentional warmth heating me through like sun-drenched sand beneath my feet on a secret island.
The blacks of his calculating eyes mimic the depths of his suit, his diamond ear studs glinting as they bathe in fragments of light from above his head. I cross my arms and flex my toes into the expensive shiny kitten heel shoes he’d bought me.
He looks me up and down before tearing his striking gaze away to locate Shane and the security guy close by. Shane tips the crystal tumbler in his direction and takes a respectful sip.
Tomás, the man who has everyone’s attention, turns away, his demeanor self-assured and his emotionless expression discharging undeniable power. There’s no hint of weakness. No exposed soft flesh for the enemy to sink a blade into.
Guests move out of his way without question, the slickness of his tarnished aura warning them of his new authority.
I don’t want to crave this man.
I shouldn’t.
A wiser woman would take the opportunity to hide as a stowaway in a waiting helicopter. She wouldn’t replay the pleasure found in the arms of a cartel king. She’d spend her time thinking how he’d make her future hell. Then she’d try to get past the subtle guards who pop up everywhere only to earn a bullet to the back of the head for daring to abscond.
My eyes slip over his movements. How he gathers a plate and selects a wedge of blush watermelon, speared chunks of pineapple, daintyempanadas,and a large spoonful of golden rice. He gathers a napkin and a fork, spins on his heels and makes a beeline straight for me.
He ignores the busty woman with false lashes and a plunging neckline, vying for his attention. His determined gait eats up the space separating us until he stops within touching distance. Toe to toe.
“Have you eaten?” he asks, eyeing the almost empty glass in my hand.
“Not yet,” I confess. “I’ll get something when I’m hungry.”
He scowls down at me. “You’ll eat now.”
My stomach coils with hunger for nourishment and this man’s masculinity. Nonetheless, he doesn’t get to tell me what to do.
“I’ll have something later,” I say quietly, aware of his mother’s eyes burning holes in our unusual pairing.
He doesn’t look away from me, the plate held in place by my belly. “This is for you.” His eyes narrow. “Please, eat.”
My heart races at the thought of how he’s considerate enough to think of me first, before feeding himself. And how it makes my skin tingle. What I hate most of all is that I want to accept it—to obey him.