Page 45 of Ravaged Hearts

The most likely scenario was that a private jet was on its way to get me from Manzanillo.

Or maybe no one was coming at all.

A worse reason than either of those was the one that plagued me: What if my father suspected this was a trap?

In the early hours of the morning, the church door flew open and slammed against the wall. I jolted and spun in my seat to see who’d arrived. A man flanked by two others walkedthrough the arched doorway. An icy chill threaded through my veins when I recognized the person striding toward me.

It wasn’t my father—not that I’d expected it to be—but someone worse. Much, much worse.

Jorge Ortega.

El Señor del Dolor.

My psychopathic once betrothed.

Jorge wore a tailored black suit, and his dark hair had been clipped short since I’d last seen him. He charged down the aisle with the confidence of a king while his two enforcers stationed themselves by the door like sentinels.

Jorge had no cartel tattoos. He didn’t need them to prove his loyalty. Carlos had rescued him from the streets as a child and raised him as one of his own, shaping him into the cruel man he was today. But Jorge wasn’t fooling anyone with his slick clothes and shiny black shoes. You only needed to look into his soulless eyes to realize you were in the presence of pure evil.

Goose bumps rose on my arms when that cold gaze landed on me. As Jorge approached, I tried not to let the shock of his arrival register in my expression.

When I’d pitched my plan to Vaughn, Brandon, and Sage, I’d known there was a chance I’d come face-to-face with my ex-fiancé once I reached the compound. But I hadn’t anticipated I’d see him so soon. I’d assumed one of Carlos’s lesser underlings would turn up to claim me, not his second-in-command.

Father Bernardo appeared from a side door.

Without taking his hawklike gaze from me, Jorge stabbed a finger toward the priest, snapped his fingers, then yelled, “Vete de aquí!”Get out of here!

Father Bernardo bowed his head and made a hasty retreat, leaving me alone with the only person I despised more than my father.

I rose from the front pew and faced Jorge. A sinister grincurved his lips. It was the same vile look he’d worn the day he’d told me about the engagement he’d negotiated with my father.

Jorge knew I’d never wanted to wed him. Carlos knew it, too, but the man who’d once ruled my life saw it fitting that a cartel princess marry the future king. My father wasn’t interested in my protests. He’d brushed off my concerns and insisted that Jorge’s loyalty and sacrifice to the PCC proved he’d be the best match for me.

Intense nausea overcame me whenever I was forced to be in the same room as Jorge, but it was time to act like the woman my father wanted me to be, and Carlos Espinoza’s daughter didn’t cower to anyone.

Folding my arms, I straightened my spine and said in the blandest tone possible, “Hola, Jorge.”

Unsurprisingly, we’d never gotten along. When I was ten, my father had first sent sixteen-year-old Jorge to New Jersey to check up on me. His quarterly visits had fast become the lowlights of my year. I hadn’t hidden my revulsion for the PCC’s violent ways, and Jorge saw my attitude as disrespectful toward my father.

When Jorge reached me, he sneered and snatched my jaw, squeezing my cheeks in a firm hold. His eyes fixed on my scars. “Who fucked up your face?”

Smooth. Real smooth.

I shrugged out of his grip and slapped his arm away. “Keep your hands off me.”

He lunged for me, digging his fist into the hair at the base of my skull, right below the tracker hair clip. Pain lanced through my scalp as he held me in his unyielding grip. I couldn’t bite back the sharp cry that erupted from my throat.

Jorge had always been cruel with his words, but he’d never been physically aggressive with me before. My father would never stand for it. Did Carlos and Jorge know why I was here?Did they suspect this was a trap? I tried not to let panic take hold.

“I asked you a question.Who, Elena?” he demanded.

This wasn’t Jorge’s fucked-up way of showing concern for my well-being. The only thing he cared about was that someone had damaged his property.

I panted through clenched teeth. “Alvarez did it.”

Managing Jorge was always a risky pursuit. If you appeared weak, he’d go in for the kill. Too cocky and he thrived on the resulting sparring match. Worst of all? You never knew quite when his explosive temper might come out to play. It was well-known that lust and violence went hand in hand for my father’s protégé. I needed to be careful not to spark that flame within him.

“Now, let me go,” I said sternly. “What would Papá think of the way you’re treating his daughter?”

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