by Jane Henry
Tomás staggered to his feet angrily. “I don’t get you, man. I thought we were friends. I thought you respected me.”
Diego’s smile sharpened as he delivered the killing blow. “You said it yourself, Tomás. It don’t matter what you think.” Then he averted his eyes so he didn’t have to see the other man throw open the door and slam it shut behind him.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Diego dropped his elbows to his knees and ran his fingers through his hair, making the strands fall around his face though his right hand ached in protest. His beating of Ricky had been thorough and brutal, but he’d known there would be some, like Tomás, who’d expect him to do even more, to make an example of Ricky’s deliberate defiance, lest others start to question his authority. In this arena, death would be considered a fair consequence for such a blatant insubordination.
But then, his men didn’t realize it was Diego, himself who had let the girl free, and Diego, himself who had been working for the authorities for almost as long as he’d been a part of this organization. Yeah, he’d punished Ricky—and given that the asshole had been attempting to rape the captive girl this morning before Diego stepped in, Diego had even found some pleasure in the beating. But how could he kill Ricky for his betrayal when Diego had been the one to break the ultimate rule?
Fuck, he thought again, reaching for the bottle and the sweet oblivion it would bring. How the hell did I let things get this far?
Not all of it had been his choice, not in the beginning. He hadn’t planned to join Chalo’s gang, any more than he’d asked to watch his younger brother get murdered in front of him. Both of those things had been a twist of fate, a shitty hand that life had dealt him. So when he’d stumbled into Inked all those years ago, drunk and grieving, begging the first tattoo artist he’d met to inscribe Armando’s name on his chest above his heart, it had seemed like a balancing of the scales when the tattoo artist had asked him his story and offered him a way out, a way to make amends.
But if his first meeting with Alexander “Slay” Slater had been fate, everything after that had been Diego’s own fucking decision, and he had nobody to blame but himself. He had decided to turn traitor and inform on Chalo’s crew to Slay’s band of operatives and, through them, to the FBI. He had been the one who’d dreamt up some fairy tale where that evil asshole, Salazar, would be behind bars, Diego’s family would be safe, and Diego could stroll off into the sunset to live his life far away from Boston.
As though anything in Diego’s life could ever be that easy.
He’d never envisioned the months he’d planned to stay undercover stretching into years and years. He’d never dreamt that when Salazar finally died, Diego would have to assume Salazar’s position in order to gain intel on the next guy up the criminal food chain, El Jefe. He’d never considered that “Salazar’s crew” would become his own men—men who’d saved his ass, men he felt responsible for in a fucked up way. He hadn’t conceived of the choices he’d have to make and the actions he’d have to take to keep his cover intact. And God knew, he’d never imagined that he’d have to sacrifice any possible future with the only woman he’d ever wanted to call his own.
He’d pulled out his phone before he’d even processed what he was doing, and unlocked it, flipping to the password-protected directory where he kept the most precious information he’d obtained in all the time he’d spent undercover… and then he scrolled through picture after picture of Nora Damon.
The first shot was one he’d taken years ago, back when she was just a teenager, long before he’d ever entertained a thought of her as anything but a funny kid. She’d been stomping around her mom’s living room like a pint-sized blonde Hulk, ready to smash Diego, Salazar, and the rest of the crew, including Roger Collier, the asshole dating her mom, who’d invited them all over to party in the first place. Diego had only been maybe twenty-five then, brash and stupid, a newly minted member of Slay’s crew, full of anger at the world and Chalo Salazar in particular, but even then there had been something about Nora’s spirit that had amused the hell out of him and roused protective instincts he hadn’t known he possessed.
The images he didn’t have saved on his phone were the ones that truly burned in his mind—Diego helping Slay rescue Nora when Roger had abducted her, and making sure Roger was dealt with permanently after the fact.
Next came the family pictures he’d received in texts over the years from Slay and his friend Matteo Angelico—family shots from Thanksgivings and Christmases, weddings and baptisms. Events he’d been invited to, as Slay and Matt had seemed to unofficially adopt Diego into their little family a while back, but which Diego could never attend.
When the first few pictures had rolled in, Diego had found himself scouring each one for Nora’s shining blonde hair and big brown eyes, smiling at the sight of her smile. Later, he’d hoard the details the others would drop about her. “Nora’s a firecracker,” Matteo might grumble. And “She’s going to be a social worker at Centered, the women’s health clinic my sister Elena runs. Saving the world one kid at a time,” Slay might brag. Diego would file that information away, each a piece of the fascinating puzzle that was Nora. He wasn’t sure at what point his fascination with her had become something other than amusement and affection for the girl she’d been, and had turned into something that burned hot and deep for the woman she’d become. It hardly mattered anyway.
He flipped to his last picture of Nora, one taken just over a year ago at her college graduation. This was a shot he had taken, standing off to the side as she’d received her diploma, his presence undetected and, at least by Nora, unwanted. He smirked as his eyes traced the image of her face. Though she was one of the few people on earth who knew the truth about the reasons for his continued involvement with Salazar’s organization, she’d never quite believed that he was the white-knight Slay painted him to be.
Nora was wise that way.
His hands were proverbially dirty now. Bloody. And although the pictures sometimes reminded him of a future he could never have, he couldn’t bring himself to delete them. Somehow, remembering that she was alive and safe gave him a reason to keep going. Despite her anger and her mistrust, she’d been his to protect from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.
That was why, when he’d unexpectedly come back to the warehouse last night and spotted the girl in the cell—a girl with the same golden hair and petite frame as Nora –screaming in terror as Ricky groped her, Diego hadn’t stopped to consider the risks or the consequences. He’d grabbed his Ruger from his waistband and cracked the butt into Ricky’s skull like it was the easiest thing in the world. And then he’d grabbed Ricky’s keys and freed the girl, gathering her into his arms and stepping over the unconscious man as he’d personally escorted her from the building.
“Hush, honey,” he’d murmured to her as she’d sobbed silently. “You’ll be safe now. I’ll make sure of it.” And he’d delivered her to the one place, the one person, he trusted to protect her: Nora Damon. He’d called Slay and notified him of the situation, then dropped the girl off at Centered before dawn.
He locked his phone and threw it on the desk, watching as it slid into the half-full liquor bottle with a hard thunk.
His life was a chaos of deception and divided loyalties, of brotherhood and dishonor and broken trust, of sin upon sin upon sin that was somehow supposed to be magically absolved from his soul when they finally found El Jefe and brought his organization to its knees. But what about the girls who passed through this warehouse every week? Did they understand, as he and his men transported them from one hellish existence to another, that he couldn’t free every one of them, because he was here for a greater purpose, to bring down an even larger criminal, and he couldn’t blow his cover?
Should he have killed Ricky today? Would that have been the “right” thing to do? Ricky was no saint, after all, and his death might have earned him added respect and trust from El Jefe, which would further Slay’s investigation. Killing Ri
cky would have stabilized his crew, as Tomás had indicated, and cemented Diego’s position as their leader. But at what fucking cost?
Right didn’t seem black and white anymore; justice was a riptide that swept up the innocent along with the guilty, and Diego didn’t have much of his soul left to bargain with.
His hand reached for the bottle on the desk, but at the last second he changed his mind, grabbed his keys and pushed himself to his feet instead. He didn’t need alcohol or anything to dull the pain. He needed a moment of clarity, a second of peace. He needed to see Nora’s smile, to know that at least one thing in this fucking world was still pure and true.
And just this once, he was going to let himself have what he needed.
Diego was losing his mind. He’d figured that out halfway here, but he’d come anyway, his need to see Nora overwhelming every rational objection. He had to laugh at himself because, of the many things he had done—and that list was long and incriminating—he’d never imagined he’d stoop to actual stalking. Yet here he was, sitting on a wooden bench in the park across the street from Centered, shivering in the chilly October twilight, his long-range binoculars in hand, watching as the people on the other side of the brightly-lit picture windows laughed and chatted their way through some kind of coffee hour and playgroup.
He did make a mental note to tell Slay that they needed to make this place more secure—maybe make sure that there was a man guarding the place after dark, or some shit—because if he could sit here and watch the ladies through the window, someone with a darker intent could as well.
He saw Elena, Slay’s sister, with her toddler daughter strapped to her back in one of those sling things, making her way around the large room, her black hair bouncing each time she stopped to share a smile or a quiet word with the younger children as they played. He watched as Slay’s wife, Allie, who was heavily pregnant, wrapped a comforting arm around an older lady and nodded at whatever the woman was saying. And he saw pretty, dark-haired Grace, who’d recently married Slay’s friend Donnie, sitting at a child-sized table drawing something with crayons, encouraging the teenager opposite her to draw as well. This was the sight that arrested him and made his heart squeeze painfully, because the teenaged girl sitting at the table—a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen and looked even younger, was the very same girl he’d delivered here last night.
She already looked light years better than she had the last time he’d seen her. She was clean and warmly dressed, with her light hair pulled back neatly from her face. But Diego noticed that although Grace kept up a steady stream of chatter and seemed to pause as if expecting the girl to speak, the girl never looked up from the table in front of her, and she never spoke a word. Not a big surprise. The girl’s face was pinched and drawn into the perpetually anxious look of someone who’s seen too much too young, and Diego felt the contrary urges to enfold the kid in a hug, and to destroy the monsters who’d landed her in his warehouse in the first place.
Grace stood and smiled a goodbye, quickly resting a hand on the girl’s shoulder as she took her leave. She pretended not to notice the way the girl flinched at her touch.
Fuck. Diego squeezed his eyes shut. He knew logically that he wasn’t the one who’d put that fear in the girl’s heart, but he couldn’t help the guilt that churned in his belly. How many girls had been harmed on his watch? How many had he failed to save?
Shoulda stuck to the bottle tonight, Santiago. There’s no peace for you here. But when he opened his eyes, prepared to leave, Nora appeared.
That blonde hair, those curves, that serene smile. Diego soaked it all in like he’d been thirsty for years.
Unlike Grace, Nora didn’t make any attempt at physical contact or small talk with the child at first. In fact, it didn’t seem as if they spoke at all. Nora simply took the seat Grace had vacated, and began sketching on a sheet of paper. The little one gave Nora a wary glance, but when Nora made no comment, she looked back down, and some of the tension in her small shoulders seemed to loosen.
Diego smiled. Firecracker though she could be, Nora seemed to understand that sometimes a silent, supportive presence could be more meaningful than any number of words. Another puzzle piece about this woman that he filed away.
Inside the pocket of his jeans, his phone vibrated. S Calling. Even though he knew better, he couldn’t help that his heart leapt every time Slay’s name appeared, that some small part of him always hoped this would be the call that said they had enough evidence to take down El Jefe.
With a sigh, Diego glanced once more at Nora and the girl, then stood and walked a distance away, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt against the cold breeze.
“Evenin’, bro,” Diego answered, using their established code. An English greeting meant it was safe to speak freely, Spanish meant Diego wasn’t alone.
“Diego, man, how’s it going?” Slay’s voice was quiet and calm. No news, then. It was ridiculous to feel disappointed about that when he should have been used to it by now.
“Livin’ the life, brother. You know how it is. Haven’t heard from you in a bit,” Diego said, leaning his back against the trunk of a wide oak tree whose discarded leaves littered the ground around him. “How’s the fam? What are you up to?”
“Family’s good! Great, even. Charlie got first prize at his science fair. Twins haven’t burned the house down yet, although Lex keeps trying to bench-press the dog and Mase keeps coloring himself with Sharpies so he can look like his Daddy.” Slay chuckled. “The usual.”
Diego couldn’t help but smile. When he’d first met Slay, the man had been a total hardass—a soldier, a dominant, a warrior. But his voice carried a thread of deep contentment these days. He was still the most lethal man Diego knew, but now he seemed to be grounded in something Diego couldn’t quite fathom.
“Gonna pick up Allie in a few,” Slay continued. “Got a babysitter coming, then we’re heading to The Club for a bit. She hasn’t been in over a month, and she’s been dying to go.”
The Club, the BDSM club founded by Elena’s husband Blake, was pretty much a staple in the Boston kink scene. Slay had started working security there long after he’d gotten his own security team off the ground, but he’d loved it so much he’d become a part-time Dungeon Master, and was now part-owner. He remembered that Slay had met his wife Allie when she’d been bartending there.
“Dude, Allie’s so pregnant she’s ready to pop and you’re taking her to a club?” Diego teased, only realizing after the fact that Slay might wonder how he’d seen Allie recently enough to know this. Fortunately, Slay seemed to roll with it.
“Brother, we don’t go to The Club to drink and dance, ya get me?” Slay replied, making Diego snort. “Though it’s been a long time since you’ve been around, so maybe your memory is failing.”
Diego swallowed hard. Oh, his memories of The Club were clear as day, and he replayed them often, though it had been a long time since he’d been there and even longer since he’d allowed himself to take part in even the most platonic demonstrations. He loved dominance, craved the control, but the casual interactions had never satisfied that need. In another reality, one where El Jefe and the cartels didn’t exist, he knew he’d have found himself one woman and done everything in his power to possess her totally.
“I was calling to invite you to a party, actually,” Slay continued when Diego didn’t speak. “A fundraiser for Centered. It’s gonna be out in a field somewhere, with face painting and beanbag tosses and a dunk tank and shit. Allie says it’ll be a good way for the donors to interact with the actual women and children their money helps. I’m personally going because Tony’s catering.”
“A dunk tank? Oh, please tell me Alice convinced you to take a turn!” Diego imagined Slay, soaking wet and sputtering, as some tiny eight-year-old’s throw hit its mark. He laughed out loud.
“Whatever, dipshit. It’s for fucking charity,” Slay said as Diego laughed louder. “Who could say no?”
Diego wipe
d his eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, God, I can’t wait to see the pictures, man.”
Slay was quiet for a minute. “Rather you saw it in person for once.”
“I can’t,” Diego said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest to keep warm. “Same reason I can’t go to any of the stuff you invite me to. It’s not safe. And you know I can’t just—”
“Nah. Shut it,” Slay interrupted. “You let me handle the safety. You think I’d invite you to be around my family if I thought for one second it wouldn’t be safe? Fuck that. And I also told you, we could come up with an iron-clad reason why you need to disappear for a day or two. Nobody in your organization would be the wiser. So what’s the real reason?”
Diego rolled his shoulders so his head rubbed against the rough bark of the tree as he tried to find a handy excuse, but nothing came to mind.
Goddamn it. It wasn’t as simple as Slay tried to make it seem. It wasn’t. He had been around Slay’s family a couple of times over the years when it was unavoidable, but he didn’t fit with them. He didn’t know how to talk politely anymore, or how to let his guard down.
And being around them made him want things he couldn’t afford to want.
“I’m worried about you, Santiago,” Slay said into the silence, and his voice was as heavy as Diego had ever heard it. “This assignment… It was never supposed to go down like this. You were never supposed to be in this long. And I know you won’t admit it, but it’s gotta be fucking with your mind.”
Once again, Diego struggled to respond. Nah, man. I’m chill. I just do despicable shit all day, and then build friendships with criminals over beers at night. No worries.
Yeah, right.
“Been talking to Matteo, and I think it’s time to pull you out,” Slay continued. “And it’s not just about you. This week we got a new FBI contact named Darby, some pissant who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow, but seems bound and determined to...”
