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  Her stomach bucked with nausea. If she ate, it would all come back up.

  “I’m sorry. I… I wasn’t prepared for this.” She rubbed a clammy palm on her jeans and lowered into the chair. “I didn’t know you were here. In prison.”

  “Very good.” He lit a cigarette, watching her through a curl of smoke. “I pay a lot of money to a lot of people to keep my location a secret.”

  Made sense. It would be easy for his enemies to send assassins into Jaulaso. Hector could only run as far as the prison walls.

  She stared at his cigarette with longing. She hadn’t smoked since college, but the urge crept up sometimes.

  It would calm her nerves, maybe make her look tougher than a high school Spanish teacher.

  He tracked her gaze and held out a pack of smokes. “Go ahead.”

  She couldn’t hide the tremors in her hands as she lit one. Somehow, she managed not to cough through the first drag.

  Silence stretched between them, and he didn’t seem to mind. There was no expectation in his warm brown eyes. No judgment in his relaxed posture.

  He was nothing like she’d imagined.

  The stories she’d heard growing up had painted him as a raping, murdering, blood-thirsty tyrant. Maybe that was true when he was younger. But now? All she saw was a soft-spoken, unassuming gentleman in his sixties.

  Silver streaked a full head of black hair, and the few wrinkles fanning from his dark eyes made him look mature and distinguished. Modestly dressed with a lean physique, he was too debonair to be a cartel leader. Too pleasant and fragile looking to fit in with the uneducated, vulgar gangsters who roamed the halls of Area Three.

  His cream-colored shirt buttoned neatly over his narrow chest with the collar undone. No flashy necklaces or rings. Nice teeth. Clean hair. Smoothly shaved jawline. He took care of his appearance without coming across as pretentious.

  He didn’t radiate cruelty like his guard at the door, and there wasn’t a trace of sexual interest in his gaze.

  So why was she here? Maybe it was a test, one that would cast her out of Area Three if she failed.

  But if she were allowed to stay, Garra would attempt to collect rent. She meant what she’d said. If he touched her again, she would kill him.

  She desperately needed to belong to a structure that would keep her safe. To survive, she needed to be part of a group, a circle of trust that would support her when she defended herself and protect her when she couldn’t.

  If Hector La Rocha truly owned Jaulaso, she needed him on her side.

  Scanning his belongings, she searched for something that might help her connect with him and wriggle into his good graces.

  An old record player sat in the corner next to a stack of vinyl records. Old-fashioned paintings colored the walls in Mexican landscapes. Handwoven rugs brightened the floor, and countless books lined the shelves. Books with Spanish titles about politics, war, technology, and religion.

  If he actually read those texts, he was an intellectual. Probably the only person in Jaulaso she could engage in deep conversation. The cleanliness of his private quarters suggested a tidy mind. If nothing else, perhaps she could offer him some mental stimulation.

  “How long have you been here?” She took a long drag on the cigarette, savoring the lightheaded calm of nicotine.

  “I’ve served eight years of a life sentence.”

  “Oh.”

  “You should eat.”

  “Thank you. I wish I could. Everything looks so delicious, but my stomach doesn’t feel well.”

  He nodded, and his silver brows knitted together. “I didn’t have this as a child.” He waved a hand over the aromatic platters of food. “Sometimes, we didn’t have anything to eat at all.”

  “Makes you appreciate it.” She crushed out the cigarette. “So much more than someone who has never felt hunger pangs.”

  “You know this from experience?” He tipped his head, his expression attentive and thoughtful.

  “Sure.” She lifted a shoulder. “I was raised by a single mother in the throat of Ciudad Hueca. She did her best to provide for us. Some years were better than others.”

  “The struggle made you stronger.” His eyes locked on hers, and a slow stream of smoke trickled from his nose. “You saved my life.”

  “I don’t know about that.” She glanced at the cases of guns and ammunition. “You have an arsenal in here.”

  “Yet I didn’t need it.”

  He watched her with an indiscernible emotion pressed between his lips. Tenderness softened the creases around his eyes. Admiration, even. It made her feel warm and uncomfortable at the same time.

  She returned her attention to the bookcases, skipping over manuals, textbooks, and heavy tomes. “You’re interested in learning.”

  “A man is only as great as his knowledge.”

  As an educator, she appreciated that sentiment.

  Her gaze snagged on a beginner’s book of English grammar. “You speak English?”

  “I trying learning,” he said clumsily in English. “Speak little.”

  There it was. The connection she needed. Her in.

  She lifted her eyes to his and took a leap. “I’m a teacher.”

  His face held no reaction.

  She didn’t want to offend him, but she had to go for it. A chance to win his trust.

  “I teach Spanish in the States. I know it’s not the same thing, but maybe I could teach you English, if you want to learn.”

  His nostrils widened with a deep inhale, his expression unreadable.

  Crap. Her hands clenched on her lap. “I didn’t mean to presume—”

  “Yes. You will teach me to speak, read, and write English like a gringo.” A smile broke across his face. “You will work for me.”

  Her relief lasted a fraction of a second before panic swept in.

  Work for Hector La Rocha? What had she done?

  Once a cartel member, always a cartel member.

  But there was no turning back from this. Refusing him would be a death sentence.

  Was she in a position to bargain? Probably not, but she had nothing to lose. “Does Garra work for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll teach you, but I ask one thing in return.”

  “Anything.” He stretched out his arms, indicating all his possessions.

  “Castrate him.” She sat taller. “Remove Garra’s manhood.”

  Silence. Stunned, agonizing silence. He let it build for so long she couldn’t feel anything but the ice forming on her spine.

  Then his hand slammed onto the table. She jumped a foot off the chair as he burst into laughter.

  “Oh, you are a delightful surprise!” He slapped the table again, rattling the dishes.

  “You’ll do it?”

  He blew out his cheeks with a heavy sigh. “Castration is too messy.”

  “Your reputation suggests otherwise.”

  “You think so?” He rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward, his eyes hard and unblinking.

  “I know so.” She stared back with a knot in her throat.

  “Luis.” He didn’t take his gaze off her. “Send in Garra.”

  Within seconds, the man she hated most in the world stood at attention before Hector.

  Nervous energy skittered through the room as Hector puffed on his cigarette. Was he going to do it? Cut off Garra’s balls right here in front of her? Or was the whole conversation just a way to fuck with her? Give her some hope, let her relax a little, then cut her throat?

  She stopped breathing.

  “There’s been a change in the ranks.” Hector exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze on Garra. “Petula works directly for me, and you now work for her.”

  Her heart stammered.

  “Yes, boss.” Garra’s voice didn’t carry a hint of surprise, but the flex of his hand affirmed his displeasure.

  “She pays rent to me,” Hector said. “You will not touch her or anyone else unless she allows it. No
sex, starting now. You will be celibate like a eunuch, yes?”

  “Understood.” A muscle feathered across Garra’s whiskered cheek.

  This wasn’t castration, but it was emasculating, nonetheless.

  She might’ve sagged with happiness if her insides weren’t gurgling with foreboding.

  Hector had given her what she’d asked for, but in return, she would be indebted to the notorious leader indefinitely.

  “If you want to fuck a woman, you must have Petula’s permission.” Hector reclined in the chair, his tone chillingly calm. “She is your number one priority. Whatever she needs, you will provide it. If she’s in danger, you will protect her with your life.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Hector wasn’t just removing Garra’s manhood. He was demoting the man, binding him into service to her.

  A personal security guard would give her more protection than the gun in her waistband or a lock on her door. But tethering Garra to her side was the last thing she wanted.

  “It will be my honor.” Garra clasped his hands behind him and shifted to face her. “I’m at your service, Petula.”

  His eyes connected with hers, and in that look, she glimpsed his contempt. It was there and gone in a blink, leaving behind an empty expression.

  Hector’s command was law. Didn’t matter if they liked it. Neither of them could refuse, and they both knew it.

  “We will begin English lessons at sunrise tomorrow.” Hector struck a match and lit another cigarette. “You may go.”

  Garra followed her into the hall and along the thirty-foot walk to her cell. At the doorway, she turned toward him.

  His face contorted, a furious scowl twisting at the center.

  “Could’ve been worse.” She rested her hands on her hips. “I told him to castrate you.”

  A seething breath slipped past his clamped teeth, and he tried to rein it in.

  With a forefinger and thumb, he pinched the bridge between his eyes and dragged in a string of deep inhales. Each one grew slower, calmer, until his shoulders relaxed.

  Then he lowered his hand and met her gaze.

  A thousand words clashed between them, none of them voiced. In that defining moment of silence, he accepted his role as her guard, and she came to terms with her new reality.

  She’d joined the most ruthless cartel in Mexico.

  The very cartel her mother warned her against her entire life.

  She’d passed the point of no return.

  Jaulaso Prison

  Present Day

  The fun-size package of sex in tight jeans stole glances at Martin from beneath her dark lashes. He didn’t have to look at the Latina beauty to feel the caress of her exotic eyes along his skin. But goddamn, did he look. He couldn’t stop.

  She sat at a table on the far side of the common area, bent over an open book. Each time her gaze lifted, he openly stared back, savoring the view.

  Monochromatic tattoos sleeved her arms in a blend of illustrations too detailed to make out at this distance. Perky tits formed an enticing valley in the V-neck of her shirt. Full lips begged to be kissed, no matter how hard she pressed them together.

  Large brown eyes perused him up and down, taking his measure, weighing his worth. With each pass, her expression softened as if, in her attempt to analyze him, she’d inadvertently let her guard slip.

  After a moment, she looked away. Whatever she decided about him made her pull in a breath. Her chest rose with the inhale, squeezing her perfect rack in the confines of her shirt.

  Fuck, his dick.

  For the past seven years, the thought of having sex again had tortured him into a celibate existence. But after two days in Area Three, watching this alluring woman react to him, he couldn’t control the swelling torment between his legs.

  He wasn’t prepared.

  Not for her.

  He and Ricky had trained nonstop for months, focusing on combat, weaponry, and cartel politics. In addition to their daily workouts, they spent a good part of the year perfecting their Spanish.

  Going into this assignment, they knew the score.

  Coke, marijuana, meth… Name the drug. It was here. Prison guards didn’t enter this nasty, dark corner of hell, where inmates carried high-powered submachine guns.

  Drug dealers with Uzis.

  And they were all at war with one another. If a vato so much as looked at someone wrong, he was dead.

  He and Ricky had three months to complete the mission while living among the worst of the most violent, crazy, and disturbed men on the planet.

  According to their intel, there weren’t supposed to be female prisoners in Area Three. And certainly not one as hot as Petula Gomez.

  “Stop staring, dipshit,” Ricky whispered behind the loose curl of his hand.

  “Only reason you’re not is because your back is to her.”

  Being bilingual proved exceedingly useful. Since no one in here seemed to know English, he and Ricky used it in their private conversations.

  “How did we not know she existed?” Ricky tossed two cards onto the table between them, maintaining the ruse of playing poker.

  Matias Restrepo had been their primary resource for information. As the capo of the biggest cartel in Colombia, he kept tabs on all his rivals. When he married Camila earlier this year, her vigilante group of freedom fighters had gained a powerful ally.

  Without Matias, they would’ve never located Hector La Rocha.

  Their target.

  Matias and Camila had arranged the arrest that planted Martin and Ricky in Jaulaso. Before they were detained, Matias had given them a few instructions.

  Pay a prison guard to move you to a nicer area.

  Request Area Three.

  Try not to get shot or raped in the process.

  Never wander off alone.

  So far, so good.

  In three months, their bogus drug trafficking charges would be dropped. Whatever deal Matias and Camila had negotiated with the Mexican government guaranteed their release from Jaulaso.

  They had three months to steal as much information as possible. Vital information, like the location of the comandante who runs the cartel’s multinational sex trafficking operation.

  That intel would be handed over to the Mexican government and used to put Hector La Rocha out of business.

  Martin would give his left nut to kill the crime boss himself. Not an easy feat, considering Hector was surrounded by hundreds of La Rocha members in Jaulaso. Attacking their leader would be a suicide mission.

  Not only that, a dead cartel leader would only give rise to a new one. All the heads needed to be removed, and that required cunning.

  Penetrating Hector’s inner circle was the first step. Martin had a sinking feeling that circle included the female inmate they knew nothing about.

  “She’s a deviation.” Ricky kept his whisper beneath the din of chatter around them. “Deviations from the pattern are never good.”

  Through extensive profiling prior to the mission, they’d compiled a list of every officer in La Rocha Cartel. All of them were men.

  How did no one outside these walls know about her? Who was she?

  Rumors on the inside were rampant, leaking from every mouth in Area Three. In the two days he’d been here, he’d heard she could outmatch any inmate in a knife fight, drink the biggest man under the table, and knew every closely guarded secret in La Rocha Cartel.

  Some said she strangled a man with her bare hands on her first night in Jaulaso. Others claimed she’d saved Hector La Rocha’s life during a prison riot.

  The stories were too outlandish to be true. She carried a weapon on her person at all times, but that didn’t mean she had the strength to take down a two-hundred-pound convict. She was just a little thing, half the size of the smallest man in here.

  His skin prickled, the electric touch of her gaze making it damn difficult to sit here and ignore her. He was confrontational by nature and wanted nothing more than to charge a
cross the room and talk to her.

  That, as he’d learned on the first night, was not allowed.

  When he and Ricky had entered Area Three, a man named Garra met them at the door. After Garra informed them they would be sleeping on the floor in the common area, he left them with a warning.

  Any man who approaches Petula Gomez without permission is a dead man.

  Two days of observation confirmed the threat carried weight.

  Her fellow prisoners tracked her with hungry eyes, injected her name into conversations, and boasted about all vulgar ways they would tear up that pussy. But no one made a move on her.

  No one approached her. No one talked to her. Every man in Area Three gave her a wide berth.

  Except her ever-present guard dog.

  Rumor had it that Garra was her lover. The only one, given the possessive way he stood between her and everyone else. When he wasn’t glaring, growling, and pissing a circle around her, he was poised at her side with his mouth moving at her ear.

  She didn’t speak, not to him or anyone, but her posture maintained an alertness that suggested nothing slipped past her notice.

  “Jesus.” Ricky stomped a foot on the ground and lifted it to reveal a pile of bug guts. “Is it just me or are the roaches unnaturally large here? Why are there so many? I don’t even know where they’re coming from.”

  “We’ve been here two days and haven’t seen the boss. We have no weapons, no way to contact anyone on the outside. We’re surrounded by the most brutal drug cartel in Mexico, and you’re bitching about roaches?”

  Their eyes met, and a rush of warmth filled his chest. Ricky’s mouth curved upward, his handsome face gentling with affection before tensing again.

  The impulse to rescue his best friend’s smile pulled him forward.

  “Remember when we first started sharing a room?” He leaned across the table, erasing the distance. “I changed our Wi-fi name to I Can Hear You Masturbating.”

  “Yeah.” Ricky’s hard angles softened, and he bent in, closing the last few inches. “The next morning, I changed it to I Know.”

  “It was funny at home, but not here.” He trapped his grin behind a feigned glower. “Your chronic fist fucking will attract unwanted attention.”