Hitched to the Don (Dark Twisted Love Book 3) Read online

  Like Eleodora Rivera. He’d seen the weight of a hundred agonizing memories crush her when he’d taken off his glove in that airport hangar.

  She’d grown. Changed. But her eyes were still the same. So big, golden, innocent. Fourteen years had passed, and the only thing new in those eyes had been a brief burst of denial.

  Children weren’t capable of denial. Instead, they had imagination. An abusive father became an ugly troll. A dispassionate mother a haughty ice-queen. Their pain and suffering that of Cinderella’s.

  Zachary took his phone from his pocket. He hadn’t heard it ring, but checking it had become compulsive.

  Javier should have phoned two days ago already.

  He shifted in his seat, crooning at Lady when he roused her yet again from sleep. Holding his cellphone in his hand, he opened the call menu and typed in a number from memory.

  It rang several times before the line went dead.

  Boots sounded behind him. For a moment, they sounded just like Ailin’s had. The sensation was so strong that he frowned when he turned to face the man who had entered the small sitting room.

  Duncan. The man had been a good sicario, but no one could replace Ailin and Rodriquez. They’d been his lieutenants for close on twenty years.

  “Is there anything you need before I go?” Duncan asked. He was in his late forties—only a few years younger than Zachary—but his lined face spoke of a hard life.

  Zachary ran his knuckles over Lady’s brow as he considered, feeling the dog’s eyes twitch at the soft touch.

  When he set up plans, he expected all parties involved to adhere to their tasks. His mind was becoming restless; impatient to reorganize his thoughts. But he needed to speak to Javier for that to happen, and the man was ignoring him.

  The left side of his body started to ache. Zachary gently moved Lady’s head from his lap and rose. The dog leaned back on the sofa as if waiting to see if Zachary wanted her to join him.

  He clicked his fingers at her, and she hurriedly pushed herself up, shaking her head before climbing off the sofa and coming to stand beside him.

  “Bring Marco,” Zachary said as he walked past Duncan.

  Duncan didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. He could feel the man’s reproach coming off him in waves.

  Perhaps, tomorrow, he’d appoint a new lieutenant. After all, getting rid of Duncan could fill a few hours in what looked to be another lackluster day coming up.

  3

  Too many fucking secrets

  “…to know when he’ll be awake.”

  “Difficult to say. Could be a week, could be a month. Could be never.”

  Those voices again. They came every now and then; minutes apart, months apart…he had no idea. When there was no way for him to tell time, it became irrelevant. Tony Swan had no sense of then, only now. A familiarity told him he’d heard these two voices before. One in particular held his attention, such as it was. A voice so familiar that he felt a small jolt through his body whenever he heard it.

  Why did he feel so heavy? His limbs weighed tons, and his head was slowly burrowing its way through the thin pillow. Would he eventually just drop through this mattress and clang to the floor?

  His thoughts weren’t right. They slipped and skidded over each other. Snakes in oil. Spaghetti Marinara. That dish Naomie made him every Thursday. He could taste it on his tongue; fresh basil, the hint of chili she added. Her secret ingredient. That was before, when they were happy. Before Cora. Before Sofia. Before the blackness that came after they’d been taken from him.

  An exasperated voice drove him from those fond memories.

  “I need him awake.”

  “I understand, Don Javier, but this is out of my hands. His body needs time to heal. When it is ready, it will—”

  “Give him something. Drugs. A new heart. Whatever the fuck he needs.”

  “He needs rest.”

  A heavy sigh. The slightest pressure somewhere on his arm. How desperately he wanted to open his eyes, but it was as if he’d been locked inside his own body. Trapped by a cocoon of disobedient flesh.

  Sometime later, the light in the room changed. It became brighter, as if the sun was rising and someone had opened the curtains. This happened regularly—he knew because his body had grown accustomed to whatever cycle the light worked on—but this time, his eyelids flickered in response.

  When Tony woke, it felt like waking from a too-long sleep with a foggy mind and leaden limbs. He couldn’t move anything except his eyes, and they scanned the room in a valiant attempt to place it. But everything was too bright. So he closed his eyes and slipped away again, until the voices came back to haunt him. To drive him back into the world from that dreamless existence he’d been in for so long.

  “…nothing to report—”

  “This has gone on long enough. Either wake him, or take him off life support.”

  That voice. He recognized it. He’d heard it so many times before. Tony did his best to lever open his lids, but all they did was flicker. Among the noises he’d gotten so used to hearing was the beep-beep-beep of a machine. The rhythm of that sound changed. Became faster, almost urgent, in response to his suddenly racing heart.

  Cora. Blood on her face, running down her chin. Tears trapped in her lashes. His daughter weeping over him before being snatched away by a faceless man.

  Had that been a dream? He’d had so many. Violent, vivid dreams that made him want to tear out his eyes. Screams and cries of anguish that made him whimper in sympathy.

  “Get the nurse in here!”

  “Is he awake?”

  “I can’t be sure yet. Please, Don Javier, if you could wait outside.”

  “No. I want my face to be the first thing he sees.”

  “Por favor—”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Rushed, harried sounds. Fabric whisking. Someone thumbed open his eyelids, blinding him. Tony managed a murmur of protest—fuck, the light!—and then his other eye was thumbed open.

  “Antonio, can you hear me?” A face zoomed into focus. Someone he’d never seen before, but the voice was one of those that had conversed in his presence so many times.

  A hand grabbed the man’s shoulder, tearing him away. It was replaced with Javier Martin. A snarling mouth, instantly dissolving into a ready smile. But it was as if he’d gained some kind of inner sight. Because that smile no longer looked genuine. It no longer made him think of all the happy times he’d spent in Javier’s company. Instead, it made him think of the times he’d caught sight of Javier touching his wife; her hand, her waist, her shoulder. The flash of uneasiness that would rush through him, so quickly displaced by the thought, He’d never. We’re friends.

  Now, all those innocent gestures seemed laden with hidden meaning. Perhaps being so close to death had lifted a veil that had concealed Javier’s black heart from him all these years.

  Maybe he’d just had enough time to think.

  Enough…or too much?

  “You,” Tony managed through a throat that rasped like a snake’s belly over against stone.

  “Me,” Javier murmured. His smile became smug. At least it was genuine. Was this the first time the man had ever let his facade slip? “I’m so glad you woke up, old friend. I’ve missed you.”

  Tony tried to speak, but his body was still caught in whatever spell this man had put him under. His fingers twitched, and there came an urgent voice from beside Javier. “Please, Don Javier. This man needs—”

  “Of course, doctor,” Javier said smoothly, stepping aside. For a moment, Tony lost him in the permanent haze that hung around his bed, but Javier’s face came into focus again when he leaned forward to whisper, “Do you feel better, Antonio?”

  Something touched his hand; it could have been the doctor checking his pulse or Javier, but somehow he knew it was Javier.

  “I hope so,” Javier said. “We have so much to discuss.”

  4

  Shot by a stranger


  “Morning, sunshine.”

  Finn opened his eyes, shutting them immediately in response to a spike of pain in his head. “Jesus,” he muttered, putting a hand over his face.

  “I hope this snoring thing isn’t going to be permanent,” Lars said, twisting his mouth. “You demolished half the fucking Amazon last night how you were sawing logs.”

  “Fuck off,” Finn groaned. The doctor had said the light sensitivity he was experiencing would go away in a few days.

  “Hey, you wanna try escaping again?” Lars’s eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief. They usually did; he could be setting up a target, eying a girl at a club, or driving head-long into a traffic jam. How did he manage to keep his enthusiasm?

  That was one of the reasons he and Lars had started Argos. Lars had said it was for the money but, for Finn, it was a reason to live. If it wasn’t for landing the occasional gigs, he wouldn’t have cause to get out of bed. He’d lie there and waste away, thinking about everything he could’ve, should’ve, would’ve done. Living in the past, while the present spooled around him like a movie reel that had come undone.

  While his beast grew restless. Pacing, pacing, pacing. Sniffing at the air, trying to pick up the scent of prey.

  “Sure,” Finn said, lifting a hand. His hand cuff rattled against the bed rail. “’Cept I forgot my bobby pin in my other hospital gown.”

  “You’re no fun, Milo,” Lars muttered. He shifted on his cot, making his own hand cuff clatter against the metal railing. “It’s called imagination. It’s what you use to break free from the mental prison of a dull childhood. Bet you’ve never had to use it.”

  Finn managed a rough laugh. “Like you had it so bad, you fucking prick.”

  “I was bored to tears half the time,” Lars said, throwing his head against the pillow. “Suburbia was no place for a mind like mine.”

  “Jesus,” Finn said, yanking on his hand cuff. As much as he loved Lars, being handcuffed beside his cot for the past three weeks had been a special kind of torture for him.

  “You know you can probably rip that hospital bed apart if you wanted, right?”

  Finn stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds. It was one of Lars’s more persistent fantasies—that he’d somehow received superhero strength after their ordeal in Javier’s warehouse. In the beginning, it had been flattering. Maybe just a way for Lars to perk up his spirits when he’d finally gained consciousness.

  Now it was just annoying.

  “With great power—” Finn began.

  “You’ll be using it for good,” Lars cut in.

  “Javier will gun us down so quickly—”

  Lars’s sigh interrupted him. “Yeah, you’re right.” He clanked his handcuffs. “I’ve forgotten what it feels like to walk. Think we still can?”

  “Takes six weeks for muscles to atrophy,” came a voice from one of the cots opposite them.

  Finn jerked, blinking hard at the drawn curtain. He’d known there was someone behind it, but they’d never heard them speak and the doctor had always kept the curtain drawn.

  “Well…howdy neighbor,” Lars said dryly. “Thought you were a goner for sure.”

  A hoarse laugh came back. Finn frowned at the curtain. That voice teased his mind with a hazy memory. “What’s your name?”

  Another laugh. “Names don’t matter here. Unless you’re a Rivera or a Martin.”

  “Guessing you’re not one of those, then,” Lars said, rolling his eyes in Finn’s direction.

  “Lucky guess,” came the despondent response. The man had a deep, if lackluster voice. Then again, no one in this place could sound happy except Lars.

  But that was because Lars was crazy.

  Finn had always suspected it, but after spending three weeks in such close proximity to the man, he now knew for sure. It wasn’t a blatant madness…not if being an eternal optimist could be seen as insanity.

  Cora was a bit like that. Her with her undying loyalty. Her belief that unicorns not only existed, but shat rainbows just like her story books had told her. If unicorns did exist, they were fiery-eyed beasts that stank of sweat and drying blood. And their horns weren’t used to cure virgins of anything. They were weapons of war.

  Fuck, he had to get out of here. His mind had transformed into a dark, swampy place where slimy things moved around in the muck.

  “So, what you in for?” Lars asked, a laugh in his voice. “Bypass? Decapitation? Being beaten within an inch of your life for some chick you knew less than a week?”

  Finn closed his eyes. Not only to block out the light, but so he couldn’t see the hurt in Lars’s eyes. That, more than anything, had been unbearable these past few weeks.

  He couldn’t understand how—or when—it had happened…but Lars couldn’t mention Cora without shadows touching his eyes.

  Maybe she was cursed.

  “Gunshot,” came the response.

  “Dayam…” Lars winced. “Well, at least it sounds like you’re on the road to recovery.”

  “Should be out in a day or two.”

  “Was it Javier?” Lars asked, giving Finn an innocent shrug when he glared at him.

  The man in the veiled cot laughed again, and then coughed hard. After a short wheeze, he said, “A stranger.”

  “The worst kind of shooter,” Lars said, mouth pulling with regret. “So impersonal.”

  “I had it coming,” the man said.

  And there it was again. Something buried under a haze of painkillers and scarred-over memories.

  Why the hell did this guy sound so familiar?

  “Seriously, what’s your name?” Finn asked.

  “Me?” The man in the cot laughed. “I’m no one.”

  Finn gritted his teeth. “Just tell me your—”

  The door to their room opened, and Finn’s teeth clicked shut over the words. Doctor Gomez walked in, glancing up from his charts and giving them a cold stare. “Morning, gentlemen,” he said with anything but happiness in his voice. Then he turned to the door, a displeased set to his mouth. “This is Santino.”

  “Hola! Santino, my man!” Lars gave Javier’s sicario a vigorous wave. “Long time no see. You here to off us, or set us free?”

  Santino grinned at Lars, but it was the kind of grin a shark gave a seal before biting down. “Looking a bit white there, gringo. Doc tell you you can’t go in the sun or something?”

  Lars’s smile crystallized. “You finally going to tell us what the fuck’s going on?”

  “You sick of this place yet?” Santino asked, as he came to stand at the foot of their cots.

  “Walking on my legs would be nice,” Lars said. He pointed at the curtain opposite them. “Patient Zero says I should still be able to.”

  Santino glanced over his shoulder. “This guy? He’s awake?” The man peeked behind the curtain, gave a rough laugh, and straightened again. He tossed a bag at Lars, gave Finn a quick once-over, and then came closer as he dug in his pocket.

  “You get dressed. Meet me outside.”

  After he’d uncuffed them, Santino left the room. Doctor Gomez came around to take out Lars’s IV, and then Finn’s. As Lars got up and began dressing, the doctor gave Finn a quick exam.

  He hissed when the doctor’s torch flooded his head with pain.

  “I told him it’s too soon,” the doctor said, sounding pissed off. “You should have stayed until—”

  “I’m fine,” Finn said, pushing away the doctor. “Let me get up.”

  The doctor watched from a few feet away, as if ready to dive in if Finn was going to collapse. But his legs held him—if shakily—and he could put on his clothes without help.

  “Bailey,” Finn said, turning to the cot. He reached for the curtain, but Lars caught his hand.

  “Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “Wait.” Finn tore his arm free. “That’s—”

  Santino opened the door again. From the angle Finn stood, bright daylight strobed over his face. He flinched away, lifting
a hand to shadow his face.

  “You two want to stay here?”

  “God, no,” Lars said, dragging Finn out behind him. “I’d rather have Javier beat me up again. Did you know he hits like a girl? Be sure to tell him that, the next time you see him.”

  Finn closed his eyes to slits, spinning back to the sick room. But Doctor Gomez had followed them to the door, and he closed it in Finn’s face without a flicker of change in those cold eyes.

  Not for the first time, he wondered what Javier had on the doctor. Maybe nothing. Maybe he enjoyed his job.

  “You can tell him yourself,” Santino said as he headed down the passage. The sick room was on the second floor of a small concrete building that looked more like a government administration office than anything that should belong on the grounds of a sprawling, luxury villa.

  “What?” Finn grabbed hold of Santino’s sleeve.

  Santino spun, his assault rifle in his hands. He took two quick steps back, putting both Finn and Lars out of arms reach. “We’re not friends, gringo. Jefe said I could put a bullet in you if you gave me shit.”

  “So do it then,” Finn grated, stepping closer, with his hands curling into fists. “I’m sure it’ll be a lot better than whatever Javier fucking Martin has planned for us.”

  “I’ll pass on the bullet, thanks,” Lars said, shrugging when Finn gave him a glare over his shoulder. “What? Bullets fucking hurt.”

  Santino laughed, lifting the barrel of the assault rifle so it pointed at the ceiling. Then he waved a hand and started down the passage again.

  “You taking us to see him?” Finn asked.

  But Santino didn’t reply.

  Finn and Lars exchanged a glance. He had to be thinking about Cora again—there was no gleam in those green eyes anymore.

  5

  Tiny little thing

  Cora stepped onto the patio of Javier Martin’s villa. She was barefoot, the tiles beneath her feet already warm from the morning sun. Ahead, the patio table had been laden with food. Although, not as much as usual. And there was a decided lack of sicarios and halcones waiting around for the meal to start.