Page 123 of Drawn Blue Lines

Back and forth. Two lights. With two bulbs.

Two glass bulbs.

I glanced down at my flimsy tank top and tiny shorts I’d pulled on after leaving Brody’s bed, and the first time since waking up in this hellhole, I smiled.

Before running to meet “Cristiano” at the back door, I put on the first shoes I could find.

High-heeled sandals.

Unbuckling the straps, I slipped them off and climbed to my feet. Aiming the heel toward the bulb, I threw hard, missing the target by about two feet and snapping the heel off as it crashed into the wall. With a deep breath, I grabbed the second one. Drawing my arm back, I threw twenty-four years of pain in the air and watched it return over twenty-four shards of glass.

* * *

I made a fist, and warm blood trickled down my wrist.

I didn’t mind. Blood reminded me I was still alive, and pain was fleeting. I’d felt less. I’d felt more. None of it mattered. All that mattered was who was on the other side of that door and how close I could get to them.

I waited. I forced everything out of my head except the turning of the doorknob. I learned the hard way that letting my guard down was a mistake, and emotions had no place in cartel life. So, I shifted on the balls of my feet, my knees protesting my crouched position against the far corner wall. No pain, I reminded myself, squeezing harder, blood now dripping off my fingertips.

The door cracked, and I clenched my teeth.

Why didn’t he just come in and get it over with?

Finally, it swung open and a muscular figure stepped inside the now barely-lit room. I saw nothing at first but an outline of a dead man. However, the closer he came, the more the remaining overhead light swung, illuminating the shadow hiding his face.

The more the shadow lifted, the harder I squeezed, and the thicker the river of blood ran.

The permanent scowl he wore was dangerous, unremorseful, and calculating. Tall and muscular, with skin dark enough to earn a rank but light enough to raise an eyebrow. He looked more like an underwear model than a ruthless killer.

And underestimating him had been my downfall.

“Cristiano,” I breathed, venom lacing my voice. “You look like shit. Although, it seems we’ve both survived another day.”

His icy blue eyes turned toward the corner. “Mari, thank God!”

I let out a low laugh. “Not God. Thank your papá.”

He froze, emotions spinning across his face like a roulette wheel. Finally, the ball settled in the resigned slot, and his smirk fell. “You know.”

“Oh, your father and I had a very eye-opening chat. I learned so many things about you.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Enough for me to know every word out of your mouth since the day we met has been a lie.” I threw my head back, adrenaline pumped through me, fueling my anger. “Brody tried to tell me. He said you were dangerous. He told me I was blind, and you were giving me just enough information for me to hang myself.”

“Mari…”

“I defended you! I told him he was wrong, and I knew you. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. God, I was a fucking idiot.”

“Brody was wrong! I would never hurt you! I was trying to protect you, but you ran off to Houston, and…”

I swung. The jagged piece of glass I’d been holding clattering to the floor as my fist connected to his nose, bones crunching in front of my knuckles and within them. “Don’t you dare say his name. You will never be the man Brody Harcourt is!”

“Will you fucking listen to me? Brody and I—”

“Did you and Ignacio get a good laugh after you sent your text?”

He held his nose, blood pouring between his fingers. “What text?”

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