Page 1 of Drawn Blue Lines

Prologue

Adriana

Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico

Two Weeks Ago

No one chooses fate. It chooses us.

I knew because I came into this world cursed, my veins poisoned with a depraved and corrupt bloodline. However, after months of running, foolish unrest drew me out of hiding and into the jaws of anarchy. War was a living, breathing thing. Nurtured and cultivated, it bloomed into an unstoppable force of nature. Left in the wild, its branches twisted into a monstrosity that eventually devoured itself.

My family’s legacy had become a treacherous beast feasting on its one remaining root.

Me.

Warm blood flowed around me like an unholy baptism, soaking my hair and coating my skin. Rolling onto my side, I concentrated on breathing even though the smallest inhale shredded my lungs. The beating had been brutal, but not fatal. Not because they wanted to spare my life, but because death was more satisfying when capped off by days of torture.

I’d taught them that.

Now, here he sat in the shadows.

Watching.

The one in charge. The one whose footsteps caused all the traitors to scatter like startled cockroaches.

The muscles in his throat tightened as a dark cloud passed over his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched his fingers twitch against the dark denim covering his thigh. I knew nothing about the man except that he was a killer, and he wanted nothing more than to pull the blade from its holster and drive it straight through my heart.

But he wouldn’t.

He could easily take my life, but it wouldn’t be without consequence. Even in chaos, there was order.

I swallowed, forcing my native language from my raw throat. “Who are you?”

“A prophet without honor.” He spat the words out like they were rancid, his gravelly Spanish raking over my thin nerves like fresh sandpaper.

Arrogance, a familiar yet foolish friend, filled my chest. “If you touch me, I’ll kill you.”

Shaking his head, he pulled a cigar from his pocket. “I don’t have to touch you. I have something you need. You’ll do whatever I say, when I say it.” He bit off the tip and spat it at my feet, his gaze never leaving mine as he lit the end. The glowing tip sparked to life, his cheeks sinking in as he sucked a few deep puffs.

I let out a silent breath. “I am Marisol Muñoz.”

The low laugh that followed nearly broke my composure. Men had underestimated me all my life. However, the one on the other side of the cold, damp room wasn’t just amused by my obstinance. It thrilled him. He got off on it.

My heart free fell into my stomach, and with my ear pressed against the concrete floor, I heard him get up, each step he took sounded like thunder. Bending down on his haunches, he bore stained yellow teeth in a smirk I wanted to carve off his face.

“You’re no Muñoz, and you know it. I’m the one resurrecting a power you almost ruined,” he snarled. “Bringing honor back to Guadalajara. Spilling enemy blood to fortify our own.”

“I am Marisol Muñoz.” In repeating the declaration, I couldn’t help but wonder which one of us I was trying to convince. “The daughter of your former king, and the sister of your fallen leader.”

He leaned down with eyes harder than stone. “You are a Carrera whore.”

Before I could respond, he wrapped his hand around my blood-soaked hair and dragged me toward him. White hot pain shot through my skull, but my stumble was momentary. As soon as I found my balance, I swung.

It was just what he wanted. Easily catching my wrist in one hand, he pulled his knife with the other. Instinctively, I lunged for it, but he released my hair and shifted, causing me to slam face-first onto the floor.

I turned my cheek just before my nose made contact with the unforgiving concrete. The pain was almost unbearable, but I never screamed. This was a power struggle. Blood meant nothing to a vigilante drug runner. Fuck if I’d let it mean any more to me.

I glared as I turned, ignoring the blood dripping down my chin. “Don’t call me that.”

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