Page 8 of Born Sinner
My gaze drops to the soft mound barely concealed beneath the black lace.I bet she tastes like peaches and cream...
She moans suddenly, her head falling to one side—hair strewn like dark seaweed across the flawless shores of her cheek.
Focus, Sam. Focus.
She’s the daughter of the enemy. It’s Mexico versus Colombia. It’s the past versus our present. It’s the fact that her daddy, Valentin Carrera, swore an oath years ago to bring death and destruction to the Santiago Cartel, an organization in which my stepfather is so entrenched, even his shit stinks of South America.
There’s bad blood, and then there’s this—a war so dangerous it kills people by seven degrees of separation.
She was meant to be my way into Santiago’s organization. Mess her up a little. Fuck with her heart. Make everyone pay attention… Truth is, I’m done playing with wooden guns in safe, wooden houses, and being forced into a state of peace and tranquility when my black soul screams for anarchy. My stepfather argues that this war is the parents’ fight. That their sins should absolve the next generation from bloodshed.
Screw that.
Not so long ago, he ruled the New York underground for Santiago. Now, I want a piece of his former action, and Santiago,my godfather, is the man to give it to me.
Running the edge of my knife across the unblemished plains of Lola’s stomach, I follow the curve of her hipbone all the way to the black borderline of her panties. She moans again, and slurs out a word, but her eyes never open.
My lips twitch as an idea forms. The tip of the blade makes a shockingly white indentation before the first bud of crimson blooms.
I work quickly after that—a master of my wicked art—marking the flawless skin just left of her hipbone with a single letter that spans a couple of inches wide, and deep enough to scar.
S for my initial.
S for Santiago.
Rising from the bed, I admire my handiwork. What I’ve done to her is far worse than what Troy Davis could ever do. I’ve fucked with her body, and tomorrow that letter will be fucking with her mind.
I’ve finally announced my intention as a player in this war, but best of all?
I’ve made Lola Carrera mine.
Chapter Four
Lola
I wakein my apartment to the sound of my teeth chattering, each clap of enamel chipping away at my brain. Prying my eyes open, I wince at the sharp haze filtering through my lashes.
Fuck, it’s bright.
I lift my arm to block out the sunlight, but the damn thing feels like a sack of bricks. Since gravity is waging war against me, I give up, letting it flop back down. Big mistake.The moment it lands across the bridge of my nose, I let out a hoarse cry as dozens of sharp knives plunge into my skull.
“What the hell?” My voice is barely audible.Rough. Brittle.Like myTíoMateo sounded after taking a bullet to the chest a couple of years ago.
But I didn’t get shot. This is New Jersey, not Mexico City.
Blowing out a queasy breath, I dig my elbow into the mattress and sit up, my body accompanying my chattering teeth in a symphony of tremors. When a sudden wave of nausea hits, I swallow hard, unsure if I’m going to black out or vomit all over my bed.
Breathe, Lola.
Dios mío,I must have had more to drink than I thought.
As my spinning head settles, I recall the single Bacardi and Coke I nursed all night. I was reckless, not stupid. I only allowed myself one drink, but I remember stumbling up a flight of stairs and then down a long hallway.
Someone was with me…
Beep! Beep! Beep!
“Argh, fuck!” Grabbing my head to stop the sound of my alarm from shattering my eardrums, I roll over, a sharp pain radiating across my abdomen as I search for my phone. “Shut up!” I growl. Dragging it off the nightstand, I hit all the buttons at once, praying one will stop the incessant noise.
