Page 42 of When Lies Unfold

“I tend to be unable to cook for only one person, so there’s always extra. Are you hungry?”

When he squints at me with a healthy dose of wariness, I roll my eyes and withdraw the remaining items. “Never mind,” I mutter.

If I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well make sure I’m fed to my standards.

19

SANTIAGO

By the time Gordo and I stride into the house, I’m well past the pissed-off stage.

Fuckin’ Hidalgo tried to screw with my newest contact. Luckily, we were a step ahead of ’im, but he’s pissin’ me the hell off. Which means my temper is beyond frayed.

It gets even worse.

Miguel and Diego’s absence from the front end of the house is noticeable. When Luis isn’t standin’ watch outside Miss Arias’s bedroom, my fingers clench and unclench, longin’ to beat the shit outta somebody—or multiple somebodies.

The subtle laughter and din of conversation carryin’ out from the kitchen makes my spine stiffen, and I grit my teeth so hard they begin to ache.

When we near the doorway to the kitchen, the voices grow stronger, and there’s no mistakin’ the familiar feminine one chattin’ easily with the other males.

My cook, Javier, who never so much as smirks is now dryin’ dishes with a wide smile on his face as he listens to their conversation.

“He held a gun on you that many times?” Miguel lets out a low whistle, shakin’ his head. “Damn. I don’t know anybody who’s gotten lucky enough not to have him pullin’ the trigger the first time.”

Fuckin’ Miguel, Diego, and Luis—three of my toughest men, who’ve never been swayed by a woman before—crowd around the kitchen island on barstools where Lola sits.

With her bare feet restin’ on one of the barstool’s rungs, her lips are curved in a proud smile. The playful glint in her eyes draws a strange sort of possessiveness from me.

“Then again, it worked in our favor ’cause these gotta be the best chicken nachos I’ve ever had.” This comes from Luis before he shovels in another mouthful.

“Same.” Miguel groans as he pats his flat stomach. “You gotta tell us your secret. ’Cause that chicken was so fuckin’ tend—” He breaks off when Diego nudges him, flashin’ him a sharp look. Miguel offers Lola an apologetic look before rephrasin’. “I mean, so damn tender and moist.”

Jesus Christ. Since when do my men censor their language?

Diego nods. “I can’t figure out what herbs you used with it, but it’s a perfect mix.”

A faint flush spreads across Lola’s cheeks at his praise as Gordo and I look on in disbelief.

“Am I fuckin’ payin’ you to sit on your asses and eat?”

At my question, the three men straighten so abruptly that the barstools screech against the floor in protest.

Their apologies come rapid fire.

“Sorry, boss.”

“So sorry, boss.” Miguel says this around a mouthful of food, and it only pisses me off more.

Luis thinks quick on his feet, but it’s all a bunch of bullshit, and we both know it. “Sorry, boss. We were just watchin’ over Miss Arias, makin’ sure she, uh, didn’t venture somewhere she wasn’t supposed to.”

I ignore the way Lola’s entire demeanor has dimmed. Instead, I give a simple command. “Get out.”

The three of them toss their napkins on their plates but hesitate to leave, castin’ longin’ glances back at their unfinished food.

My vision turns red, and Gordo saves me by pipin’ up, “Get the fuck out now while you can still use your legs.”

They scramble out of the kitchen. When my glare lands on Javier, who’s dryin’ dishes, he’s quick to set the towel and plate down before scramblin’ to exit.

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