Page 19 of Damián

“Damián, if you are compromised, say you need another beer,” Logan orders.

“…I think I need another beer.”

“Fuck…” The word is a collective exhale from the whole team.

We all know the rule; we all know that if we’re taken to the house, we’ll most likely be killed.

Oliver tilts his head, his pouty mouth set in a thin line. “You seem to be under the wrong impression that you have a choice.” He yanks me forward, nearly making me stumble. “I suggest you move before this escalates.”

I look around and clock four bodyguards closing in on our position.

My feet move automatically. I am walking toward the main house, the massive structure looming over the garden like the mouth of a fucking monster waiting to swallow me whole.

“Damián, drop to the ground,” Knox desperately begs in my ear. “Create a scene. Fight him.”

“I can’t get a shot,” Law hisses. “Too many bloody civilians. Damián, don’t go into the house!”

I turn around and risk one last glance over my shoulder.

Near the fountain, I see Tae vibrating with rage. He’s taking a step forward like he’s about to charge through the guards, but Logan slams a hand against his chest, restraining him.

They both look at me, their expressions telling me what I already know: I’m walking to my execution.

But screw this; I can’t let them throw their lives away for me.

Not for this.

I make a subtle motion with my free hand behind my back… flat palm, pressing down, telling them to stand down. Then I look at them one last time and grin.

Lo siento, familia.

Finally, I let Oliver drag me through the French doors into the house.

As we walk through a huge open living room area toward a hallway, two guards stand up from a couch, getting in our way. Oliver lifts the bottle to his lips and takes another sip, excess wine dripping from his lips.

“Move before I smash this bottle on your fucking face,” he says, and the guards move immediately.

Oliver wipes the dripping wine from his chin and lips with the back of his hand, stumbling slightly as he pulls me along.

My stomach twists.

Ugh, this is going to be painful… and it will be, because dealing with a mass murderer is one thing; dealing with a drunk, volatile druggie who snaps this violently is a whole different level.

Nah… Fuck it.

At least I had a good life.

I focus on a memory of my mother’s smile. The smell of her pernil, the sound of Fernanda laughing, the crazy family dinners with the Harknett 8.

I have loved my family and friends, I have fought, had incredible sex, and I have protected the people who matter. If this is how Damián Soto goes out, trying to save others from a monster, then so be it.

Good fucking way to go, if you ask me.

As we cross the dark hallway, Oliver doesn’t look back or loosen his grip. He keeps walking in silence until we reach a tall golden door. He opens it and shoves me into a… bathroom?

I look around for knives, guns, anything he’ll use to torture me, but there is nothing but soap, flowers, and potpourri. We are alone in a tacky, opulent guest bathroom with a huge white bathtub.

Mmmm…