Page 24 of Wild Angel

“No you won’t,” he says.

My jaw clenches when I hear a note of panic in his voice. “What’s happened?”

“Sergio isn’t going to Georgia anymore,” Vito says.

I wait him out, grinding my teeth.

“He’s just stepped out of his Bentley with a very pretty girl on his arm.”

Nyx.

How thefuck?

“How the—”

“Savage, I don’t know. But he’s fucking smiling. Youknowthat can’t be good. I told you we shouldn’t have sent out a fucking APB.”

My boots are already pounding the sidewalk. I jump into my SUV and pull out amid a scream of tires and a cloud of smoke. When I check my rearview mirror, two men step out of Brennan’s entrance and stand beneath the worn neon sign. Even though they’re already yards away, it’s easy to make out the resemblance.

Father and son.

I wonder if I’m getting a fuckingvibeagain because somehow I know this isn’t the last I’ll see of them.

Chapter Fifteen

Nyx

Sergio Domingo. I never thought we’d ever meet this way. Ha…who am I kidding? I never thought we’d meet. Period. My focus had been one-hundred-percent on Bryan, Savage’s father. The only info I have on Sergio are a few phrases I happened to read while I was skimming through articles about Bryan.

He’s second in command, Bryan’s older brother. Whyhe’snot the leader of the cartel is anyone’s guess—I never saw mention of that in the articles.

I got in the car.

I laid out my story.

Well, an altered version of it. I told him my sisters had been captured by the Bogota cartel. That Savage had tried to help me look for them, but he’d hit a dead end.

Sergio seemed to buy it.

He must have—I’m still alive.

After he heard me out, Sergio tapped against the privacy glass and told the driver to cancel his flight.

It’s not my style to be all meek and shit, but there’s also no ignoring the casual violence flowing off this man in waves. “Sorry you had to miss your flight.”

Sergio glances at me, smiles. “It’s a private jet, so think nothing of it.”

I bite back anything remotely sarcastic and merely nod.

Keep it together, Nyx. So far he’s been nothing but accommodating.

Although I’m desperately trying to remember anything I might have read up about him. Was he the guy that liked to burn down farmer’s fields if they refused to grow coke for him, and then salted the earth with their cremated remains?

Christ. I know I had no choice, but I’m starting to wish I’d just given up. Death is one thing…but torture? I don’t know if I’m cut out for that shit. I lose it when I stub my toe on a coffee table.

But something’s bothering me.

I lick my lips. “How did you know my name?”

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