Page 233 of Corrupting Camille
My chest tightens. Just slightly.
I don’t move.
Don’t flinch.
“Go on.”
“She’s been followed. Documented. Someone’s testing your lines. Seeing how far they can push before you bite back.”
“Someone already has,” I say coldly. “And I’m still chewing.”
Javi slides a file across the table. I flip it open with one hand.
Surveillance shots. New ones.
Camille at the compound gate. At Diego’s. At the fucking BBQ.
Long-lens. Night-vision.
Too fucking close. Too deliberate.
And then my eyes land on it, the one that makes my blood burn ice-cold and acidic.
Camille.
Barefoot, dress twisted from her dancing, hips rolling sensually between Reina and Marisol, hair tangled and wild with carefree laughter. Beautiful. Free. Reckless. And behind her, half-obscured in shadow, I’m there. Watching her. Guarding her.
The bastard who took this was watching me too.
My jaw locks violently. Every muscle coils, straining beneath the savage urge to find him, drag him from the shadows, and end him slowly, painfully. I slide the photo across the table, each movement deliberately controlled, my voice lethal in its quiet command.
“Who’s your source?”
Márquez lifts his hands carefully, cautious. Smart enough to sense how close I am to snapping. “I don’t give names. But this I know: Rojas isn’t some new asshole from the block. He’s a transplant. Serbian, moved through Eastern Europe and Dubai before he hit Miami. Bought three warehouses, two massage parlors, and a whole strip of prime real estate off Biscayne in the last eight months alone. Quiet. Careful. Loaded. And he’s been sniffing around Rivera territory like he thinks he has a fucking claim.”
“He doesn’t.”
Márquez’s eyes narrow slightly. “He’s watching your girl like he thinks she belongs to him.”
The room goes silent.
Lethal.
Javi doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Joaquin’s posture stiffens, arms crossing tighter, muscles visibly tensing. Rage simmers just beneath his calm exterior.
And me?
I smile.
Slow.
Dangerous.
Unhinged.
“Then he’s a dead man.”
I lean forward slowly, elbows braced against the table, every muscle vibrating like a blade against stone. Márquez watches me warily, cautious respect darkening his expression. Good. He fucking should.
