by Pam Godwin
If they succeeded, Hector La Rocha’s four sons and their despicable operation would be eliminated. Vera would be returned to her sister, and countless slaves would be freed.
If they failed, he and Tomas would be gutted, dismembered, and never seen or heard from again.
You volunteered for this. Trained for it. You know what you’re doing.
It wasn’t working. His heart refused to abandon its frantic sprint around his ribcage.
Eventually, the limo slowed, motoring in stops and starts, presumably through gated entrances manned by armed guards. Then the engine shut off.
“Have a look, Mr. Smith.” His escort shifted, creaking the seats as the doors opened.
Luke dragged off the hood and caught Tomas’ expressionless stare before turning his attention beyond the windows.
Parked in a massive, extravagantly landscaped courtyard, they were surrounded by opulence and money. A lot of fucking money.
Stone archways and monolith columns supported red-tile roofs that stretched between Mediterranean-style buildings. The compound formed a sprawling, symmetrical circle around him. A towering, open-air fortress, broken up by breezeways and multilevel turrets to create individual living spaces with wrought-iron balconies and stucco exteriors.
The travertine driveway snaked through a portico and curved out of sight. Patterned pavers drew walkways in every direction, leading under covered arches to smaller courtyards, lush gardens, fountains, and pools.
Less conspicuous, but no less excessive, was the security detail. Cameras and guards covered every corner and entry point. Weapons weren’t in view, but they were there, hidden under oversize jackets. Anything else would’ve made guests uncomfortable.
This was a resort designed to entertain depravity. A compound built on indulgence and the blood of innocents.
The limo emptied, leaving him to exit last. The unforgiving California heat baked into his black suit as he stepped out and joined Tomas. His gaze landed on the row of cars in the courtyard.
A Ferrari FXX-K, Lamborghini Centenario, and holy shit, that was goddamn Pagani Huayra. He blinked. And blinked again. One of only a few hundred in the world, that hypercar had taken over two years to build by hand. Look at all the carbon fiber. Complete with gull-wing doors, red leather upholstery, and a 720hp AMG Mercedes engine. Un-fucking-real.
He dragged his eyes away only to choke at the sight of the Koenigsegg Agera parked next in the line. Sexiest goddamn thing he’d ever seen. And fast. The rear wing adjusted at the push of a button for optimal speed. Not that it needed the help. It held the production car speed record of 278 mph.
His fingers twitched. Damn. This was the closest he’d ever come to touching one.
Back in Texas, he’d taken up mechanic work to pass the time between vigilante jobs. He’d learned the trade. Self-taught. Motorcycles mostly. But he’d always had a deep appreciation for fast cars.
More Ferraris and Lambos filled his view, forming a glimmering, drool-worthy panorama of rolling works of art. Every hypercar here was worth over a million dollars. Some valued at three to four mil. Whoever owned this collection was a car enthusiast, someone who shared his obsession and had the money to buy the rarest, most expensive models in the world.
There would be other guests on the property, slave buyers like him. But they would’ve been escorted here in the limo, wearing hoods. These cars belonged to someone who could come and go freely.
“If you’re good with a stick, my brother will let you test drive one of his toys around the property.”
The sultry feminine voice turned his head. The click of approaching heels drew his gaze. Long, shapely legs hewed his breath. Sun-kissed skin for miles.
His insides drew taut as he took in the sinuous lines of hips in the simple black dress. Early twenties, brown eyes, black hair, slender build, golden complexion. Exquisite.
She stepped right up to him, too fucking close for someone he didn’t know, and dragged red-painted fingernails along the curve of his bicep. He dug through a swirl of potent perfume and male arousal and found his brain.
“Your brother owns these cars?” Prying her off his arm, he set her away. “Who is he?”
“Marco La Rocha.”
The eldest son. Of course.
According to Hector, he’d fathered four sons and one daughter. While in prison, Tula Gomez saw the paternity test that confirmed her unsavory bloodline. Hector La Rocha was her father. Gomez was her mother’s surname.
So who was this woman?
Dread sloshed through his veins.
“Welcome to Casa de La Rocha, John Smith,” she said with a sensual, south-of-the-border accent. Then she drifted back into his space and hooked an arm around his elbow, turning him toward the main entrance. “Except we both know that’s not your real name, handsome. Perhaps that’s what I’ll call you. Handsome.”
“What do I call you?”
“I… I think…” She touched her chin to her shoulder, peering up at him with a coy smile. “When you turn those arresting green eyes on me, you can call me whatever you want.” She cleared her throat and looked away, guiding him forward. “To everyone else, I’m Vera. Vera Gomez.”
Fuck.
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New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author, Pam Godwin, lives in the Midwest with her husband, their two children, and a foulmouthed parrot. When she ran away, she traveled fourteen countries across five continents, attended three universities, and married the vocalist of her favorite rock band.
Java, tobacco, and dark romance novels are her favorite indulgences, and might be considered more unhealthy than her aversion to sleeping, eating meat, and dolls with blinking eyes.
EMAIL: [email protected]
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