Page 9 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

Usually, they’re lured in by boyfriends. I glance at my own team, still maintaining their cover. I suppress a smile at Scar and Kat’s antics, wondering when they decided to drop the act and admit they’d like to bone each other.

“This one’s very special,” Hector’s grin stretches wider. “Delilah reeled her in. And the girl can’t wait to jump into the net.”

Something cold settles in my gut. Another woman, desperate for escape, groomed by Delilah no doubt. “Where’s the merch bound for? Havana?”

Hector leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Nah. I told you, Rocky, this one’s special. She’s bound for Al-Dawahi.”

The name hits me like a punch. Al-Dawahi—a luxury desert enclave where the richest indulge their darkest desires. The trafficker’s El Dorado. I’ve dismissed it as a fantasy for years.

I school my expression, keeping my voice level. “Surely, that’s just a myth.”

Hector’s grin widens. “And if I told you it’s not?”

I take a measured sip of scotch. The burn of alcohol does nothing to quell the acid churning in my gut. “I’d say you’ve been sampling too much of your own product.”

He chuckles, savoring my skepticism. “Twelfth sale this year alone. Going rate? Thirty large.”

I let out a low whistle. “Someone’s being ripped off. Thirty million for a piece of ass? Come on, Hector.”

“Not just any piece of ass.” Hector’s voice drops as if sharing the world’s best-kept secret. “For anywhere else, a few hundred grand, tops. But Al-Dawahi . . .” He trails off, licking his lips like a wolf spotting prey. “Money’s no object over there.”

I flash an avaricious look and flick my wrist. “Cut a fucker in, will you?”

Hector’s belly laugh echoes across the table. He’s so goddamn eager to show off, he has no idea he’s signing several death warrants with every word.

“I’m telling you, Rocky, Al-Dawahi is the future,” he boasts. “They don’t play by any rules. And the merch? Top-tier. Royals, celebrities, daughters of politicians. You wouldn’t believe the kind of girls they bring in.”

I offer an appreciative nod, though I’m seconds away from snapping his neck just to silence him.

Then Hector pauses, his gaze shifting over my shoulder. “And there she is.”

I follow his line of sight, and for a moment, I think the club lighting is playing tricks on me. But no—it’s Alfred Romano’s daughter.

The woman whose stats I know like the back of my hand.

My mind races to make sense of her presence in this shithole. And then I realize she’s the merchandise. Clemenza is selling his boss’s daughter.

Rage bubbles under my skin—the old, familiar heat that ignites whenever I see an innocent woman walk into a trap. But this is different. This is personal. This isn’t some nameless, faceless victim.

It’sher.

Hector, oblivious to the storm building inside me, announces. “Told you, Rocky. This one is special.”

4

Luna

The moment I step into the Enigma’s entryway, my nose wrinkles at the smell of stale beer and damp carpet. The faint stickiness under my heels makes me reconsider every step.Geez.

I remove my ATM card from my purse and crouch to slide it into the hidden compartment in the platform of my trusty clubbing boot—a little Parisian trick Reese and I came up with for nights like this, when we slum it up. You never know when you’ll get swiped—or becometoo shitfaced to remember your purse.

Straightening, I catch sight of myself in the gilded mirror hanging crooked on the wall. The glass is smudged and cracked, but it reflects enough. I fluff out my waves and smooth a hand over the strapless Chanel, loving the way the sleek black material hugs the dip of my waist before flaring just below my hips.

A drunk girl stumbles out of the club, her stained tank top sliding off one shoulder. I glance back at my smoky eyes and red lips and, for a second, wonder if I might be overdressed for a dump like this. But the thought passes just as quickly. I never blend in anyway.

With one last look in the mirror, I push through the double doors into the main room.

Red and blue lights flicker overhead, making me squint as I scan the crowd. There, near the back, in one of the deep velvet booths, is a blonde bombshell draped in a red dress, her skin glowing golden under the lights.

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