Page 26 of Falling for the Enemy

Benito drops the mop, his eyes widening and hands fisting as I charge forward and grasp the front of his shirt. With one hand, I slam him onto the table next to where the dead Italian still hangs. His back collides against the table at the exact moment his scarred knuckles connect with my chin.

The hit is brutal.

But not brutal enough.

Ignoring the blood that fills my mouth, I release his shirt and return his punch with one of my own before pulling out my Beretta and pressing it to the apple of his cheek. He freezes, the sounds of our heavy breaths filling the charged air, the tension circling us palpable. One wrong word or move, and I’ll be disposing of two bodies versus one.

Benito knows it too.

“You touch her…” Grated and raw, the words that roll off my tongue sound foreign to my own ears. “And I’ll kill you.”

Unafraid of taking his final breath, a necessity for a cartel soldier, he glares at me, eyes brimming with seething anger.

“Do you understand?”

When he doesn’t give me the answer I seek, I press the gun’s muzzle harder against his face. It’s a silent warning. Speak or die.

The choice is his.

“That perra is getting to you without even trying.” He spits onto the ground at my side in what may be his last act of defiance. “Get your head straight before she chops it off the first chance she gets.”

Dangerous ground.

He’s plowing right through it.

“Do you,” I repeat, “understand?”

“Eres un tonto por dejar que ella te influencie.” You’re a fool to let her influence you. That’s what he says in reply. If he were anyone else, he’d die for such disrespect. “But si, I understand.” He delivers a second jab, taking me by surprise. “Now get the fuck off me!”

Not having seen the hit coming, I stumble back on impact, giving him time to jump off the table before I can retaliate.

The shot was a risky one to take.

Acting as though I wasn’t just half a second from blowing a hole into his skull—a move I’m still considering making—he picks the mop back up. “Javier!” he yells toward the concrete stairs. “Bring me the bleach and pressure washer!”

Trepidation and unease fill me.

I need to be able to trust Benito.

But on this, I don’t know if I can.

“Remember what I said.” It’s a final warning. He won’t be receiving another. “You touch her, and my knife will be the one that slits your throat.” I don’t give him the chance to reply before pivoting the conversation and barking orders. “Cut the Italian down and put him in the car.”

One of his many mental switches flips and he looks up, curiosity replacing his anger. “What are we doing with him?”

My answer is simple. “Using him.”

Confused, his brows bends. “How?”

“As a peace offering.”

Without speaking another word, I leave.

EIGHT

Ari

In business, control is what I value most.

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