Page 672 of One More Kiss

Chapter2

Spattersof warm scarlet blood hit me like raindrops in a freak storm. The deafening gunshot rings in my ears. I gasp so sharply the air hurts my throat. For a moment I wait in the hush, immune to the sight of blood, wondering if Flávio will move where he lays. He doesn’t.

When my gaze settles on Tomás, I watch his eyes close briefly and his chest visibly rise. Then on a heavy sigh he angles into his father and removes the handgun from his tattooed hand.

“I haven’t eaten yet. Now the damn walls are fucked up. Why did you do that, Papá?”

“Because I can. How about you finish off the girl?” Elias puts space between himself and the gruesome murder scene in his otherwise exquisitely designed dining room.

He fixes his hair in the glitzy framed mirror over the show stopping fireplace and gathers a fat cigar from an ornate gilded box. “I don’t want any ties to that woman, Maria. She’s a fucking liar who looks nothing like me. Her mother jumped into bed with anyone who offered her cocaine. She’s not a Souza and never will be, especially after she put a hit out on me. Flávio would have blown a hole in my head at any chance. I can feel it in my goddamn bones, son, and the puta is in on it too.”

Tomás flicks the safety and drops the gun on the table. His shirt tightens wickedly over flexed shoulders as he scratches his chin.

“I’ll interrogate her. Find out who wants us dead. Otherwise, they’ll keep coming.” He scans his trouser legs like he’s hunting for signs of blood and then pulls out his phone and types a message. “And the woman who claims to be a Souza? Is she a real threat?”

“I sent a few men to Rio to shut her up for good. We should’ve done it a long time ago.”

White teeth peek out from a snarl. “Is she your daughter?”

Elias clicks his tongue, his expression morphs to mocking. “I’ve fucked plenty of women, Tomás.” He shrugs like it’s the proper order. “When Teresa took you and the boys away, I had my fair share of fun.”

Tomás’ forehead scrunches into a sexy scowl. “So, while we were under mafia protection, you stayed here to fuck hookers?”

Fire explodes in Elias’ eyes, his expression tightening to sour. “I stayed here to become the biggest fucking kingpin Colombia has ever known. And don’t you forget it. I’ve built an empire, Tomás. For you and your brothers. We’re the wealthiest motherfuckers on the planet. Isn’t that what Angelo wanted?”

Tomás bristles. His jaw works behind a clenched jaw. Elias lights his cigar and stares at the twirling rise of smoke. “There were accusations and false rumors about that woman’s unborn kid.” He continues. “I paid her off to hide the drama from your mother’s family. The last thing I needed was another visit from the Irish mafia. Whether she’s really mine or not… that’s up for debate.” While he speaks, his eyes cut to his son's inflexible features. “Does it matter, Tomás? The bitch sent her to kill us, and I’m not known in this business for my forgiving nature.”

Tomás’ eyes skate over me, holding my uncertain gaze for a beat before he replies, “From what I can see, she’s unarmed.” He licks his lips slowly. “Give me time to find out why she’s really here and then I’ll get rid of her.”

Elias glares at the gun, his fingers twitching to grab it, then sighs. “She’s not welcome inside our home.” His statement strikes like the first bolt of lightning. “Keep her outside with the dogs.” I’m still shaking in shock when he saunters into my personal space. “I’ll give her twenty-four hours.” He angles to the window framing a tropical setting outside and returns to the head of the table where he sits, unfolds a napkin, and covers his lap. “Tomás. Sit with me, son.”

I don’t feel like I’m still breathing, let alone standing in the home of a ruthless cartel family. The stench of coppery afterlife is thick and suffocating. Blood smears the sophisticated decor with artful speckles. I fight against the urge to sit, stabbing my palms with my nails to keep me from sinking.

Bitterness burns my tongue when the spiritless body next to me is rolled up in a plastic sheet like a human Linguiça sausage and dragged out the door by an obedient henchman. I’ve witnessed unconscious men before, sliced open flesh, stitched wounds, and sterilized razor-sharp equipment.

Human plasma doesn’t faze me. Bullies, on the other hand—they had tortured me from an early age, scratching holes in my confidence with pretty nails and slicing up my pride with lethal words.

Even though these men are older, they’re exactly the same. Only they sit in grotesquely ostentatious thrones, and their rank is far more menacing. Tomás Souza, on the other hand––he’s dangerous with the most handsome face I’ve ever seen in detail. It’s shocking and terribly unfair.

Tomás continues to spy my discomfort from his seated vantage point. Being near this man feels like I’m grappling for my last breath, sucked into quicksand. A glimmer of stupidity makes me question if he’d offer me his hand at the last minute to heave me out.

Slimy gore smooshes beneath my fingertips when I attempt to wipe the mess off my chin. The task is made even harder with tightly bound wrists.

He rises, slots his hands into tailored trouser pockets and strolls to the linear slash of blood. I stare over at him. I can’t help it. He’s immaculately unblemished, towering over the crimson stain like the true ruler of this hostile kingdom.

When he subtly shakes his head from side to side, I slink back against the wall. It’s a silly move. A chameleon-like wish to disappear for a foolish sense of security. It lessens the element of surprise from a brutal attack.

His lashes flick up, sensing the pitiful retreat. Gunmetal eyes meet my elevated chin. Something paradoxical works behind the black ice facade. Trembles gather momentum, the vibration shaking me from the inside out.

In a temporary lapse of time, our gazes bind. I can’t break away and something tells me he doesn’t want to either. Then his mouth forms a disapproving, thin line. Although his haughty posture is standoffish, the indecipherable flicker behind his eyes suggests something else. Something seductive and unhallowed, far more dangerous than his father could ever unleash.

He’s aware of the palpable tension crackling between us. Its overwhelming sizzle threatens a global blackout.

“What’s your name?” He folds his arms to tighten the stretch of his shirt where carved shoulders nestle beneath.

“Carina,” I reply with a dry whisper, smudging blood across my cheek and then staring at my sticky fingers.

“How old are you?”

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