Page 8 of When Lies Unfold

LOLA

It comes as no surprise when I’m ushered toward a black Toyota Fortuner with blacked-out windows. This particular model is pricey as hell, but it’s probably a drop in the bucket for a cartel leader.

It’s a major consolation that I’m not being held at gunpoint, nor is anyone dragging a hood over my head and zip-tying my wrists.

My cross-body bag is currently in the custody of Henchman Two, who’s in the front passenger seat while Henchman One drives. My cell phone was also liberated from me, of course, which isn’t the least bit surprising.

In the backseat, I’m trapped between two intimidating men who exude a cloying, menacing air.

The man on my left answers to “Gordo” and evidently doesn’t mind being called “Fatty.” He could easily pass as a professional wrestler instead of some maniacal narco’s henchman. His shoulders are so broad that his poor shirt appears like one stretch at the wrong angle will make the fabric rip at the seams.

On my right, of course, is the man who held his gun to my head. Santiago Hernández. I’m not deluded enough to believe he didn’t consider killing me right there in that bedroom. I know he did. I could sense it. But somehow, by the grace of the universe or God—or both, possibly—I convinced him not to.

For now, at least. I know he’s not letting me off the hook this easily. Nothing is simple when it comes to narcos. That much is common knowledge.

He doesn’t trust me, which I’m certain comes with the territory when one’s in charge of a well-known cartel.

But I’ve also perfected the art of reading people over the years. While he has threatened me, he isn’t planning on killing me tonight. Otherwise, he would’ve already done so.

Whatever his men dug up on me must’ve set him somewhat at ease. I know I’m boring. I don’t have much of a life, and I prefer it this way. It’s safer.

There’s security that comes with knowing I’m on my own. That I’m resilient enough to take care of myself. That I’ll never again put my trust in anyone else—least of all another man.

That familiar phantom pain sears through my left hand as if it’s been alerted to my train of thoughts and the reappearance of memories I’ve attempted to lock away.

Fingers pressing into the knotted flesh beneath the colorful ink, I massage my hand before the heavy weight of Santiago’s gaze settles on me. A prickle of awareness skitters down the length of my spine, and I quickly sandwich my hands between my jean-clad thighs and sit up straighter.

The last thing I want or need is to show this asshole how much he’s shaken me, because I know his type. Men like him get off on intimidating and terrorizing others.

I pretended not to recognize his name, and he appeared to believe me. I was desperate to appear as innocent as possible in order for him to consider sparing my life.

I wasn’t entirely sure it would work, but thank fuck it did. Only now, I have to work even harder to suppress my nerves. Because being in the presence of Central America’s number one drug cartel leader isn’t for the faint of heart.

Although I’ve heard of him before, I’ve never sought out photos of the man. That’s why his physical appearance came as even more of a surprise.

He doesn’t have that slimy way about him—the stereotypical gelled hair and pristine clothing that makes him look like he’s playing dress-up in someone else’s suits.

I’m not saying he’s not well-dressed; he is. His clothing is perfectly tailored, and he seems at complete ease in the expensive designer shirt and slacks like it’s second skin for him.

As my attention drops to his shoes, cloaked in the shadows of the car’s interior, I recall noticing them earlier inside the house. Their shine was slightly marred by the thin layer of dust and dirt prevalent during the “dry season” or summer. It was an interesting contrast to the otherwise perfectly put-together exterior.

He’s also much taller than I would’ve anticipated and alarmingly handsome. I hate admitting the latter—especially about a criminal—but it’s true.

His black hair is shaved close on the sides with the longer, top portion tied back, leaving the barest inch of a ponytail and a faint dusting of silver at his temples. Black scruff covers his jaw, but it’s been spared of any silver.

His fierce features hold a harsh rawness, those sharp, angular cheekbones giving him a sleek but dangerous intensity. Faint lines fan from the outer edges of his eyes, and on anyone else, I’d assume it was from smiling. But not on this man. No…on him, these are likely from him squinting, narrowing those eyes on an enemy, or quite simply someone who’s pissed him off.

In the dim interior of the vehicle, my eyes roam over him surreptitiously. Tattoos begin just beneath his chin and cover his throat, exposed by the top two unfastened buttons of his shirt.

Shirtsleeves, cuffed at his elbows, display his corded forearms. Nearly every inch of that exposed skin is covered with swirls of black ink, some depicting various arrangements of skulls and machetes, with fancy script dripping down over his fingers.

While his nose appears to have been broken more than once and his mouth remains set in a perpetually grim line, when we were face to face earlier, his eyes had spoken volumes to me.

Those eyes—the darkest shade of brown bordering on black—illustrate far more than the man himself could ever let on. His tell me he’s not only witnessed horrors but delivered them.

Willingly.

And I’ll be the next recipient if I don’t play nice. If I’m not smart. If I make even the slightest misstep.

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