by LP Lovell
Dropping to one knee, I slam the jagged wood into the man's thigh before he even makes it inside. He screams in pain, hitting the floor with a thud. I raise the other piece of broken wood high and aim for the skin at the base of his neck, but freeze when cool metal touches the back of my head. The barrel of a gun. I may be angry and unhinged, but I'm not an idiot.
"Hands behind your back." His thick Russian accent makes me bristle.
I slowly place my hands behind me. He ties them together with a cable, then uses them to force me through the house toward Jésus' office. Of course I could fight. I could attempt to run, but I don't. I prefer to know who I'm fighting, or what I'm running from. The man drags me inside the office and forces me into a chair with my hands still behind my back.
"You stupid fucks." I laugh. "Do you know whose house this is? You will all die." I hate Jésus, but right now I hope he kills these Russian bastards.
The man pulls a cloth from his pocket and crams it inside my mouth, then ties another piece of material around my head to hold the gag in place. He pats the top of my head before he leaves. And here I sit bound and gagged, listening to an all-out war ensue.
It's several minutes before the door creaks open again, but the man who walks inside this time... well, he's not like any soldier I've ever seen. His three-piece suit clings perfectly to his muscular frame. His dark hair swoops up neatly, screaming of sex and money, and his sapphire eyes hone in on me the way I imagine a shark hones in on its helpless prey right before it strikes. Some men command power while others simply are power. This man wears it like a second skin, an impenetrable suit of armor. I've seen bad men, but this one...he's really bad. And I know instantly that I'm fucked.
He stops in front of me without a word, brushing his finger over my cheek as he reaches around to untie my gag. As soon as the gag is free, I spit at him. "Vete a la verga culero!"
A laugh rumbles up his throat. "I do love a feisty woman."
With a deft flick of his wrist he unfastens the buttons of his jacket and rounds the desk to take a seat. Leaning back in the chair, he pulls a small tin from his suit pocket and opens it, producing a cigar. He rolls the cigar between his fingers, his eyes fixing on me as though I'm something fascinating—a new toy maybe.
I watch his lips wrap around the cigar as he tilts his head, and flips a lighter open. The flame sparks to life, dancing over the end until it glows a bright, cherry red. It's such a simple act and yet he makes it look like art, a masterclass in elegant masculinity.
"Why so angry, Krasivaya?" he asks, smoke slipping through his lips.
My blood heats. "You will die Russian.”
"Hmm, I doubt that. Jésus will be dead by now." He takes another puff from the cigar. "Tell me, what is your name?"
"What's yours?"
"Ronan Cole." He grins.
Oh. Fuck. I am so ridiculously screwed. He's not just a Russian, he's the Russian. A Bratva kingpin that even the strongest of cartels have a healthy respect for. What the hell is he doing in Mexico? I'm never caught off-guard, but right now, I don't know what to do or say because the stories about this guy... He's more myth than reality. I narrow my eyes, vaguely recalling a conversation Jésus had with his second in charge bragging about how he'd refused to sell some land to the Russian. This Russian? God, Jésus never was the smartest.
Ronan's eyes spark and I study him. He's so young, maybe thirty. I expected the Ronan Cole to look just like the cliché bad guy in every mobster film: old and creepy, but…
"Now, what is your name?" he asks.
"Camilla," I say quietly.
A small smirk touches his lips, and he taps the ash off his cigar into an ashtray. "Camila Estrada?" His accent caresses my name and awareness crackles up my spine.
"Yes."
"Well, well, isn't this an interesting turn about? I was unaware that you were sleeping with the enemy." He laughs. "Your brother will be so very disappointed."
"Fuck you!"
Ronan's gaze falls to my chest before leisurely gliding over my body. "Gladly,” he says, his voice dropping an octave as though to fuck the word. I shift in my seat. "I can see why you would make the perfect ventana,” he says. “You would be an awful weakness to any man." He props his elbow on the desk and inhales another, long drag from his cigar. “Donovan!” he shouts, his gaze never straying from mine. The door opens and footsteps cross the floor behind me. "Take her." Ronan smiles. "Put her in the car."
The large man steps forward and unties me before hauling me to my feet. Fuck no, I am not going with him! I fight against his hold, twisting around to rake the nails of my free hand down his cheek. He grunts and growls, but never loosens his hold. Suddenly, Ronan moves in front of me and grabs my jaw. He pulls me toward him, pressing his hard body against mine. His domineering presence forces me into a submission I didn't know I possessed.
"Keep fighting, little kitty. I will only break you," he says on a low growl, his breath washing over my face.
“Vieta a la meierda.” I say, spitting at him.
I'm dragged from the room with Ronan Cole smiling like a devil incarnate.
Chapter 3
Ronan
"My Way"- Chase Holfelder
The sweltering sun causes sweat to prickle across my brow. Gnats and mosquitoes swarm around me, and I swat them away as I wade through the tall, dried weeds. "This is absolutely deplorable," I mumble.
The grass eventually thins out and nothing but sand surrounds the crystal blue lake. "Ah," I say, spreading my arms wide as I throw my head back on a laugh. "How glorious." I take in a deep breath. The scent of desert sand is like pure gold, because what lies underneath that lake... "How long do you think it will take to drain?" I ask, facing Igor.
"Four days." Igor swipes at the bugs buzzing around his face.
"Perfect." I stare across the smooth water more than pleased with how things have turned out. I've acquired this land for free and now have an entire cartel under my thumb. And really, what better way to transport the mineral I'll be mining from this very spot than through the masters of illusive export: the cartel? Sometimes I can't help but think fate is on my side. I really can't.
When I turn and head toward the plane at the end of the field, I catch sight of Donovan dragging a very angry Camilla from the car. She's spitting and cursing, her face red as she strains against his hold. He leans toward her and she head-butts him. He goes staggering back, dazed and she takes off sprinting across the field.
I glance at Igor and roll my eyes. "Go fetch her," I say, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket and dabbing the sweat from my brow.
Igor storms after Camilla, his long legs taking strides twice the length of hers. He catches her by the hair, yanking her to the ground. Oh, she's screaming and swatting at Igor as he drags her toward the waiting plane, and I do find it rather entertaining. Such a feisty little thing.
The engines to the plane cut on, the propellers whirring to life and kicking up dust as I leisurely make my way toward Igor and Camilla. "Turn her around," I say.
Camilla's eyes flare with defiance before Igor grabs her and spins her around. On a sigh, I step behind her, wrap my arm around her throat, and lean over her shoulder, nestling my face to her cheek. I drag in the scent of hibiscus that hangs heavy in her hair before I press my forearm harder against her throat. "You will learn,” I whisper and kiss her jaw.
She claws and fights me as I increase the pressure over her windpipe, but only for a second, because she soon goes completely limp. Igor grabs her when I release her. "Sedate her, then gag her." I glance at Igor. "I can't be bothered to listen to her nonsense when she wakes up."
Chapter 4
Camilla
“Power” - Kanye West
I'm jostled awake by a bump and pounding headache. My pulse races, and a loud screeching noise pierces my ears. Where the fuck am I? There's another bump. I glance around. I'm in the cabin of a plane. Great! He drugged me and shoved me on a plane.
Ronan sits acr
oss from me, studying his phone. Anger ripples through my veins as I stare at him. The plane slows to a stop, and I yank at the seatbelt. Ronan glances up from his phone, snapping his fingers. Igor appears from nowhere and grabs onto my arm, dragging me from my seat.
"Welcome to Russia,” Ronan says with a condescending smile.
Dirty Russian bastard. My blood simmers through my veins. I've been in this situation before and anger will do nothing to help me. I need a clear head. A plan. He stands, adjusting his suit jacket as he walks toward me. His eyes narrow and he reaches for my neck, his warm fingertips skirting over my throat. "Bruises suit you," he says. I want to slap him.
The door to the plane opens, revealing a flurry of snow and ice. Ronan ducks through the door and trudges down the steps and across the icy tarmac. I grit my teeth, glaring at his back as he disappears inside a black SUV. Igor shoves me through the opening and down the stairs, my cheeks stinging from the cold as he directs me toward the car. He yanks open the door, shoves me inside next to Ronan, then closes the door, silencing the raging wind outside.
The car pulls away and his eyes lock on me, void of all emotion. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. For the first time in my life, I feel like prey. A lamb with its back to a lion, and the thought has me clenching my jaw.
"What do you want with me?" I ask, unable to contain the frustration any longer.
"I'm not sure yet." He grins like a bastard in his pristine suit, smoking his fancy cigar. He has to have a reason.
"You're not sure." I narrow my eyes. "So, what? You just took me on a whim?"
"How do I put it? You were a rather lovely surprise."
"Let me guess, you thought you'd stick it to Jésus, steal his whore?" I roll my eyes. "You do realize whores are a dime a dozen."
He tosses his head back on a deep laugh, smoke billowing from his lips. "Come now, you're Gabriel Estrada's sister. So tell me, Camilla, were you really Jésus Garcia's helpless whore?" An arrogant smile shapes his lips. "I don't think so."
He can't know... "I was Jésus' captive, taken to keep my brother from waging war. You can't blame a girl for making life a little easier on herself."
"That is what you would have people believe." His eyes spark with amusement. "But I know better."
Fuck, fuck, fuck! How can he possibly know that?
"I know everything about you." He leans across the seat. "You are powerless now. Helpless..."
Anger flashes through me hot and fast, and my nails bite into my palms leaving a sharp sting behind. What could he possibly want me for? I force myself to look away, picturing all the ways I want to kill this Russian fuck in an attempt to collect myself.
We wind through endless miles of snow-covered woods before the car slows, coming to a stop outside an ornate golden gate. The driver rolls the window down and spits something in Russian to the guard standing outside. Laughing, the guard steps back, presses a button, and the motor to the gate whirs to life. The car takes a slight turn and a large, white mansion comes into view. Beside it sits another building. Men with rifles strapped to their backs pass in and out of the doorway, and in front of the building are rows of SUVs with guns mounted to the hoods. Jesus, does he have his own personal army or something?
We come to a stop in front of the main house, and Ronan exhales as though he's put out. The driver practically runs around to the side of the car, tripping over himself to open Ronan's door. Ronan climbs out without a word or even a glance in my direction. I watch him walk up the marble stairs, his perfectly tailored suit clinging to his large frame. He snaps his fingers and my door opens. The sudden cold that rushes in from outside causes my breath to catch in my throat.
Igor reaches inside and grabs my elbow, pulling me from the car as he mumbles something in Russian. I'm led up the stairs to the wooden doorway, and the massive door creaks open. Ronan steps inside, releasing an exasperated breath, and I’m shoved in after him.
The gold and crystal chandeliers hanging from the cathedral ceilings cast a warm glow over the winding stairwell. Renaissance art hangs on every wall. Thick oriental rugs cover the marble. It looks like somebody vomited old money all over the place. Ronan disappears down a hallway as I'm led to a room on the upper level.
Igor throws the door open and shoves me inside. "Dinner is at nine," he says. "There's a dress on the bed. Mr. Cole requests that you wear it." And then, he leaves, closing the door behind him and locking it.
My heart bangs in my chest as I look around the room. Another offensive oriental rug sits beneath a four-poster bed, and there, on the thick bedspread is a black dress bag which I look at with disdain. Men are so predictable in that they think I'm predictable — a pretty girl. Nothing but the innocent sister of a cartel boss. I smile. This man will be no different, so I'll play his doll long enough to work out what he wants at least. After all, you can't beat a man without knowing his weaknesses. I may be well and truly outgunned, but I am not without my own weapons.
He's right. I set Jésus up. He thought he took me as a captive, but I was there willingly, getting close to the enemy. Lying in wait. The Russian may have taken me, but he will not find me an easy captive.
Chapter 5
Ronan
"Filthy Pride"- Social Response
The butler pours two glasses of merlot before leaving the room. I raise the glass below my nose, breathing in the hearty tannins just as Igor steps inside the room, dragging a very angry Camilla behind him. My gaze follows her feminine curves. "I see the dress fits you very nicely," I smirk into my glass while Igor shoves Camilla into a chair.
She shoots daggers at me and snatches her arm away from Igor. I study her as she subtly glances around the room, and her eyes lock on the large, stained glass window behind the table. There's a slight flicker in her turquoise eyes, as though she thinks she may possibly escape. I'll let her think what she wants for now. At the very least, it should be entertaining.
"So," her gaze slowly drifts to me, "you like to dress women like dolls?" The words roll from her tongue, and I won't lie, her accent is quite alluring. "I had no idea you and Jésus have so much in common," she says before lifting her glass to her lips.
"You wound me, Krasivaya," I say, placing my hand over my heart. "He and I have nothing in common."
"Enough of the shit. What do you want, Russian?"
"Such language," I tsk before placing my glass on the table. Do I tell her that I know who she really is? No, I think I'll save that. "You're collateral."
"Collateral for what? Jésus?"
I smile. "You ask too many questions."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'd like to know why you've dragged me to this hell hole, how rude of me." She rolls her eyes.
I release an exasperated sigh. "Your brother's cooperation is needed for a short time."
"Is that so? What could a Russian possibly want with my brother?"
"It's of no concern to you."
"Maybe you just wanted a new whore?" She tilts her head and a wave of ebony hair pours over her shoulder. "You're such a charming individual, I can't see why you'd have to force a girl."
My jaw ticks from her insult. "Do they raise everyone in Mexico without the slightest hint of respect?"
"I'm Colombian. I was raised to respect few things. Power. Money. And blood." She taps one nail over the stem of her wine glass. "The kind that would stain that designer suit of yours."
"How very dramatic."
The butler steps back into the room, placing our plates in front of us before exiting again. A small plume of steam rises from the filet mignon. I open my linen napkin, laying it delicately across my lap before taking my fork and knife in hand. Just as I cut into the steak, something whistles past my ear followed by a muted thud behind me. I look up slowly to find Camilla standing with her palms flat on the table, glaring at me like an angry jungle cat. "Shit," she says with a growl.
I glance over my shoulder. There’s a steak knife now embedded in the wall. How savage. I knew she was volatile,
but, I'll admit, I may have underestimated her. Most people fear me like death itself. However, Camilla does not fear me, and I'd be lying if I said the idea of teaching her to doesn't utterly excite me.
On a sigh, I drop my fork to my plate and scoot my chair back. When I stand, I see her brace against the table, her eyes boring into me as I approach. She arches a single brow in a dare, and I do so like a dare... I grab her by the throat, digging my fingers into her jawline as I lift her up. Dishes and glasses break when I throw her to the table and pin her down by the neck. Most women would scream and claw at my hand, but I barely feel her pulse pick up.
Shoving my knee between her thighs, I force them apart and step between them. With a smile, I lean over her and place my lips right by her ear. The sweet scent of her skin makes every bit of man in me bristle with tension. "It would not be wise to test me," I whisper against her warm throat.
Her leg wraps around my waist without warning, the heel of her shoe digging into me when she pulls me against her. My grip on her throat tightens while she fights to lift her neck from the table. I allow her an inch, and she places her lips at the shell of my ear. Her heated breath fans across my skin like a fire, and my fingers twitch over her throat. Camilla is the type of woman any man would love to fuck, and I'm certain she's reduced many men of power to blubbering messes by techniques such as this, but it takes more than beauty and curves to sway me.
"I've tested men far worse than you," she says.
"There are no worse men than me,” I whisper.
I keep waiting for her heartbeat to quicken beneath my fingertips, for the fear to set in, but her pulse remains steady. And when I tighten my hold again, she groans. I close my eyes and swallow. Survival instincts tend to be engrained deep, but this woman's absence of fear nearly makes me drunk with excitement. I open my eyes and grab a knife from the table, immediately dragging the blade along the inside of her thigh, waiting. Waiting for her pulse to beat fast and hard, and while it does pound faster, this is not the pace of fear. This is want. Basic lust. This is the dark side of humanity calling to be tamed. I drag the blade higher and higher until my knuckles brush the lace of her underwear.
