Page 80 of Trapping His Assassin

“What did I do wrong, sir?” I folded my hands in my lap, waiting for the charade to end.

“Well, you’ll be eighteen soon, and it looks like you are failing Household Management, and your Art of Entertaining classes, which is surprising from someone of your background.” He tsked.

“You mean because my father is the head of the Venezuelan Cartel?” I clarified numbly.

“Hm, I was thinking with your roots,” he shot me a pointed look. “You’d already know how to do this. Your people are spirited, are they not?”

I wasn’t going to call him racist to his face. That would catch me a punishment, but just because I was half Latina, didn’t mean that I had some kind of generic fiery temper for him to get off on.

The African American side of me wanted to kick his ass, but I was raised in the shadows. Hidden like a terrible secret, and I guess I was in some ways. I wouldn’t allow him to see anything ugly about my personality so he could blame my roots or home training, like he’d done from the minute I’d been shipped off to this godforsaken tomb.

“No, ‘my people’ as you so eloquently put it, don’t all know about these things.”

He snapped his finger like he’d had a eureka moment. “I’m just saying with a whore as a mother, shouldn’t you excel in these classes? Are you trying hard enough?”

I ground my teeth together to hold back my tongue. “I guess.” I shrugged.

“Kids these days. Well, I’m going to have to put you in accelerated classes. Your soon to be husband is not a fan of this report card, and quite frankly, neither am I.” He put on his ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ look.

He shuffled some papers around and then stood. I knew not to get up. He would tell me what he needed from me. He walked towards me and unbuckled his belt. A gleam in his eyes of excitement.

“Open your mouth,” he demanded.

THE END

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