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Gia’s stomach cramped. A violent shudder rolled through her.
He wouldn’t…
The look he gave her held no warmth. No regret. It was as if, as Ramón had put it, she was a concession to be offered in a business transaction.
Her knees threatened to give out.
He would.
He’d already threatened to give her to his men.
“I don’t have time for this.” Vincente’s voice lowered, now encased in ice. “If you wish to discuss matters further, you can accompany me on my flight—or get out of my way and allow me to run my operation as I see fit.”
He turned to Emilio. “Put her on the plane.”
Then to Juan, “Open the hanger door.”
Emilio gripped Gia’s arm and hauled her across the hanger.
I can’t get on.
If she did, her life was over.
Even if Vincente didn’t kill her outright, she’d be a captive—punished, used, and from the sounds of it, lent out to others whenever he felt like it.
Panic overwhelmed her attempt to stay rational.
She fought back—kicking, scratching, resisting.
Cursing in Spanish, Emilio tightened his hold, cutting off the blood flow to her arm. He caught her flailing hand and yanked it behind her back, forcing her up the narrow air stairs into the jet’s cramped cabin.
Pain shot up her shoulder. She twisted toward Vincente, one last desperate plea forming on her lips.
Ignoring her, he turned to Juan. “I told you it would come to this.” Violence laced every syllable.
“Yes.” Juan stepped back.
Reached behind his back. “You did.”
Gia stilled at the sudden edge in Juan’s voice.
A prickle of warning danced across her skin.
Vincente faced his uncle. “Tío, this is the last time you interfere in my business.”
Juan’s hand reappeared.
It held a gun.
But he didn’t aim it at his father.
Shock rooted Gia in place.
Juan?But he and Vincente were like brothers.
Terror clawed up her throat. If Vincente died here, in this hangar, so would she.
“Vincente!” she shouted.