Page 122 of When Lies Unfold

For the first time in years, when I close my eyes, I fall right to sleep.

The sun is barely breakin’ past the horizon when I rouse. Damn, did I sleep like the dead. Clearly, I needed it.

Awareness edges in as I register the soft, female curves pressed against me, warmth surroundin’ my entire left side. Long, silky hair tickles the side of my neck.

Lola Arias is a snuggler. My mouth curves into a grin. Who woulda thought?

I slept longer than I should’ve, and I know Gordo’s gonna be knockin’ on my door, wonderin’ what the hell the holdup is. Instead of movin’, though, I curl my arm tighter around her, mindful of her shoulder.

Turnin’ my face her way, I press my lips to her hair and inhale the coconut scent that I’ve come to associate with her.

I can tell the moment she starts wakin’ up and becomes aware of her surroundin’s. Her body tenses, and her breathin’ changes, and hell if I wanna have her pull away from me. Not after last night’s bullshit and certainly not after gettin’ pulled away from spendin’ an entire night with her.

“You can pretend you’re still asleep. Just…” I trail off, and fuck if my voice doesn’t sound weary as hell. “Just let me lie here for a minute with you.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t move either. She lets me have this—whatever the hell this is—without givin’ me shit about it.

We lie in silence for fuck knows how long before she murmurs with obvious hesitance, “Everything go okay with…whatever you had to take care of the other night?”

A trace of uneasiness creeps into my mind, but I shove it aside. It’s just Marcelo’s fuckin’ seeds of doubt tryin’ to take root. It makes sense Lola would ask because of the interruption that took me away from her.

I waver on how to answer. Does she really wanna know? Or is she just askin’ to fill the silence? Inwardly, I sigh. Fuck it. “No. Not really.”

My honest answer has her shiftin’ to place her palm on my chest. She rests her chin on it and peers up at me with sleepy eyes.

I like that I’m gettin’ her first thing in the mornin’ before her defenses are shored up. And goddamn, she’s beautiful without even tryin’.

With those brown eyes locked on me, I find myself admittin’, “We intercepted over a hundred girls bein’ trafficked.”

Her eyes go wide, her lips partin’ in horror. I simply nod and continue. “My men discovered ’em bein’ hauled through Panama and nearin’ our border, and that’s when Gordo got word.”

“That’s why he sounded so worried that night.” Concern lights her eyes. “Are they okay?”

I draw in a deep breath before answerin’. “Most of ’em. Some of the others—the ones who put up the biggest fuss, most likely—suffered from withdrawals from the drugs they’d pumped ’em full of.” I shake my head. “We tried everythin’ we could, but over a dozen died.”

Sadness takes hold of her features as she breathes out my name. “Santy.”

I stare blindly at the ceilin’, jaw tight as I recall the sight of their bodies. They’d convulsed, pissed themselves, and puked—some had choked on their vomit. It wasn’t how any one of ’em should’ve left this world.

But fuckin’ Hidalgo chose to inject ’em full of his synthetic drug that’s his current pride and joy. A lethal mix of fentanyl, meth, and heroin.

“Wanna know the worst part?” I murmur. “The bastard’s like a damn Hydra. Whenever we think we’re close to cuttin’ off his operation, he pops up somewhere else.”

My hand moves in slow strokes over her back. “He’s been pullin’ the same shit for the past few years. It’s how I found Alma.”

Her head jerks up, alarm etched on her face. “Please don’t tell me she?—”

“No. She wasn’t trafficked. But her piss-poor excuse for a mom overdosed on that same drug those girls had in their systems.” I grit my teeth. “Motherfuckin’ Hidalgo.”

When her spine turns to rigid steel beneath my palm, my eyes narrow on her. “What’s wrong?”

She wets her lips, givin’ me the impression she’s nervous about somethin’. “You said Hidalgo?”

“Yeah.” Icy fingertips of premonition trail down the back of my neck. “Hidalgo Carrera. Why?”

“I’ve just”—she lowers her eyes to my throat, but not before I catch a flicker of fear—“heard horrible things about him.”

The pit of my stomach twists. “Yeah?”

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