Page 670 of One More Kiss

I swallow hard, my eyes hunting every corner of the room for a possible escape route, which includes the open fireplace, unlit without a trace of ash or soot. But it’s the high up security camera and its teeny-weeny red light that hails a new wave of panic through me.

There’s a double tap on the door. It’s more of a formality rather than a request to enter.

I don’t see who joins us, only hear the clip of shoes striking alabaster marble floor tiles. Elias’ vexed mood eases just a fraction. Pale gray eyes the color of rain-soaked clouds relax at the corners and when he blinks, they harden to vicious all over again.

“Papá.” A masculine voice, as rough as broken glass and as seducing as sunlit shards, injects me with an odd rush of electricity. “Who the hell is Maria Rebello?”

Elias motions to the man with a crook of his fingers. “No one to concern yourself with, son. She’s a dead woman after this stunt.” That sentence carries the weight of my demise, said with silk coated razor blades.

My spine straightens. The devil has a son to bestow his evil ways upon.

“Why did she send a woman here?” Leisurely strides stop inches from my achy muscles. “Why is Flávio cuffed?”

“This man is a traitor, Tomás. He was ordered to kill me.” Elias prods his gun in the air as he declares the Mexican guilty without a jury. “The asshole more or less said it himself.” Deadly eyes pin me, considering a thousand possibilities of cruelty. “And she’s his accomplice.”

“Christ, Papá.” I hear the whisper of a heavy sigh and sense brewing discontent at the far side of my shoulders. My eyes strain left in the hope I’d find the odd force knocking me off-kilter. “He’s an ally to assist expansion. We’re building relations with the Morales cartel. You know that.”

“What the fuck is this, Tomás?” Flávio bites out, simultaneously twisting his wrists to free them from the inescapable plastic cord. “I come to your home in peace and this is how you treat me?” He spits down at his own dusty boots.

To my left, a divine scent of sandalwood and coffee swirls in my chaos of inner fear. Flávio continues to gripe while the man who'd lingered out of sight finally joins his father’s side.

His presence commands all the air from the room, so I’m left breathless.

The two men differ in height, with Elias being the shorter. Both have tanned skin with the same shaped nose, only this new inquisitive gaze moves through me like fire chasing ice—curdling my blood and quickening the purpose of every organ.

It’s both toxic and fascinating. Despite my hatred for the father and son duo, I’m intrigued by the suave prince with eyes trained on my denim shorts, bare thighs and the flimsy camisole top with filthy straps hanging off my shoulders. I’m not used to the unspoken assessment of a man as handsome as he is.

Broad shoulders eclipse the sunlight, plunging his features into a shadow of dull gray. Evenly shaded, glasslike eyes as black as the ocean at witching hour settle on my flushed face, having dawdled all the way up from my dirty bare feet to the grubby clothes I’ve worn for days.

I can’t fathom how the depth of his intense glower swallows my returning gaze. Maybe I’ve hidden from society for so long that I appreciate how his darkness beckons to me.

Either way, all I can do is stare back at his emotionless expression and wonder if he’s just as corrupt as his father.

“We have two situations, Papá. You’ve disrespected our ally.” A tiny quirk flickers at the corner of his lips. “And this woman was planted in our family to either serve or kill.”

Horrific flutters discharge within the bony cage, protecting my racing heart. Miniscule grenades detonate one after the other. His rich velvet cadence hunts the haywire rhythm.

It’s a screwy reaction—an absolute one off. The spike of adrenaline is born from never having met a beautiful man dressed in a well-tailored suit minus the jacket. He exudes finesse like a godfather of the mafia rather than a brutal drug lord.

I raise my chin, locking his black eyes to my hazel gaze. “I’m not here to kill anyone.”

A purposeful thumb swipe of his lower lip hypnotizes me in the most mystifying manner. I’m entranced by the back-and-forth movement as he thinks, like he’s programming my senses to obey him.

Elias grunts with displeasure. His cynical attributes tell me he’s scraped his way to the pinnacle of the narco food chain from the dregs of poverty, whereas Tomás’ posture drips of unabated wealth and a degree of portentous patience. The sort of passiveness that slips into your soul and stabs every facet of your personality to make sure your entire being is well and truly dead. Only then would he take the final shot at your heart.

A man like him wouldn’t offer a single, thoughtless bullet. No, he’d play the long game until you’re utterly broken.

Superior diamonds glint when he subconsciously fixes a pair of encrusted ‘s’ shaped cufflinks. Several buttons on his fitted shirt are left open at the neck where a thick curb chain hangs.

He ignores my protest, drags out a chair and positions it opposite me. When his gaze cuts back to mine, he casually pinches the knees of his precisely pressed trousers to shift the fabric covering long, lean thighs as he sits. My skin tingles all over and I hold my breath until he speaks.

“Why do you think the Rebello woman would send a teenage assassin?” he asks, looking right at me, the question directed at his father.

The sculpted edge of his cheekbones meets a dark pelt of trimmed stubble to compromise his orderly appearance with a manly edge of rebellion.

I nip the tip of my tongue to stop myself from correcting him. In a few months, I would turn twenty, leaving my hateful teens in the past.

His teenager assumption rattles my bones for some reason. Even though I technically am a teen, I’ve endured more than most silly girls. Maturity isn’t a celebrated number, it’s the path you’ve traveled, and the journey survived.

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