Page 142 of Heart of a Villain

A bullet lodged in the wall behind her, and she dropped to the floor, her body’s response trying to ramp up. But she’d prepared for this. Chaos clouded judgment. Calm created opportunities.

“Where are you, bitch?” a gruff voice called. “I know you’re in here. Someone already verified you and your little boyfriend’s description.”

Crawling on her stomach, she rose to her knees to grab the backpack and phone before dropping to the floor again. Whoever recognized her and Adrían needed a Nobel Prize if they’d accurately identified a brown-skinned woman and a man who looked like he was of Spanish descent as their targets.

In Brazil.

More shots followed.

She rolled to the other side of the bed just as the bedroom door opened. A thick pair of boots entered, thudding on the polished surface.

“Courtesy of Lorenzo,” the man continued. “Show your face so I can shoot it to bits.”

She quietly removed the gun from the bag, aimed underneath the bed, and didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. A man the size of three adult males taped together fell to the ground.

She grabbed the bag and gun and dashed for the door, firing shots behind her. When she realized he might not be alone, she quickly reloaded and redirected her focus to where she was headed.

The phone hadn’t gone off yet, but Adrían wouldn’t want her to stay there and die. Then, there was no telling if the Brazilian Genghis Khan had backup waiting for him to give his bird call.

She dashed for one of the elevators.

Another one opened, and more men who looked like the type Lorenzo would send stepped off just as the doors to hers closed. Regardless of the windowless box, she searched the phone and found it programmed with two numbers. One had to go to Adrían, which meant the other had to go to one of the guys.

The elevator doors opened.

A couple stepped on and glanced at her bare feet, but she kept her head down. They spoke in Portuguese—perhaps she didn’t look Brazilian enough for them to whisper—making comments about how they could never go out with bare feet.

How unsanitary it was.

How “expected” of her it was.

When they reached the ground floor, she dashed past them, yelling, “Há mais pessoas negras no Brasil do que nos EUA,” as she made her way to the front door.

The first cab she found, she yanked an elderly woman out of the way, half-assed an apology, hopped inside, and then rummaged through the backpack until she found cash.

“Go,” she said. “Pode ir.”

The cabbie pulled off.

She retrieved Adrían’s map.

“Baby, what were you thinking?” she mumbled, chewing on her bottom lip. “Okay, so this X and this ‘you are here’ must be the apartment. Is this line the road we’re on? Oh, god, Adrían.”

They couldn’t get married.

As much as she wanted to be his wife, if he didn’t know she could read hieroglyphs better than she read maps, they didn’t know each other well enough for her to walk down an aisle to him.

“Sir, can you read maps?” she asked the driver.

He glanced in the mirror.

“Oh, sorry.” She switched to Portuguese. “Can you help me read?—”

Another vehicle, a sedan, smashed against the side of the cab, sending the car spinning. Instinct told her to duck her head and close her eyes, but she pushed through it in order to get a good view of her surroundings.

Of course, they were on a fucking bridge.

The car slid to a stop.

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