Take Page 4

  It was time to start working out again. The sooner he rebuilt his strength, the sooner he could return to Caracas and reestablish his reign there.

  First, he needed to deal with his prisoners.

  “If you make a single sound, Tate will die.” He unlocked the phone. “Tell me you understand.”

  Her blue eyes flashed, and her teeth sawed through the words. “I understand.”

  He dialed Arturo, the guard who sent the video, and didn’t wait for a greeting. “Put Tate on the phone.”

  Sounds of movement rustled down the line, followed by an angry rush of breaths.

  “Hello, Tate.” Tiago set the phone on speaker, so Kate could hear the conversation.

  Tate made a stricken noise. “Where’s—?”

  “If you ask about her, the call ends, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  It had been a month since Tate and Lucia saw each other. Tate asked about her relentlessly, but his questions went unanswered.

  Tiago needed him to assume the worst. “You’ll spend the rest of your lonely existence locked away in that shack, wondering why I called and what I was going to say.”

  Kate sucked in a breath, her expression murderous.

  “I’m listening,” Tate said.

  “I would be there in person, but I haven’t been feeling well. I’m sure you know why.” As he spoke into the phone, he held her gaze, wordlessly reminding her to keep quiet. “I wanted to offer you something. Let’s call it a last request. Anything you want. This doesn’t include information, and it must fit inside the shack.”

  “What is this?” Tate asked. “Like a last-meal request? Am I on death row?”

  She tensed, her fingers biting into the mattress.

  He shook his head, admonishing her. “I’m offering more than a meal, Tate. You can choose anything—a bed to sleep on, a girl to fuck, a drug to numb your mind. I’m sure you can come up with something creative.”

  “Why?” Suspicion laced Tate’s voice. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve already taken my payment.” Given the rancor in her eyes, he might have to kill her before the call ended. “Consider this a thank you.”

  “What did you take?” Tate whispered harshly.

  “Not Lucia. I left her to die in prison. What’s your last request, Tate?”

  Kate pressed a hand against her lips, smothering a whimper.

  Tiago had spoken the truth about Lucia, but not the whole truth. If Kate sat there and kept her mouth shut, maybe he would enlighten her.

  Returning his attention to the phone, he digested the silence on the other end.

  Right about now, Tate was likely hitting a very cold, inconsolable rock bottom. Tiago knew too well what that felt like. The suffocating, dire weight of helplessness pulling through the body. The endless chill hardening organs and arteries. The grip of desolation overshadowing self-preservation. An emptiness so profound and consuming there wasn’t enough air to return from the dead.

  To have and to hold the entire world, then to watch it be violently ripped away… There was no greater suffering.

  Kate was right. Some experiences cut so deeply it gutted a man. Or twisted a good man into a criminal.

  Tate’s rasp vibrated the speaker. “Do you have a photo of Lucia?”

  “Yes.”

  “My request…” He coughed, his voice hoarse. “I want to finish the tattoo on my arm, feel her face on my skin, with me always.”

  Tears welled in Kate’s eyes, her nostrils pulsing above the hand she held against her mouth.

  Tate had more than proved his love for Lucia in the basement of the Caracas compound. Having her inked into his skin would add a layer of commitment that made his devastation that much more meaningful.

  The idea moved Tiago, sinking deep into a graveyard of memories and resurrecting ghosts. He harbored an ugly past, one that made him fixate on rare and beautiful things, like the mutual devotion between two people.

  Wrenching Tate away from Lucia had been as cruel as carving a portrait into his back, but that was the point.

  The strongest love rose out of the greatest hurt.

  With regard to the logistics of Tate’s request, it just so happened one of the local guards was a tattoo artist.

  “Very well.” Tiago switched the call off speaker. “Return the phone to the guard.”

  After making the necessary arrangements with Arturo, he disconnected and glanced at Kate.

  “Can I see another video?” She wiped her damp cheeks. “Proof that your guard isn’t killing him?”

  “No.” He locked the phone and tossed it aside.

  Her lashes lowered, and another tear slipped out. “Please, let him go.”

  If she thought he kept a watchdog on Tate, she was wrong. The few guards Tiago had with him were needed here, watching the perimeter of the house.

  When he was carried out of Caracas a month ago, he was comatose and bleeding from two fractures in his skull. Only Arturo and Boones came with him—the two men who saved his life.

  Boones had taken care of everything, treating his injuries and transporting him to this isolated area in the Venezuela desert. Tiago owned this land and had decided days before Lucia’s attack that Tate would be captured and brought here. Boones followed through on that plan perfectly.

  Only five other guards joined them here, all of which were pulled from Tiago’s other domiciles around the country.

  His outfit in Caracas didn’t know about this place, and he intended to keep it that way. He had countless enemies and trusted no one. Except Boones.

  Every day, the old doctor delivered Tate’s meals and nursed his wounds. Only then did a guard go near the shack, and that was for Boones’ protection.

  If Tate managed to free himself from the ankle cuff, no one would stop him from escaping.

  Tiago reclined against the wall and captured her gaze. “When Lucia finds him, he’s free to go.”

  “You said Lucia’s in prison.” Her brows gathered. “You also said you let her go.”

  “You may not believe this, but I haven’t lied to you. I did let her go.”

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “Good, because you have no—”

  “Opinions. I heard you the first time.” She looked away, giving him the profile of her willful chin.

  Why hadn’t he sent her back to her room? He wouldn’t need her until later, if at all.

  He’d captured her to send Tate and his friends a message. Fuck with the most powerful gang leader in Venezuela and pay the consequences.

  As for Kate’s fate, it wasn’t pretty. He would offer her to his enemies as a bribe. Or give her to his guards as a reward for their loyalty.

  Or he would just kill her.

  He tilted his head and let his gaze wander over her, really taking her in for the first time.

  Blond hair hung in wild waves to her elbows. Bony shoulders, smallish tits, she was skinnier and shorter than the average twenty-two-year-old.

  For all the profanity and thunderous noise her face produced over the past month, he’d formed a completely different picture in his head. Between bouts of unconsciousness and listening to her bellow in the other room, he’d imagined a tough Amazonian beast of woman. Someone tall and strong with meat on her bones.

  Not that he had complaints about the image before him. That was the problem. Kate was a goddamn knockout.

  Her fair complexion, ethereal figure, graceful legs, and fuck, her eyes… As vivid as the ocean and too deep to measure, those bottomless blues could enchant a man, make him change course and lose his way.

  He should just kill her now and be done with it.

  With a slow breath, she sat taller, pushed back her shoulders, and faced him. “Will you tell me what happened? With Tate and Lucia?” Her eyebrows knitted together as she faltered over her next question. “Is Van Quiso alive?”

  Interesting how she asked about everyone else while her own life hung in the balance. And Van Quiso n
o less. The sex-trafficking rapist enslaved her for weeks, no doubt violating her six ways to Sunday. He didn’t deserve her concern.

  One might argue that Van couldn’t hold a testicle to the crimes Tiago had committed. Nevertheless, Tiago felt a strange itch to answer her and found himself wondering how she would weigh in on his decision concerning her fate.

  His train of thought baffled him. She was nothing more than a prisoner. A soon-to-be-dead prisoner.

  Her death would be a waste of a gorgeous body. Most men would sell their souls for a night between her legs. But the lure of a beautiful woman had no power over him.

  Lucia spent eleven years at his side, naked in his room, and dependent on his mercy. He’d allowed himself to touch her, to indulge in the feel of her every dip and curve. But he never fucked her. That was his rule. His self-imposed penance.

  Kate was no different.

  He ran a hand along the cuff of his shirt, unbuttoned it, and did the same with the other sleeve. “After a month of bed rest, this is the first time I’ve put on clothes. Unfortunately, when my bag was packed for me, my casual attire was forgotten in the rush.”

  Her mouth parted, her eyes bright and watchful. He knew she’d wondered why he’d dressed up. The fact that he answered her unspoken question surprised him as much as it did her.

  “I’ve been straight with you.” He rolled up his sleeves, taking his time with each one. “Your life is forfeit. A penalty paid for Tate’s stupidity. It’s in my best interest to kill you quickly.”

  She fell unnaturally still, her gaze focusing on nothing. He wasn’t sure she was breathing.

  Then she blinked and locked onto his eyes. “Do you have anything to drink?”

  Her calm response gave him pause, and in that unexpected moment, he found her…spellbinding.

  “There’s a bottle of tequila in my bag.” He nodded at the luggage. “Cups are in the bathroom.”

  “I’ll pour us some shots.”

  As she stood, her arm wrapped around her stomach where he’d kicked her, her face etched in pain.

  He should’ve killed her the moment she entered his room.

  Why didn’t he just do it now? As long as she was alive, her friends wouldn’t stop looking for her.

  She shuffled through the small space, grabbing the tequila and pulling his concentration along with her. The white-gold of her hair, the unintentional sway of her ass, the irresistible flex of muscle there—the sight of her made him burn, hardening him until there was nowhere to go in his fitted trousers.

  He deserved the discomfort, had earned the torment of looking at her without touching. Twelve years ago, he made the gravest mistake of his life and lost everything that made him human. But he still had a working dick, and the damn thing wanted out.

  She returned to the mattress, watching him watch her. “Why is killing me in your best interest?”

  There were many reasons, but he gave her the one that would hurt her most.

  “You said it yourself.” He lifted the tequila from her hand, filled the cups, and handed one to her. “Your army of dangerous friends is looking for you.” He took a hearty draw from the mug, hoping the alcohol would numb his perpetual headache. “I’ll leave your body where they can find it.”

  She tossed back the tequila, gulping it down between hacking coughs.

  “Sit.” He motioned at the mattress.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, sat at the farthest end, and held out the empty mug. “If you kill me, they’ll come for you.”

  “Not with the same urgency or persistence.” He refilled her cup. “What will they sacrifice to avenge your death? How long will it take before they refocus their efforts on those they can save? That’s what they do, right? They free human slaves.”

  She averted her eyes, jaw clenched, and looked back at him. “You don’t know them.”

  “When Van Quiso and Liv Reed ran a sex trafficking ring, you were their seventh slave. But they put all that behind them, and now they co-parent the child who came out of their twisted relationship. Van married Amber. Liv married Josh, and they’re all one big fucked-up family. You are not their priority.”

  “Where did you get that information?”

  “Then there’s Lucia’s sister, Camila Dias. She’s not only the leader of your little army. She also happens to be married to the capo of the Restrepo cartel. She made quite a leap from Van’s attic. Or a fall, depending on how you look at it.” He finished off his tequila and poured another. “While Matias Restrepo has the resources to take me out, his focus is and always will be on Camila. If she died by my hand, he’d tear the universe apart in his fury to make me suffer. But I took you, and you are not his. You’re not his priority. Not his concern.”

  “Whatever you think.” She lifted a shoulder, and the trembly motion ruined her attempt at indifference.

  “As for the men you lived with, they’re currently seeking refuge in Colombia, under Matias’ protection.”

  “They’re afraid you’ll come after them. If you kill me, they will retaliate.”

  “Which roommate were you fucking? Martin? Luke? Tomas? All of them?”

  He’d investigated the entire crew the moment he discovered Tate Vades sniffing around his domain. While he didn’t know who was fucking who in Tate’s household, he’d learned enough to determine that Kate was the ideal target.

  She wasn’t married. Didn’t have a romantic partner or monogamous lover. There was no one in her life who would travel to the end of hell and back to avenge her death. And that was where he was headed after he killed her. Back to Caracas. Hell on Earth.

  “All your assumptions can fuck right off.” She guzzled her drink and shoved the cup aside.

  “Your friends might be outraged by your death, but they don’t love you. Not the way a man loves his soulmate. You are no one’s other half. No one’s number one.”

  She closed her eyes, tucking away her reaction. But he felt the moment his words penetrated. The mattress shook beneath her perch on the edge, her body quaking so loudly and intensely he marveled at the strength of her despair.

  Her gaze moved to the exit. Would she make a run for it? If she did, she wouldn’t make it past the antechamber. The door to the stairway required a key from the inside, which he kept in his locked safe.

  He poured another drink, stalling the inevitable task. She wouldn’t be the first life he took. Nor was this the first time he hesitated.

  As if she sensed the direction of this thoughts, she turned and gave him her full attention.

  Perspiration formed along her hairline, her breaths choppy and rough. “I don’t want to die.”

  Smooth tequila, a gorgeous woman, and the thrum of rain on an old roof… Tiago hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long damn time.

  He didn’t want to kill her. Not tonight.

  Maybe the month he spent in this room softened more than his muscles. With a grumpy old man as his only visitor, he ventured to guess he was lonely.

  He hadn’t seen his guards since he arrived. Even though they’d been carefully vetted and handpicked for this job, he didn’t trust them in his personal space, let alone his headspace.

  He longed for conversation, and Kate wanted answers. He could give her that much.

  Wetting his lips with a sip from the mug, he let his mind drift to the past. “Eleven years ago, my men pulled a smuggled slave out of a deadly crash in Peru.”

  “Lucia,” she breathed.

  “They found her chained in a truck with a twisted piece of metal protruding from her abdomen.”

  By some miracle, she’d survived. But barely.

  The same could’ve been said about him at the time.

  “When they brought her to me, I knew I’d have to kill her. It was the easiest solution.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I hesitated.” He reached for his boot and untied the laces. “It wasn’t a matter of morals. I’ve been taking lives since my early twenties.”

&nb
sp; Killing was a job requirement, then and now.

  Her face paled. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  Fifteen years her senior.

  She touched her throat, eyes round with shock. “You’re older than I thought.”

  He felt old. Too fucking old and jaded to have a meaningful conversation with a girl from the suburbs. But he wanted to tell her about Lucia, needed to get it off his chest.

  Removing his boots, he leaned back against the wall, with his legs stretched off the mattress. “Lucia came to me at a time when I needed a distraction.”

  It had been the worst year of his life. He’d lost everything, moved halfway across the world, changed jobs, and stripped his identity down to the black remains of his soul. All he had left were nightmares and chaos, and he needed to balance that with something constant, something he could control.

  And there she was. A woman he could save.

  “Boones and his medical team operated on her,” he said. “She went through several surgeries and a long recovery.”

  “He has a medical team?”

  “Three other doctors. They followed me to Venezuela twelve years ago to work for my organization. But they’re old, older than Boones, and it was time for them to go home. They left the night Boones transported me here.”

  “Where is home?”

  Tiago didn’t originate from Eritrea like Boones and the others, but their quiet African village on the Red Sea was the only place he ever called home.

  His chest constricted. What bound him to Eritrea was a collection of pervasive, melancholic memories. His life there ran the gamut from extreme joy to unendurable tragedy. None of which he was inclined to talk about.

  When her gaze dipped, he realized he was scratching the scars on his forearm.

  Lowering his hand to his lap, he skipped over her question. “I didn’t keep Lucia alive out of the goodness of my heart. She’s attractive and ferocious, and I wanted to mold those attributes into a weapon I could use.” He chuckled in remembrance. “She became an invaluable spy, but it took years to tame her.”

  Kate stared at him as if he just told her he ate the hearts of human babies.

  She wasn’t far off the mark.