CHAPTER ONE
Imani
The barrel of the gun feels cold against my palm as I slide it into the holster at the small of my back.
It’s a familiar weight, a necessary evil.
The mirror reflects a woman I sometimes barely recognize—designer clothes and perfect makeup concealing the warrior beneath.
Harvard Business School never prepared me for this part of the family business.
My El Paso penthouse gleams with early morning sunlight, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city and the mountains beyond.
It’s been three days since someone tried to put a bullet in my skull, so basically three days of being trapped in this cage while my father's men "investigate."
My patience is wearing thinner by the hour, and I’m going to completely lose it soon. That’s the Latina blood that runs through my veins, the fire, as my mother called it when I was a little girl.
My phone buzzes on the marble countertop.
My father's name flashes on the screen, and I consider ignoring it.
Let him worry. Let him wonder if his precious heir has finally had enough of being treated like a chess piece rather than a daughter.
But he would only call again. And again. The brutal Mateo Torres doesn't accept being ignored.
"Yes, Papi ?" I answer, my voice deliberately cool.
"The arrangements are final," he says, not bothering with small talk.
No, how are you . No, I'm sorry someone tried to kill you . Just business, as always.
"You leave today."
I grip the phone tighter. "I'm not going anywhere. I have meetings scheduled with the shipping consortium, and the new distribution?—"
"Canceled. All of it." His tone leaves no room for argument, but I argue anyway.
"This is exactly what they want. To disrupt our operations. To make us look weak, and you’re letting them."
"What looks weak is having my daughter's brains splattered across her living room floor." The rare flash of emotion in his voice catches me off guard. "You are leaving El Paso today. That's final, mija ."
I pace across the penthouse, frustration burning in my chest. "And go where? Back to the compound in Arizona? Another safe house? Another cage?"
"Chihuahua. To the Reapers Rejects MC."
I stop dead. "Excuse me?"
"Their Chihuahua charter. Alejandro's niece is their president, and Alejandro’s assured me you’ll be safe."
My godfather. The most powerful cartel leader in Mexico and my father's longtime ally.
The sacred relationship between our families runs deeper than blood—a bond formed when Alejandro stood as my godfather.
I can't keep the disbelief from my voice. "You're sending me to a biker gang?"
"It's the last place anyone would look for you." I hear papers rustling in the background. Always working, always fucking distracted. "And they're experienced in handling... delicate situations."
"Delicate? Someone tried to kill me in my own home. That's not delicate, that's a declaration of war."
"Which is why you need to be somewhere unexpected while I handle it."
I laugh, the sound bitter even to my own ears. "You mean while you figure out which of your trusted lieutenants ordered the hit?"
Silence stretches between us, confirmation enough.
The betrayal had to come from inside.
No one else could have known my schedule, my security protocols.
No one else could have gotten close enough to plant the bomb that would have killed me if I hadn't decided to work late at the office that night.
"Imani." My father's voice softens slightly. "Please. Just do as I ask."
The rare "please" almost breaks my composure. Almost.
"How long?"
"Until it's safe."
Which means indefinitely. I close my eyes, tamping down the urge to scream. "Who's escorting me?"
"One of the club's prospects. A medic."
"One man?" Now I'm genuinely angry. "Someone tries to assassinate me, and you send one man as protection? What kind of?—"
"It was Alejandro's suggestion," he interrupts. "Less conspicuous. And apparently this particular prospect is... uniquely qualified."
The vague praise doesn’t make me happy in the slightest bit. "When?"
"He arrives at noon. Diego is bringing him to the secondary location."
Of course. Diego, my father's oldest friend and most trusted advisor—the only one besides my father who knows where I've been hiding these past three days.
"Fine." I make no effort to hide my displeasure. "Anything else?"
My father hesitates, something so rare it instantly puts me on alert. "Be careful, mija . Trust no one."
It’s slapping me right in the face now. He's truly worried, and my father doesn't worry easily.
"I'll call when I arrive," I say, softening my tone slightly.
"No. No contact. Not until I reach out first."
The weight of it sinks like stones in a pool. This is worse than I thought.
" Papi ..." My voice breaks slightly. "What's really happening?"
For a moment, I think he might actually tell me the truth. The silence stretches, filled with two decades of things left unsaid between us.
"Just stay alive. That's all that matters." The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, a sick feeling spreading through my stomach.
Fear is a luxury we can't afford, but right now, I'm afraid.
Not of dying—that particular fear burned away long ago when I watched my mother and brother get gunned down in our own home.
No, I'm afraid of something much worse: being kept in the dark while my family's empire crumbles around us.
I finish packing, focusing on practicality rather than comfort.
Clothes I can move in. Shoes I can run in. Jewelry valuable enough to bribe or barter with if necessary.
My laptop with triple-encrypted files detailing all of my father's legitimate business operations—the ones I've been working to expand, fulfilling my mother's dream of eventually transitioning our family away from the more dangerous aspects of the cartel business.
The custom Beretta goes in last, nestled between layers of silk.
A graduation gift from my father when I returned from Harvard.
His way of reminding me that, regardless of my Ivy League degree, I'm still a Torres. still cartel royalty, still a target.
A text from Diego arrives exactly at 11:30.
Location secure. ETA 30 minutes.
I check my appearance one last time. Designer jeans, blouse worth more than most people's monthly rent, leather jacket that conceals the other gun at my back without sacrificing style.
Hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, makeup subtle but flawless.
The image of a successful businesswoman, not a cartel princess fleeing for her life.
The mask I've perfected.
The private elevator requires both a key card and a fingerprint scan.
Another layer of security that apparently wasn't enough to keep someone from wanting me dead.
I descend to the private garage beneath the building, where my rarely-used Mercedes waits.
Another text from Diego provides the address—an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district.
Clearly, subtlety has gone out the window.
The drive takes twenty minutes.
I'm careful, taking random turns, doubling back occasionally, watching for tails in my rearview mirror.
Old habits drilled into me since childhood.
The warehouse appears abandoned, windows boarded up, chain-link fence rusted and bent.
I park behind the building, out of sight from the street, and wait.
Exactly at noon, a black SUV with tinted windows pulls up beside me.
Diego emerges from the driver's side, his weathered face grim.
He's been with my father since before I was born—the closest thing to an uncle I've ever had.
"Princess," he greets me, using the nickname he's called me since I was small. "You look well."
"Considering someone tried to kill me, you mean?"
He doesn't smile. "Your father told you the arrangements?"
"Some biker degenerate is escorting me to Chihuahua. Hardly seems adequate."
Diego's expression shifts subtly. "Don't underestimate the Reapers Rejects. They're more than they appear. And isn’t Amara a friend of yours?"
Before I can respond, the passenger door of the SUV opens, and a man unfolds himself from the seat.
My breath catches.
He's massive—at least six-foot-three, with shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. Bald as a baby, revealing a face that's all sharp angles and hard planes.
Yet, the beard lining his jaw doesn't soften him.
Nothing could soften the intensity radiating from him like the Texas pavement heat in the middle of August.
His eyes find mine immediately, assessing, calculating.
Danger personified in a leather cut with a prospect patch.
"Imani Torres," Diego says formally, "meet Brick. He'll be your escort to Chihuahua."
Brick. The name suits him—solid, unyielding, capable of building or destroying.
He nods once, a minimal acknowledgment. "Ms. Torres."
His voice is deep, graveled, like he doesn't use it often.
His gaze sweeps over me, not in the way men usually look at me—with desire, or calculation, or greed—but with an assessment of threat and value.
"You're the medic," I say, keeping my voice neutral, even if my stomach is doing flips.
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that I know this detail. "Yes."
"And you're supposed to protect me from professional assassins?"
His mouth tightens slightly. "That's the plan."
I turn to Diego. "This is absurd. One man on a motorcycle? We might as well paint a target on our backs."
"That's exactly why it will work," Diego counters. "They're expecting an armed convoy. Multiple vehicles. Professional security. Not a woman on the back of a bike with a club prospect."
I hate that his logic makes sense. Still, I look at Brick skeptically. "How exactly do you plan to get us to Chihuahua alive?"
For the first time, his expression changes—a slight hardening of the jaw, a dangerous flicker in his eyes.
"The same way I've kept myself and others alive in worse situations than this." He steps closer, and I force myself not to back away. "I'm not interested in dying today, Ms. Torres. And I take my assignments seriously."
The intensity rolling off him is almost physical, like standing too close to a fire.
There's something else there too—a weariness, a shadow behind his eyes that speaks of burdens I can only guess at.
"Fine," I give in, not because I'm convinced but because arguing further would only waste time. "When do we leave?"
"Now," Brick says, already moving toward a Harley parked behind the SUV. "Pack light. One bag."
I gesture to the single duffel I've brought. "Already done."
He looks mildly surprised, as if he expected more resistance or perhaps a princess with multiple suitcases.
Without another word, he secures my bag to his bike, then hands me a helmet.
"Ever ridden before?" he asks.
"Yes." It's not a lie. I've been on motorcycles before—just not on a long journey through cartel territory with a stone-faced biker as my only protection.
Diego approaches, his expression grave. "Your father wanted me to give you this." He holds out a small leather pouch.
Inside is a delicate gold medallion—St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers.
It belonged to my mother.
I haven't seen it since the day she died, her blood seeping into my shoes as I stood frozen, watching men drag her body away.
The reality of my situation hits me hard.
My father doesn't think I'm coming back, that’s why he’s giving me St. Christopher.
I slide the medallion around my neck, tucking it beneath my blouse.
When I look up, Diego is watching me with something like regret.
"Be safe, princess," he says softly. "Your father—" He stops, glancing at Brick. "Your father would be lost without you."
Coming from Diego, this is as close to an emotional declaration as I'll ever get.
I swallow hard, nodding once.
"Tell him..."
What? That I forgive him for shipping me off like cargo?
That I understand why he's kept me at arm's length all these years?
That, despite everything, I still desperately want his approval? "Tell him I'll be careful."
Diego nods, squeezing my shoulder briefly before returning to the SUV.
As he drives away, I'm left alone with Brick, the weight of St. Christopher heavy against my skin.
Brick swings his leg over the bike. "Ready?"
No, I'm not ready.
I'm not ready to leave the life I've carefully built here.
I'm not ready to abandon the progress I've made legitimizing our businesses.
I'm not ready to be shipped off to a motorcycle club while invisible enemies try to destroy everything my family has built.
But readiness is a luxury, like fear.
Like love. Like all the things I've learned to live without.
"Ready," I lie, and pull on the helmet.
Brick starts the engine, the rumble vibrating through my body like a warning.
I climb on behind him, trying to maintain some distance between us, but the first time he accelerates, I'm forced to wrap my arms around his waist, my chest pressed against his back.
He's solid beneath my hands, all muscle and heat.
For a wild moment, I imagine those hands on me, that intensity focused entirely on?—
I shut down the thought immediately.
This man is a means to an end.
A shield between me and whoever wants me dead.
Nothing more.
As we wind through El Paso's streets, heading for the outskirts of the city, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.
A text from an unknown number:
Package in transit. Proceed as planned.
Not meant for me.
Meant for someone tracking me.
Someone like Diego.
Ice flows through my veins as the pieces click into place.
Why my father seemed so worried.
Why he insisted on no contact.
Why he sent his oldest friend to deliver me to a stranger.
Diego is the traitor.
And we're riding straight into a trap.
I tighten my grip around Brick's waist, leaning forward to shout over the wind. "We need to stop! Now!"
He glances back, confusion obvious even through the visor of his helmet, but something in my expression must convince him because he nods once.
He takes a sharp turn down an alley, cutting the engine in the shadow of an abandoned building.
"What's wrong?" he asks as I practically leap off the bike.
I pull out my phone, showing him the text. "Diego. He's involved."
Brick's expression hardens as he reads the message. "You sure this wasn't meant for someone else?"
"The timing is too perfect. He just left us, and suddenly someone's talking about a package in transit?" I pace, mind racing. "We need to change our route, change everything."
Brick studies me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable.
Then he pulls out his own phone, sending a rapid text before turning back to me.
"If you're right, we can't use any of the planned safe houses. They'll be compromised."
"We can't go back to my penthouse either. It'll be the first place they look."
He nods, decision made. "I know somewhere. But it's a long ride, and we'll be exposed."
"Better than walking into an ambush."
"Agreed." He hesitates, then asks, "Why would Diego betray your father? They've been friends for decades, right?"
The question cuts deep because I've been asking myself the same thing. "Money. Power. Who knows? In my father’s business, loyalty only lasts until a better offer comes along."
Something flickers in Brick's eyes—disagreement, perhaps.
The motorcycle club clearly has a different code.
It must be nice to believe in something so completely.
"We need to go," he says, already swinging his leg back over the bike. "Stay close. If I tell you to get down, you get the fuck down. If I tell you to run, you run like hell. No arguments."
Under normal circumstances, I'd bitch about being ordered around, but these aren't normal circumstances, and something tells me this man knows what he's doing.
"One condition," I say as I pull my helmet back on. "No more treating me like fragile cargo. I can handle myself. I can help."
He studies me for a long moment, then gives a single sharp nod. "Fair enough. But when it comes to your safety, I call the shots. That's non-negotiable."
I want to argue, to remind him that I'm a Torres, that I've been navigating dangerous waters my entire life.
But the determined set of his jaw tells me it would be wasted breath.
"Fine," I grumble. "Your show."
As I climb back on the bike, pressing myself against his solid warmth, a thought strikes me with crystal clarity: I've spent my entire life surrounded by my father's men, by security details and advisors and servants.
Not once have I ever felt as immediately, instinctively safe as I do with this stranger's body between me and danger.
It's a dangerous thought.
Comfort is an illusion in my world.
Safety is a myth.
But as we roar out of the alley, heading away from the planned route and into the unknown, I allow myself, just for a moment, to believe in both.
The wind whips past us, carrying away the last remnants of the life I'm leaving behind.
Ahead lies nothing but uncertainty—a motorcycle club I've never visited, a war brewing within my father's organization, enemies closing in from all sides.
And my only lifeline is a man called Brick, whose very presence makes my heart beat faster for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
God help me.