Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
I still wasn’t used to the sight of her like this—long brunette wig, sleek and straight, and a red dress that clung to every inch of her like a second skin. When she’d walked downstairs earlier, none of us had recognized her. She’d smirked at our reactions. “Told you I knew what I was doing.”
And she did, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.
Duke had done a number on me too. A goatee was glued to my face, my hair darkened, dark brown contacts covering my usual eye color. When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. It was unsettling as hell.
As we approached the entrance, the first red flag was waiting for us—the security. They were built like brick shit houses, their expensive suits barely containing their bulk. All of them were visibly armed, alert, and clearly not the type to hesitate. A glance upward as we made our way from the car confirmed it—six men stationed on the rooftop, eyes sharp, rifles slung over their shoulders.
Kyle had told me to park toward the back to scope the place out. I hated admitting it, but it was a smart call.
“Relax,” she whispered as we climbed the stairs.
That was easy for her to say. I was stuffed into a dark gray suit, my red tie matching her dress. I’d never worn anything like this in my life, and it felt like a goddamn costume. But apparently, if you’re trafficking people, drugs, or weapons, you do it dressed like a fucking lawyer. Hypocritical bastards.
The guard at the door held out his hand. “Invitación.”
Kyle, ever the resourceful one, slid a small piece of card from the top of her dress, the movement slow, deliberate. His eyes followed the motion, lingering too long on her cleavage, making my fingers flex and my blood simmer.
Kyle squeezed my hand, a silent reminder to stay cool.
The guard barely looked at the invitation, too focused on her. He gave a nod and held out his arm, waving us inside. But as we passed, his hand subtly brushed over Kyle’s ass.
Motherfucker.
“I’m going to kill him,” I muttered under my breath, my hand curling into a fist.
Kyle pressed against me, her lips brushing my ear like she was whispering something sweet. But what she said had nothing to do with affection.
“I’ll leave a piece of him for you,” she promised, her tone dark, deadly. “But right now, you need to focus. Everything else can wait.”
Her fingers touched the large necklace hanging around her throat. It had a hidden camera in it that was feeding everything back to Data, Preacher, and Duke.
Good, I hope they were taking notes and had seen what he’d just done to her. There was no way they’d let him get away with that if, for some reason, I didn’t get to him first.
“Let’s get a drink,” she said, her voice slipping into a sultry tone.
We moved toward the bar, where rows of crystal glasses gleamed under the chandeliers, filled with golden liquid.
Kyle let out a low whistle. “$450 a bottle,” she murmured.
Disgust curled in my stomach. The sheer amount of wealth and indulgence in this room was nauseating, made worse by the fact that it was all funded by human suffering.
A voice cut through the noise behind us. “Hello, there.”
I turned, and the moment my eyes landed on the man, something flickered in my memory.
“I am Cristóbal,” he said smoothly, a polite, practiced smile on his lips. “And this is Luana.”
The woman beside him looked like she’d rather be anywhere but here, and suddenly, I knew exactly where I’d seen him before.
Remembering the brief Duke had drilled into us, I forced my voice into a smooth, practiced calm.
“I’m Aaron Jones,” I said, extending my hand toward Cristóbal, even though every instinct in my body rebelled against the gesture.
His fingers clamped around mine, his grip tightening in an attempt to assert dominance. His eyes locked onto mine, challenging, waiting for a flicker of weakness, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction. My expression remained neutral, my muscles loose, my posture relaxed, and on the outside I looked completely unaffected.
A flicker of something crossed his face—confusion, maybe irritation. And then more of the brief I’d read on him hit me—this was one of the sick bastards who ran a brothel in El Salvador. A low-tier scumbag who thought he was a kingpin when, in reality, he was nothing but an amoeba in an ocean of monsters. The Ghosts had raided his operation last year, dragging a six-year-old girl out before the worst could happen. Not all the victims had been so lucky, but the survivors had been placed with the right people, given therapy, a chance at something better.
The fact that Cristóbal was still standing here, sipping expensive champagne like he hadn’t been responsible for all that suffering, made my blood turn to acid. Then his gaze shifted to Kyle. Something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Interest?