Page 22 of Owen (Storm Enterprises)

“You’re getting into business with the devil himself. You really think he’s going to leave it at drugs?” He motions toward the cocaine. “This is just the start, Carlos.” I roll my eyes at his performance; he always was too much a fucking saint to be a Mafia heir. “Women will be next, then what? Are you okay with that?” For the first time since I agreed to this plan, guilt swims in my stomach. “We’re not talking prostitution, Carlos.” I know what he’s talking about. Everyone knows the Carreras deal in kidnapping and selling of women. Hurt swims in Nico’s eyes, and he closes them and turns his head away from me. When his gaze slides back to mine, the hurt has vanished. “I won’t be a part of this.”

Anxiety creeps up my spine at his words. He will walk away. Then what will I have?

I’ll have her, always her, and our boy. “I have leverage,” I repeat, my tone almost pleading.

He shakes his head. “And if you play that hand…” He turns to look at our home and a shiver washes over me as I take in what he sees: a beautiful Mexican mansion painted a bright-yellow with roses running up the side, a pool for my family, and manicured lawns for Romero as he grows, a home for my family. “They will come for them, Carlos.” Sickness rises in my stomach, but anger burns my veins as I grind my teeth and bite my tongue, determined not to tell the only man I trust to go fuck himself.

He rises from the table, and I try to contain my unraveling, the way I feel like my lungs are being crushed as he walks away. The fury that he’s walking away because he doesn’t trust my judgment has a tsunami of aggression bubbling to the surface.

As he pulls open the door, he turns to face me, and a glimmer of hope rises in my chest when his focus locks with mine. He’s going to back down and support me, after all. It’s just the guilt of working with traffickers that had him running scared, that had those harsh words leaving his mouth, and I almost want to balk at his sudden change in beliefs.

“Who are you doing this for, Carlos?” My eyes narrow. “This”—he waves his hand toward the extensive grounds—“who are you creating your legacy for?”

I grind my jaw; he knows damn well who it’s all for.

It’s for my family.

He stares at me blankly, awaiting a response.

“My family,” I spit out reluctantly.

He nods. “Are they going to be proud of the man you’re about to become? Will Romero be proud of the heir he’s expected to be, and when you lay beside your wife at night, will she be proud of her husband, the father of her children, creating a legacy onthe back of trading humans? I won’t stand by your side as you abuse women and use them as nothing more than unwilling participants in a fucked-up industry we both know isn’t right.” He slams his hand over his heart. “Your family’s here today, Carlos. But they could be gone tomorrow.” With his departing words ringing in my ears, he turns and walks away, taking a piece of our relationship with him.

“Your family’s here today, Carlos. But they could be gone tomorrow.”

Nobody will take my family from me, and with the Carreras by my side, nobody will stop me.

EIGHT

LAYA

ONE MONTH LATER …

Chewing my lip, I hover my finger over the send button. I know I shouldn’t, but every day, Carlos is becoming more and more agitated, and it unnerves me. He’s out late every night, and when he finally crashes, he doesn’t rise until midafternoon: sleep, eat, rinse, repeat.

We barely see him, and when I do, he’s a shell of the man I fell in love with. His clubs have been plagued with trouble, and the staff are saying he’s being watched; they don’t realize I’m fluent in Spanish while they talk freely about raids at the clubs. They even said Carlos was arrested, yet he returned home as if nothing had happened with no mention of it. I walk on eggshells around his volatile temperament, and I hate it. If I ask questions, I risk the staff being punished, but I’m constantly being kept in the dark, and I’m not stupid enough to believe this isn’t aboutcontrol. My stomach twists as I consider my future with Carlos. What will that future hold for Romero? I hiccup away the cry that always bubbles up when I consider our life here. Carlos barely pays Romero attention, so there’s not a doubt in my mind our son was a pawn in his game to keep me trapped, and I hate him for that. It’s like he’s chosen to detach himself, and all I want is the man I fell in love with, but I am realizing he never existed. He reined me in and now I’m trapped, and the thought terrifies me.

In Mexico, I’m isolated. I miss my family, my job, and my friends, causing loneliness to eat away at me. I’m a new mom with an occasional permitted FaceTime to ask my mom questions about motherhood. When all I wanted to do was beg for her comfort, but my calls were monitored, so I crafted the perfect smile to disperse any of my mom’s concerns. I’m crumbling inside, hoping for someone to rescue me. I should be out with other young moms, discussing motherhood, attending baby play classes, and shopping for cute outfits, but I’m being isolated for safety, and feel anything but safe.

My parents have not been allowed to visit yet, and on days when I feel so trapped, I close my eyes and dream that Owen rescues us from this place, which is quickly becoming my prison.

“Carlos has eyes everywhere.” Lenard, one of the gardeners, points toward my phone. He’s an older gentleman with a fatherly nature I’ve become attached to. “You thinking too hard.” He points toward the phone. “Don’t send if thinking too hard.” His eyes skim over the lawn where I sit with Romero on a blanket. “Carlos has eyes everywhere,” he repeats, sending a shiver of awareness down my spine, and I nod before quickly fumbling with the message I was going to send Tate, asking him to visit as soon as possible. It’s deleted far quicker than it was created.

My lip wobbles as I stare down at Romero. My son has a whole family he’s yet to meet, and it breaks my heart they’re missing out on the way he’s growing.

“A storm is brewing, Laya, and when it comes, it’s going to be savage.” My heart skips a beat at his words. Surely, he doesn’t know my association with STORM? His words are ominous as he walks away, while my blood pulses with excitement and hope.

“Lenard, how do you know?” I call across the lawn.

He turns his withered face over his shoulder and points toward the sky. My eyes follow, and when I see the darkened clouds hovering above the house, my heart free falls.

Nobody is coming for us.

Taking a deep breath, I place my fork down and lift my eyes toward Carlos’s. His are already on me, and it unnerves me, but I’m determined to get through to him.

It’s rare he’s home for dinner, so tonight is the perfect opportunity to speak with him.

“Carlos?”

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