Page 669 of One More Kiss

Hostile Heart

A Prequel

Autumn Archer

Chapter1

“Who’ll die first?”The silver-haired man, with contrasting bronze skin, dabs a linen napkin to each corner of his mouth before rising from his position at the head of a long table set for a king.

The smell of freshly baked bread makes my belly gurgle, having spent too many hours without food. I swallow hard, trying my best to remain standing, even when my knees go soft. Only moments ago, I was dragged into this grand dining room with high ceilings and heavy drapes pulled open to let in the rising sun. To the side of his china plate, a tall jug of coral colored juice trickles with beads of moisture, reminding me how thirsty I am.

He straightens, the backs of his legs shoving the high back chair as he simultaneously fondles a gold necklace peeking out from an unbuttoned shirt collar.

“How about you?” He glares down his sharp nose at me, the expression cold and assessing.

I itch to cover my dehydrated lips from his scrutiny. It’s a subconscious habit I’ve fallen into, even after corrective surgery.

Sunshine beyond the picture window flickers. It blinds me, so I squint to watch him approach.

“Or you?” A calculated gaze of smoky quartz lands on the bearded guy beside me who’s swearing under his breath.

Baggy track pants hang around his ass and a grubby t-shirt gives the impression he was tackled and fought back. The collection of gold chains draping his torso in a deep V rises and falls with every furious breath he takes.

My throat tightens, restricting a normal breathing pattern. The end of my life is at this man’s whim. I find myself questioning if it would be better to finally meet death himself rather than endure my captor’s torment.

“Elias, what the fuck is happening?” The second prisoner bites out, his body vibrating with a vicious temper. “I’m here on business. And this…” His Mexican accent grows harsher the instant his bound wrists lift. “This is a big fucking mistake.”

It’s just me and the Mexican, lined up before a manic guy wearing a suspicious scowl, fawn slacks, and a loose linen shirt. Armed men guard the doorway, giving him space to interrogate.

The previous henchmen who had held me captive kicked the legs out from under me and forced drugs down my throat. They stank of tobacco, were rough around the edges, and spoke as though they had to fight each other for status. Yet, he glares at us like an apex predator adorned in expensive jewelry and clothing.

After slumping on rags in the rear of a truck until the world went hazy, I'd opened my eyes to the barrel of a gun. I can’t pinpoint the passing hours or days I was trapped for. It all blurs into one unthinkable, fuzzy nightmare. Eventually, different strangers quizzed me for answers I didn’t have. All I know is an evil bitch had kidnapped me and ordered her soldiers to transport me to this address as a gift for her estranged father.

Elias Souza.

Cartel kingpin and Colombian psycho.

A monster who’s entirely too comfortable brandishing a semi-automatic in his grand dining hall. He projects an unforgiving aura of pompous authority with every sizing glance. The same cagey demon who thinks I’m working with this Mexican to plot his assassination. If I hadn’t thought about it before, I’m sure as hell considering it now.

Elias strolls the length of the mahogany table set for breakfast, bringing the threat of his undecided aim closer. “You expect me to believe it’s a coincidence how you both landed on my doorstep at the same time?”

I vaguely remember the hauling sensation. A shoulder wedged into my empty belly as I hung like a hunter’s kill over an unknown man’s shoulder. The lengths of my straggly dark hair danced to the movement of heavy steps. In my doped-up state, the fluidity resembled runny ink spilling from a crown I would never wear here.

Ice-cold water drenched my blurry eyes. Bitter coldness alerted the synapses in my brain to fire up adrenaline. Droplets pelted my cheeks, almost drowning me in the shock of such a rude awakening.

A travel companion was not on my radar. The last few torturous hours were a nightmare of masculine silhouettes and lethal weapons.

“Christ, Elias. I’ve no clue who this puta is,” the Mexican hisses. “I traveled alone.”

Elias tips into me, his spicy cologne fading the aroma of sweat clinging to my grimy skin. He grunts low in his throat and brings silvery eyes flaring with a halo of black in line with mine. “Did you honestly think you could walk into my home and kill me?” he muses.

I inhale quickly, fear forming a rash of wasps under my skin. “I didn’t choose to come here. Maria’s men—”

“Elias,” the Mexican interrupts. “Take this fucking cable tie off me.” He swivels, jutting his hands into the air. “I came here to discuss alternative trade routes out of Mexico. Where the hell is Tomás? If I was Sicario, you’d be dead by now. I’d shoot you from those big fucking gates you hide behind.”

Elias laughs darkly. Shadows pass behind his form as the clouds move beyond the window. They dapple the walls with splashes of white sunlight and somber shade. A sparkly glass light fixture glitters like a shoal of tropical fish in an aqua blue ocean, the joyful color contradicting his malignant aura. It catches my eye for a split second and then I’m quickly sucked back into the black vortex I’ve found myself in.

“Those same gates keep assholes like you out of my plantation and trap those who dare to enter uninvited.” He runs ringed fingers through his groomed hair. The act isn’t carefully combing, it’s more anxiously plowing the peppered lengths for a sense of grounding. “You won’t see the front gates again, motherfucker. I’m the ruler in this kingdom and I make up the rules as I go along.” Inky pupils flare. “Do you understand me?”

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