Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Without acknowledging his slave, he weaved through the dining room, stopping every few feet to shake a coke-stained hand, pat a tattooed shoulder, and answer questions about his recent visit to the States. Frivolous questions about the weather, the watered-down alcohol, and American pussy.
Other than the wandering eyes and looks of appreciation, they seemed to dismiss Camila as his slave and nothing more. She wasn’t restrained like the others on the floor, but no one would question how he kept her in check. His brutal reputation glowed in angry red welts all over her legs and ass.
She remained silent, head down, and spine straight. Her mind, however, was likely spinning off its rails, absorbing every detail of his criminal wonderland. Her thirst for information matched his own, but where he’d unearthed almost everything he needed to know about her, she was still fumbling through the dark.
If she looked hard enough around her, she’d find her answers.
MATIAS TOOK HIS TIME MAKING his rounds on the veranda. Amid the holstered guns and scarred faces, the usual laid-back energy circulated through the room, making it easy to hold a smile as he examined expressions for deception, studied postures for restlessness, and refused the drinks offered to him.
Camila followed, sticking close to him, but not too close. He suspected she wasn’t seeking protection from the heated stares, but instead trying to evaluate every word spoken and glance exchanged between him and the other members.
He hadn’t bound her hands because he didn’t want to add more discomfort to her beaten body, but she held her arms behind her anyway. Perhaps it was her slave training. Or maybe she was trying to keep herself from drawing the .45 from his shoulder holster and blowing his brains all over the linen tablecloths.
When he reached the head table, he lowered into his chair and pointed at the floor beside him. She knelt without hesitation, and possessive warmth settled in his chest.
Beside him, Nico frowned at the screen of his phone, eyebrows furrowing and releasing. The man might’ve seemed disinterested in his surroundings, but he was always watching, constantly on high-alert.
Picar, Chispa, and Frizz were already seated at the table, which left one empty chair. Matias could smell Gerardo’s death and deceit wafting from it.
“Someone get rid of that.” He waved a hand at the vacant seat.
A man in a black suit emerged out of nowhere and carried the chair away.
Nico glanced up from his phone and rubbed a hand over his dark beard. “Taking this personal, ese?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not.” Frowning, he snatched the bottle of aguardiente from the center tray and poured a glass.
By now, every member in the room had been briefed on Gerardo’s betrayal. However, no one outside of the inner circle knew about the mole that still lurked among them.
Matias tossed a casual glance across the veranda. Men of all ages and style of dress sipped from a range of beer to hard liquor. Their preferences for jeans or suits were as diverse as their motivations. The elders tended to be content in their positions, just buying time while protecting their families—their legacies. The younger members took more risks, always searching for greener pastures, hungry for more money and more power. Like Gerardo.
With a shrug, Nico cast his eyes on Camila. “Any success on the other matter?”
Matias looked down at the swollen cuts on her thighs and felt a deep ache to pull her onto his lap. “Success is relative.”
Once he owned Camila’s heart, he would spend every day of the rest of his life continually seducing her consent for his brand of fucking.
She didn’t seem to be following the conversation, too frozen with horror as she stared at the man and woman on her other side.
Frizz poked a straw through the gap in the threads on his mouth, sucking from a glass filled with a thick, brown puree—probably whatever was on the menu blended into a soup. His other hand stroked the head of the Latina brunette. Tears ran down her face, her eyes dead as she cried silently on her knees beside his chair.
She was one of the slaves brought in with Camila this morning. Nico must’ve gifted her to Frizz, because she wore Frizz’s tragic trademark.
Red X’s stitched across the woman’s lips, with excess thread dangling from one corner of her mouth like a drool of blood. A needle was tied to the end and swung like a pendulum with each violent shudder of her nude body.
Camila pressed her hands to her stomach. Her shoulders quaked, and she jerked her head toward Matias with accusation and tears in her eyes.
Yes, he’d told her if she fought him, he’d take it out on someone else. That didn’t mean he’d protect the slaves from harm.
He bent down and put his mouth beside her ear. “I didn’t do that.”