Page 49

But tonight, I don’t blend into the shadows alone.
Mara walks beside me, her hand light on my arm, her heels clicking softly on the floor. She’s in a dark green dress that hugsher waist and leaves her shoulders bare, her hair twisted up, loose tendrils framing her face.
Heads turn when we enter.
And for once, it’s not because of me.
She’s radiant. Elegant. But what guts me a little is the fact that she doesn’t even know it.
She nods politely as people greet us — cartel wives, business associates, men I’ve had to threaten into silence over the years. She’s poised, graceful… but I see it, the way her fingers tighten slightly on my arm when someone she doesn’t know leans in too close.
I keep her close.
I don’t speak much — I never do — but I don’t let her stray too far either.
Until Cristóbal.
He swoops in like he’s been waiting for his moment.
Slick bastard. Always too smooth, too familiar, too full of himself.
“Mara,” he says with that too-easy grin, stepping between me and her. “You look… breathtaking.”
She laughs softly, tilting her head. “Cristóbal.”
Cristóbal leans in, pressing a kiss to her cheek, his hand settling on her lower back.
My jaw tightens as he begins to talk to me. “I am still not happy that you did not consult me before marrying Mara.”
“And why should I? You are only a family friend,” I say candidly.
He brushes off my statement and instead launches into some memory, something about a summer trip to Barcelona, a boat ride, the two of them nearly falling overboard.
Mara chuckles, shaking her head. “You’re exaggerating.”
Cristóbal grins. “I’m just telling it how I remember it.”
Then he says something in Spanish I don’t quite catch — soft, teasing. She laughs again, and my blood starts to simmer.
That delighted sound belongs to only me. It doesn’t matter that I have not yet figured out how to keep her, but one thing I know is that she is mine.
I step forward, just enough to stand between them. Making Cristóbal blink with surprise.
“I don’t think my wife needs your attention, Cristóbal.” My voice is low, even, but laced with ice.
A few nearby conversations falter. The tension sharpens.
Cristóbal straightens, his smile fading.
“Of course,” he says smoothly, raising his hands. “Didn’t mean to overstep.”
“You did,” I say simply.
He looks at me with a surprised look, then gives a small smile and excuses himself.
The rest of the event passes in a blur, and we stay only as long as necessary, long enough to be polite, and short enough not to risk another awkward moment.
The ride home feels a bit tense. Her posture is straight, with her hands gently folded in her lap, and she stares out the window, avoiding my gaze.