Page 34 of When Lies Unfold

I scowl at him. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Just sayin’.” He lifts one massive shoulder in a shrug. “Some of the guys might see it the wrong way.”

I know what he’s sayin’. She’s an outsider, and we protect our own at all costs.

Which means Lola Arias quite possibly has a fuckin’ target on her back. And, in this case, I’m not the one who put it there.

“Then we’ll just have to set ’em straight. Need you to make it known right now.” My tone is firm, and there’s no mistakin’ the flash of surprise on Gordo’s face.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A gleam of somethin’ enters his gaze, and it doesn’t dim at my glare. “You invited her into your office.”

I bristle but remain stoic. “And?”

He raises a brow. “You don’t invite just anybody in there.”

I grit my teeth, my tone arctic. “What’s your point.” I don’t bother to phrase it as a question.

I shouldn’t have invited her into my office. The conference room is where I meet with outsiders. With those not on my direct payroll who I haven’t vetted thoroughly.

But it felt like the right choice at the time to have Miss Arias enter my office—a better way to set her at ease and get her to confess whatever she might be hidin’.

“What’s my point? Oh, nothin’. Just curious.” He mashes his lips together as if he’s suppressin’ a grin and fuck if I don’t wanna backhand it off his damn face. “First, you invited her into your office. Now, you’re tellin’ me to set everybody straight on what happened between her and Andro.” He shrugs. “You always say we protect our own. This you doin’ that?”

I glare at him before turnin’ to head to my office. “No. Now, fuck off.”

Of course, that asshole’s laughter trails after me.

1 Uncle

“Is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?”

—Friedrich Nietzsche

16

LOLA

With my hands planted on the edge of the vanity, I peer at my reflection in the enormous mirror mounted on the wall.

Strands of hair have fallen loose around my face, likely from wrestling with that bastard before he managed to slice the hell out of himself.

Until now, I’ve been operating almost robotically. On rote memory, of sorts. But now that I’ve scrubbed myself as clean as possible, what just happened edges its way back into my mind.

The scene of Andro pointing that gun at me flashes before my eyes. I knew when I witnessed the mixture of fear—fear because I’m a loose end, just as Santiago said—and hatred etched on his face that he planned to pull that trigger.

I’m not sure if his hatred is due to me being a female or whether his DNA is engrained with hatred.

All I knew for certain was that he planned to kill me.

Vivid images flit through my mind, replaying how I fought him off. Of the knife sinking into his flesh, of the relief that followed, only to have guilt rapidly chase at its heels.

What kind of person does it make me that I felt relief that he was the one with the knife wound?

Because it was either you or him.

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