Page 51 of Hostile King

“Security will take care of Tommy. We need to stick to his plan and meet Mama on the jet.” André growls, pushing Matheus back into the SUV as the driver starts the engine. “Move it.”

With his attention focused on a shooter, I mentally run over all the reasons why I should get into the SUV and all the reasons why I should run away from the cartel. Maybe one day I’d meet the same cruel fate as Bianca.

Do I believe Tomás would kill me—no—but is a life with these dangerous men my destiny—I don’t know.

Another round of bullets sails through the electrified atmosphere, revving my survival instincts and propelling me to run. I scramble around the SUV’s hood and dart onto the road, weaving static cars and trucks that have formed a mile long traffic jam from the bomb site.

Hunkering behind a transit truck, I press my hand to my racing heart and consider my next move. How could I go with a family of psychos after they joked about stealing Bianca’s life—and then critiqued the harrowing event.

They’d actually rated the explosion like it was worth a star sticker.

The Souza brothers orchestrated the unthinkable scheme, but it was Tomás who’d thought of it. He’s the mastermind pulling the strings, the delicious monster incapable of love. The mighty kingpin who desires an obedient queen. A queen who could possibly lose her head eventually.

No wonder he didn’t tell me what he was up to. He knew I’d loathe everything about it, and now all these innocent people are at risk.

Mylife is at risk.

I’m dizzy with fear and overrun by helter-skelter emotions. Bullets continue to spew from reloaded machine guns, busting up everything they hit. Unsure of where the hell I’m heading, I navigate a few more cars and glance over my shoulder to the Souza SUV in the distance and catch a glimpse of André firing at an armed guy who takes cover behind a streetlight.

I crouch by the wheel of a station wagon to plan out my escape route, but when I peer through a window to assess the area, two kids peer out at me from the passenger seat. Their worried little faces blanch.

My fingers tremble as I tuck flyaway strands behind my ears to look a bit more presentable and then slap on a silly grin. My forced happiness doesn’t fool them. They just stare at me, chaos reflecting in the squeaky-clean glass separating us. I’m almost sick with worry for the young girl and boy, which forces me to keep moving in case I’ve got a target on my back.

There’s nothing I can do to help them when I’m unarmed, broken-hearted, and having a shit start to the day.

I manage to steady myself, despite a whimper leaving me when the floppy haired boy places his small palm to the inside of the window in solidarity. He couldn't be more than eight. A sweet, caring soul with so many adventures ahead of him.

The glaze to his troubled eyes makes my heart pinch for Tomás, for the young kid corrupted by a fucked-up cartel code of honor. How his childhood was stolen and his future damned.

“Watch out!” the boy yells, his palm now curled into a fist and thumping the glass, eyes wide with terror.

I automatically rotate to face the danger, the lengths of my hair whipping through the air and my pulse tripping. Under the sporadic sound of gunfire, I freeze, my heartbeat racing as I helplessly watch Tomás sprint in my direction with his arms stretched outwards and his gun aimed, firing a few rounds as his torso twists left and then right.

“Get down, Carina!”

I don’t listen to his orders. It’s too late to obey. I’m already on the move, leaving behind the scared kids on a mission to hide from Tomás. Not only do I have rogue bullets to contend with, but he’s chasing me like a prime bull.

“What the fuck, Cari? Slow down!” His voice booms inside my chest, powerful and ferocious.

Still, I ignore the warped instincts begging me to wait for him. For some crazy reason, they always guide me to him. But this time, I won’t surrender to the madness. Instead, I keep running, left then right through a maze of vehicles leaving the Souzas behind.

Under my heavy breathing, I hear his dress shoes pound the road behind me and more shots are fired in retaliation to the constant barrage of bullets. Momentarily, the noise stops making me think he’s taken out the closest shooter.

In spite of my desperate, half-baked attempt to escape for freedom, I’m clipped by a rogue cyclist who’s trying to do the same, to get out of the line of fire. I stumble and lose balance in an undignified dive, whacking my head on the cement when I hit the ground like a sack of shit. On impact, everything goes black for a beat of time.

The next thing I know, a mass of sinewy muscle wrapped in sandalwood scented fabric crashes on top of me. A loud whip-like crack follows and a repetitive tinny squeak.

I’m dazed and woozy. Pressed into the road under the weight of a powerful king and unable to focus on the rest of the world. Tomás coughs, slowly moving to his hands and knees. His brow furrows as he arches over me, his suited physique blocking out the sunshine.

“Are you okay?” He scans my legs first. “Your knees are scraped, they’re bleeding.” His voice splinters like the dull ache on the side of my skull. “Jesus fuck!” My scalp tingles at the tattered texture of his voice. “You’ve been hit. That motherfucker shot you.”

While he furiously pats my winded chest, my gaze slides left to the upturned bicycle, front wheel spinning and the owner crumpled in a heap with a small, but deadly bullet hole in his temple. Tomás smooths his palms over my stomach, hips, pelvis…nothing. No pain. I squint in the bright sunlight when he dips lower, offering a thorough manic search of my pelvis.

His usual tanned face is pale and the more I stare up at him, the more his dark eyes look like bullet holes. Panicky, wide holes that search me limb by limb with blood smeared hands.

“Fuck, no. Jesus. Not again. Please. No. No. No,” he chants, almost broken in his pursuit to find the source of leaking blood on me. “Talk to me, Cari. Where are you hurt? There’s blood everywhere.”

My head spins when I try to sit, awkwardly hitching to my elbows. While he’s frantically checking me over, my fuzzy vision clears, and my veins run ice cold. “Tomás,” I gulp, my mouth turning Sahara dry. “You’rebleeding. It’s not me. It’s you.”

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