by Pam Godwin
She didn’t know if she loved them. There was so much about them she still hadn’t discovered. Not just the secrets they kept from her, but who they were outside of prison. What did they do when they woke every morning? Where did they go? Who were their friends?
All this could be derived from a conversation, but she wanted to experience it herself. She wanted to be with them outside of these claustrophobic walls, and that couldn’t happen for at least three years. Maybe longer, pending their sentences.
Even then, when she was released from Jaulaso, she would never be released from Hector.
Hector.
Her loyalty to him was all tangled up in her feelings for Ricky Martin.
Whenever she asked Martin what he wanted her to do about the accusations he threw around, he told her to find the truth.
Open your mind. Be skeptical. Investigate your boss.
If she could be suspicious of Martin and Ricky, why couldn’t she be suspicious of Hector La Rocha?
Because she was scared.
Terrified.
Fear had kept her from poking around, but here she was, prepared to do just that.
Her hands slicked with sweat, and her pulse tapped neurotically in her throat. She was a nervous fucking wreck.
Another five minutes passed before she heard footsteps in the corridor.
She rose soundlessly and darted behind the partially opened door to her cell. No one would suspect she was in here. Her cell had been empty for a month.
She held her breath as the movement in the hall passed by without stopping.
Tiptoeing around the door, she peeked out to see the backs of Garra and Hector as they made their way around the corner and out of view.
She blew out a quiet breath.
With Luis out of prison now, Hector had become wary about his personal security. Garra had stepped in to do the job until Hector could find someone permanent to trust with his life.
In the meantime, he reduced the number of meetings in his private quarters and kept to himself more than usual. But he still had to shower, and he did it like clockwork, every other day at eight in the morning.
She stepped into the empty hall and silently raced the thirty feet to his cell. The handle turned. Unlocked.
Only someone with a death wish would enter his space without his permission.
Her heart banged so hard in her chest she thought she might pass out.
She didn’t know how long he would be gone. Ten minutes tops. She slipped inside and went straight to the filing cabinets. She’d never seen inside the drawers and expected to find paperwork when she opened them.
Nope. Every drawer held nonperishable food. Pork rinds, bread rolls, cereal, rice, tequila, and enough soup to feed an old man for twenty years. No wonder Hector rarely left his cell.
Her nerves tightened as she stepped toward the rear of his quarters. Behind a heavy drape sat a small bed with folded linens and a soft pillow.
This was the first time she’d ever been back here, and she hoped it would be the last as she ran her hands under the mattress and rummaged through every nook and cranny.
She found a knife under his pillow and left it there. There were no documents. No diaries. Nothing that might incriminate him. Where the hell would he hide his secrets?
Something rustled behind her. Her heart rate exploded as she spun around.
A massive cockroach darted across a paper bag and squeezed into a crack in the wall.
“Fuck!” She pressed a hand against her chest, trying to soothe her wailing heart.
He could walk in at any moment, and she didn’t even know what she was looking for. She just needed…something. Proof that he was or was not trafficking women and children.
Five running steps carried her to the bookshelves. She thumbed through every text and novel, shaking them on their sides to see if anything fell from the pages.
Nothing.
She continued along the shelves, removing and returning the books. How long had Hector been gone? Four minutes? Five? She needed to go.
“What are you doing?” His soft voice drifted from the door, paralyzing her lungs.
She forced herself to breathe. Then she turned slowly, willing the tension from her neck and shoulders.
“Hey.” She pinned a timid half-smile on her lips. “Sorry I was digging through your books. I knocked, but you weren’t here.” She motioned at the shelves behind her. “I was looking for something new to read.”
“Have I not given you enough books?” He remained near the door, his face concealed by shadows.
“You’ve given me too much.”
He’d given her more than anyone else had in her life, and she repaid him by snooping through his shit.
“Any updates on the gringos?” He set down his bath towel and toiletries and joined her at the bookshelf.
She grasped desperately at the change of topics. “Not since last week. We’ve been…”
“Making use of the condoms?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Garra told me you needed more.”
Oh, Jesus. Her face heated, and she looked away.
“You’re enjoying yourself.” His tone lacked judgment or suspicion. “There’s very little pleasure in Jaulaso. Take it when and where you can.”
“I’m definitely doing that.”
Talking about her sex life with Hector La Rocha creeped her out. But she preferred this conversation over a discussion about trespassing in his private quarters.
“Thank you for letting me have this time with them,” she said. “They’re…nice. I know that’s not enough, and I’m still working on—”
“You’re distracting them.”
“What?”
“If they intend to take action against me or my cartel, their plan is going nowhere as long as you’re with them, keeping them preoccupied.”
Was that true? She hadn’t meant to distract them. She didn’t even know if they had a plan.
He swept his gaze over the bookshelves. “What are you looking for?”
“Non-fiction, I think.” She studied the Spanish titles on the spines, disinterested in the contents. “Something educational or—”
“You didn’t come here for a book, Petula.” The musical rhythm in his voice tingled a chill down her spine. “What are you looking for?”
This time, she couldn’t turn and look at him.
She couldn’t hide the perspiration forming on her skin, the tremors in her hands, or her inability to blink or form a coherent answer.
Lying would only dig her grave deeper. He saw straight through her.
Was he capable of hurting her? Definitely. Would he? She didn’t know.
“I sit through your meetings and hear you talk about trafficking drugs and weapons and all the wars over the smuggling routes.” She pulled in a shuddering breath and met his gentle eyes. “Why haven’t you mentioned trafficking humans or sexual slavery? I mean, all the other cartels do it.”
“Not all the cartels. In fact, the Restrepo Cartel in Colombia actively fights against it.” He clasped his hands behind his back and canted his head, scrutinizing her. “Human trafficking isn’t a lucrative business. I make more money in narcotics and guns.”
Alarmed by his response, she drew her head back. “If human slavery had better profit margins, you would do it?”
“I answered your question. Now answer mine.”
What are you looking for?
Deep down, she’d come here for more than an answer to the human trafficking accusation.
She was looking for validation that he was a good man. A man she could trust not to hurt her. She needed to know she hadn’t been wrong about him.
If he was willing to sell women into slavery for the right price, what was his intention with her?
“I’m looking for an answer.” She stared into his eyes. “Why am I the only female inmate in Area Three?”
“I’ve waited two years for you to ask that question.” He ambled toward the record player.
&nb
sp; “I thought it was because I saved your life.” Her neck stiffened.
“That came after.” He lit a cigarette from his pocket and removed an album from the middle of the stack. “Do you know this one?” He held out Petula Clark’s Greatest Hits.
She shook her head. “She has an unusual first name.”
“Yes, she does. She’s been my favorite singer for as long as I can remember.” He extended the album toward her. “Go ahead.”
Tula just happened to share this woman’s name? That couldn’t have been a coincidence.
Her mind spun as she moved toward him, her steps laden with nerves. She lifted the record from his hand and reached inside the cardboard sleeve. Her fingers slid along the grooved surface of the vinyl and bumped papers.
She glanced at his unreadable expression and removed a handful of documents.
A smaller paper fluttered to the floor, and she reached for it.
And stopped.
Three photographed faces smiled up at her.
Her heart stuttered as she grabbed the photo and brought it closer to her eyes.
It was a snapshot of Hector in his late-thirties or forties with his arm around a beautiful young woman with black hair.
With a baby on her lap.
The woman.
The baby.
She knew those faces, but her brain struggled to process what she was seeing.
“That’s my mother.” Her voice cracked, and her heart pounded in her ears. “That’s me. We’re… We’re in a photo with you? How are we—?
She glanced up at his affectionate eyes. Brown eyes like hers. A narrow face like hers. Small bones, petite height, bronze skin… He looked like her. She looked like him. How had she not seen it?
“Oh, my God.” She swayed as the strength in her legs deserted her.
“Sit.” He guided her to a chair, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he examined her expression. “Are you calm?”
“I’m a little freaked out.”
She had a father.
Hector La Rocha.
The notorious crime boss her mother warned her against all her life.
Her mother had sex with him?
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
He was her father.
He took the seat beside her and stared at the photo in her trembling hand. “When I saw your name booked in Jaulaso, I had a prison guard bring you to Area Three.”
That prison guard had watched her kill a man. Then he offered to take her to a nicer part of the prison. His timing had been impeccable.
Because Hector had orchestrated it.
“When he brought me here, Garra raped me.” Her throat closed. “If you knew I was your daughter, why did you let that happen?”
“I made it happen.”
Her heart collapsed, and a surge of anger raised her voice. “Why?”
“My enemies go to great lengths to try to kill me, including sending a woman by the name of Petula Gomez into my territory. I had to confirm your identity. So I sent Garra to collect your DNA.”
“I don’t understand.” Her hands flexed on her lap. “He could’ve stolen a strand of my hair or taken my saliva from a cup.”
“Vaginal fluid has a high DNA content.”
The condom.
Garra had taken it with him after he…
What the fucking fuck? It had all been a setup?
She felt sick to her stomach.
Hector tugged on the forgotten paperwork in her hand, drawing her attention to it.
She stared down at a paternity test. It listed her name as the child and Hector La Rocha as the alleged father. Beneath all the columns of numbers and medical explanations, she read, Probability of Paternity: 99.9998%.
Her chest squeezed as she flipped to the header page and found the date.
Two years ago.
He’d known for two years.
Her jaw set. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Just because you’re my daughter doesn’t mean you’re on my side. I didn’t trust you.” He huffed at her scowl. “Don’t give me that look. You didn’t trust me, either. Maybe you still don’t.”
“I feel manipulated.”
“Because of the Garra thing?”
“Yes,” she hissed. “Because you had Garra rape me.” She leaned back in the chair and stared at Hector with new eyes. “I can’t believe you were with my mother.”
“For only a couple of weeks.” His expression turned wistful. “She was extraordinarily beautiful. But she hated me. Hated the cartel life. She forbade me to come around when she discovered who I was. I only saw you once after you were born.” He nodded at the photo. “The day that picture was taken.”
“What about Vera?”
“She’s not mine. You’re my only daughter, and I have four sons.” He smiled sadly. “I miss them.”
She had four brothers she’d never met, a missing sister, and a father, who had felt like a father since the day she’d met him.
Because his name was written in her genetics.
She looked down at the paternity test, and the sight of the record album beside it clicked another clue into place.
“You named me.” Her eyes snapped to his. “After your favorite singer.”
“Yes.”
The signs had been there all along.
Her mother had hated Hector La Rocha with a seething passion. It was the hatred of a scorned lover, and over the years, that hatred transferred into resentment of the daughter who shared his DNA.
Hector, on the other hand, had doted on her from day one. He’d opened up his protective circle to her, the only woman in Area Three, and kept her safe.
But he was still Hector La Rocha, a cartel boss who didn’t think twice about sending his only daughter to seduce his potential enemies, Martin and Ricky.
That didn’t sit right with her. Did he know more about them than he was letting on? Did he want her to spend time with them, not to gather information, but to distract them from something? But from what?
She felt used, deceived, manipulated. At the same time, she felt connected to Hector in a way that finally made sense.
He protected her because she was his blood. He was kind to her because she was his daughter. He cared for her, but did that mean he would never hurt her?
He pulled the Petula Clark album off her lap. “Want to hear it?”
More than anything, she wanted to race back to Martin and Ricky and tell them everything. She felt the safest in their arms, in the cage of their possessive eyes, and in the reassuring words she knew they would give her.
She itched to run, but she owed Hector her life.
So she nodded. “Sure. I’d love that.”
“We’ve been here for forty-five days.” Martin gripped the edge of the sink in their cell, digging his fingers into the porcelain as he tried to curb his pent-up rage. “Forty-five fucking days, Ricky. We’re halfway through our time, and we’re no closer to the goal than we were at day one. We need a new plan.”
“Give her more time.” Ricky raked a hand through his hair.
They’d been arguing since Tula left this morning. Cooped up in this tiny goddamn cell. Sitting on their fucking hands. Wasting precious hours.
Martin’s frustration with himself, Tula’s inability to see what was right in front of her, and Ricky with his laid-back demeanor and cock-hardening kisses—all of it was coming to a head because Martin couldn’t do it anymore.
He couldn’t pretend that watching Ricky and Tula fuck each other wasn’t killing him.
He couldn’t ignore the fact they would be leaving her alone and unprotected in this place in forty-five days.
He couldn’t run from his vicious need to restrain, choke, whip, and mark them until they bleed.
He couldn’t touch them without spreading his filth all over their perfections. But he needed to touch them. And love them. He just didn’t know how. When he allowed himself happiness or pleasure, his impulses
took over and turned everything into pain.
His pleasure and their pain. One didn’t come without the other.
“Did you hear me?” Ricky rose from the bed and approached him.
“Yeah. You want to give her more time, so you can continue getting your dick wet.”
“Banging her was your idea, you fucking prick.” Ricky seethed in his face.
“And it’s been a real hardship for you.” He shoved Ricky away.
Seven years of celibacy was nothing compared to the past month with Tula and Ricky. Looking without touching. Kissing without fucking. The sounds of their groans, the sight of their joined bodies, the scent of their raw, unbridled arousal in his lungs—it was ecstasy and torture, heaven and hell, death and resurrection.
He coughed to mask an unbidden groan as hunger flooded his body, pulsating and shooting flames low in his belly. The physical need he’d denied himself for so long hardened and swelled between his legs.
He didn’t have a second of privacy to fuck his own hand, and he refused to do it in front of them. The shame would’ve been more than he could bear. Not to mention his unraveling control. He didn’t trust himself around them. Letting go while they were within reach was too risky.
If he hurt them, he would never forgive himself.
“Your pissy mood has nothing to do with the mission.” Ricky closed in, blocking Martin’s view of everything except the glaring frustration in his brown eyes. “You know I’m having the best sex of my life, and you would be, too, if you could get it up.”
Martin swung.
The punch crashed across Ricky’s face, powered with all the torment and desire that was unfurling inside him.
Ricky hit back, landing a jaw-cracking blow that whipped his head to the side. Blood filled his mouth, and he spat it into the sink. Then they lunged at the same time.
He slammed Ricky against the wall and attacked his mouth with tongue and teeth. “I fucking hate you.”
Ricky smacked him, ringing his ears. “I love you, you stubborn cunt.”
In a practiced sweep, Ricky’s leg shot out and hooked Martin’s ankle, taking him to the floor. Martin’s shoulder rammed into the frame of the bed on the way down, sending a screech of metal through the room.
