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CHAPTER ONE
Ollie
There aretwo types of people in this world: those who lie well and those who are shit at it.
Santiago Morales is the latter.
The goddamn pussy kneels on the rain-soaked ground, a thin trail of blood trickling from a wound in his forehead. His cheeks are hollowed, his dark-brown eyes haunted and gaunt. Isabella Morales’s first cousin is a walking skeleton, haunted with terror of the devil he serves, in the custody of the devil he fears.
Sucks to be him.
But Jesus. Even I would feed the men who worked for me. The guy looks like he’s subsisted on bread, water, and a steady diet of waterboarding. Carlos Carrera was a fucking narcissistic tyrant.
“Please,” Santiago begs in broken English. “I don’t know.”
The shifting storm clouds over the late afternoon sky reveal his terrified eyes. I fucking hate the way he trembles. He knows where Renata is, and he deserves to die.
Blood thrums in my veins.
Renata Carrera ismine,and I’ll burn this fucking world to ash before I let anyone harm a hair on her head. Others might say to let her go, to let her run and hide, but the beast in me wants her chained to me.
I walk in a circle around Santiago as his bloodshot, widened eyes track me. He licks his dry, cracked lips and swallows as if trying to gather up his courage.
“You have to understand,” I tell Santiago in a deceptively calm voice. “The entirety of our operation hinges on finding Renata. If we don’t find her, we’re at an impasse. She has information on us that’s incredibly time sensitive.” I lean over and pat his cheek. He flinches as if I’m wielding a whip. “Doesn’t that make sense to you? Hmm?”
At eight o’clock this morning, back in The Cove, our men holding Renata in custody were found dead with bullets between their eyes.
Just as well, really. I would have had to kill them for letting her go.
Renata’s more than just a pawn in this game. She’s the queen who slipped through my fingers, and every second I don’t have her, the more my need to have her grows.
“I don’t know. I swear to God, I don’t know!” he sobs. I clench my jaw and glare at him. Jesus motherfucking Christ,let me go out of this world with my balls intact, no matter the circumstances.
I narrow my eyes and stand in front of him, my arms crossed. Emotions like this never move me. Some people think I’m the quiet one because “still waters run deep” or some poetic shit like that.
I keep quiet because I don’t give a fuck about playing Mr. Nice Guy. It’s just easier to shut the fuck up. Makes people wonder.
“You can kill me,” the pussy says, looking away. Bluffing his fucking mouth off. “Do whatever you want to me; I swear I don’t care! But you have to believe me, I don’t know.”
I sigh and shake my head.
A dog barks, and an angry woman screams something unintelligible at the market behind us. Worked out well that the marketplace was in full swing today because the muffled sounds of the people behind us mask our job. Even if they did see us, they’d keep walking. No one in this neighborhood gives a fuck about us, and they know better than to go anywhere near business involving the cartel.
I stare at him and shake my head again.
I don’t care that he’s covered in blood. I don’t care that I’ll instruct my men to make an example out of him, to bury him in pieces all over the place and spread the news of his death far and wide. All I care is that I’m looking for answers, and I’m going to find her no matter what.
In the distance, a siren wails, momentarily blocking out the chatter of the market.
I let out a belabored sigh. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Santiago.” The two men I brought with me stand stoically behind me. Loyal to the Morales cartel, they’re now loyal to the Romanov Bratva by association since my brother’s marriage to Isabella.
The one to my left has short gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His clothes are pressed, and the ink on his upper right arm indicates his affiliation withFuerzas Militares de Colombia—the Colombian military.
The guy beside him is younger but larger, his muscles flexing when he clenches his fists. He reminds me of my brother Viktor—bulky, muscular, fearless. Both of these men hate traitors, and I don’t fucking blame them.
One speaks in rapid Spanish to the other, and they both shake their heads. I speak Spanish, but poorly, so I only catch the gist. They said something about this taking too long. They would be happy to help me.
There was a time when the man bleeding out in the rain, begging for his life, considered these two his brothers. They would’ve died for Santiago and his family.
