Page 23 of Bad Blood
“Fine,” I mutter, doing as he says, but only because his close proximity is malfunctioning my defenses. My body braces as his cologne seeps into my skin. In my mind, he’s already tilting his head again and glazing my back with more of his hate.
“I don’t see any ID down there, Mickey,” I hear him murmur. “I don’t even see a credit card.”
“I must have left them downstairs,” I say stiffly. “Maybe your men took them when they took my phone.”
“Admit it,muñeca.You haven’t spoken a word of truth since you entered my office.”
I can’t bring myself to answer that when my sister’s happiness is lying in ruins at my feet.
“I’m going to require compensation for the inconvenience you’ve given me and my men tonight.”
“I don’t have any money,” I grit out, shivering with fear and loathing when I feel his hot breath lacing the nape of my neck.
He laughs—thick, throaty, and disbelieving.
More of that hot breath.
More fear and loathing.
“Do you see that picture behind my desk?”
Somehow, I drag my eyes from the mess on the ground to a gilt-framed, six by four, oil painting hanging on the wall, depicting a smiling skull of a woman with red feathers braided through her long, dark hair. She's terrible in her beauty. Haunting, intimidating... She’s also half in profile—enveloped in a cloud of thick, gray smoke—and something tells me I never want her turning her empty gaze in my direction.
“What is she?” I whisper.
“Whois she,” he corrects, moving in so close I can feel the outline of his snarl against my hair. “Nuestra señora de la Santa Muerte. Mexico’s venerable Lady of the Dead…”
If he hears my sharp intake of breath at this, he doesn’t comment.
“Santa Muerteserves as protection from my enemies…Thalia Santiago.”
Shit.
Before I can run, a steel-like vise is wrapped around my wrist and I’m being spun around to face him.
“You’re Santi… Valentin Carrera’s son,” I gasp out in horror.
“And you’re trespassing intoverydangerous territory. Why the fuck are you here,señorita?”
“I-I didn’t know this was your casino, I swear.”
“You cross that state line, you may as well have Carrera stamped all over your fucking passport. Did your father send you to spy? To steal from me?”
“No!” I try to yank my wrist away, but his grip is too firm. “He doesn’t even know I’m here!”
“¡Maldita mentirosa!”he curses again.
“I’m not a fucking liar! And neither am I amuñeca!”
“All dolls break if you apply the right kind of pressure. Did the poor little cartel princess decide to have her fun at my expense, or is this Edier Grayson’s doing?”
Oh Jesus, he’s terrifying. I’m never getting out of here alive.
“I needed the money!”
He drops my wrist as if it’s burning him; as if he can’t bear my touch for a single second longer. “You expect me to believe the daughter of one of the richest sinners in the world is coming up short on pocket change?”
“It’s the truth!”
