Page 20 of Chris

He could touch the bottom.

Even hearing those thoughts in his mind, a constant mantra that played on repeat whenever he faced water, it only helped a little. Not enough for him to forget what it felt like to have water rushing into his lungs with every breath he attempted to take in. It didn’t stop the memory of his garbled shouts as he tried to call for help as the water pulled him under the docks at his uncle’s vacation home.

“Chris,” his father said quietly.

His gaze snapped away from the pool, drifting to where his father had stepped out of his conversation with Jorge to bring Chris out of his head. A knowing glint in his father’s eye—that familiar concern—stared back at him.

“Do you like the bourbon?” his father asked.

Jorge, who seemed confused at the question, not to mention hadn’t noticed Chris’s distraction, glanced between the two men. Gian brought him out of a state of panic but also did it without making the other man aware of his son’s deepest fear.

It was never good to hand someone your weakness.

They used it when you did that.

“Yes,” Chris said, keeping the nerves out of his tone, “it’s fine.”

“It better be,” Jorge muttered, “I paid enough for the import.”

“Forgive me for being forward,” Gian said, bringing Jorge’s attention away from Chris for the moment, “but I can’t help noticing this is your father’s home, and yet, we haven’t seen him. They told me, although I don’t trust everything said in passing, that your father stepped back from the cartel a while ago, yes?”

Jorge raised a brow and brought the lit cigar between his fingers to his lips for a heady drag. Grey smoke lifted toward the darkening sky, telling them night would fall soon.

“He has stepped back,” Jorge said, passing the house behind them a look, “but he still puts his opinion and influence in whenever he wants.”

A bite colored his tone.

Gian didn’t miss it.

“And what, he doesn’t agree with us being here?”

Jorge tipped his cigar in Gian’s direction. “Almost correct—not quite, though. He’s of the opinion the business will be good, but he’s currently attempting a merger between our cartel, and the only rival we have. Something I think is a mistake, and with you Canadians on my books, we won’t need to merge at all.”

“Is he aware?”

“He stepped back.”

“But did he?”

“It doesn’t matter once it’s all said and done, does it?”

They didn’t get the chance to reply to the man because a door closing had Jorge’s attention turning away. His brow lifted in contemplation before he smiled. Not a fond smile.

“Ah, there they are. Which means the rest have already arrived, and we can begin a proper dinner.” Jorge lifted a hand to wave, and called out, “Hermosa, bring the princesa over for a proper hello to our new friends.”

Chris turned to see who had come out on the back steps of the mansion, not familiar with Spanish but having heard just enough in his lifetime to understand those affectionate terms that left Jorge’s mouth. In a white dress, holding the hand of a small girl at her side, Chris found the answer to one of their unknowns standing on marble steps.

Yes, Valeria was very much alive.

Yes, the cartel had her.

And yes, she was beautiful as that picture of her at the Marcello wedding had shown. Shockingly so. The image on the screen he had seen before now had not done the woman justice.

Tanned, golden skin. Pin-straight, black hair that fell to her mid-back. Tall, and womanly. Her soft features, accentuated with a touch of makeup, seemed more natural than dolled up. The dress she chose draped over her curves loosely, yet still allowed him an appreciation for her body.

None of which he had any right to notice. Nor should he.

“My wife, and daughter,” Jorge said to them, although Valeria had not yet left the stairs with little Maria at her side. “Val is shy, so don’t mind if she doesn’t talk a lot. It’s her nature.”

Or, Chris wondered, could she not talk? That’s what he was here to find out.