Page 9 of Liar

“You’re not from around here. Are you even Mexican?”

“Italian. Roman, to be exact.”

“And you’re part of the Bastard’s cartel?” I stand, and my body brushes against his. Unintentionally, though I don’t regret it.

He drops his hand then moves toward the sink, busying himself with returning the first aid kit to its place inside the cabinet and removing a washcloth from the pile folded in a nearby basket. “Clean up and come into the living room. We’ll discuss business there.”

I close the distance between us and lightly touch his arm, my fingers sliding across his warm skin in a simple caress. “Thank you for helping me.”

“You’re a beautiful woman who’s placed herself in a very vulnerable situation. You’re desperate ... and ripe for the plucking.” He scowls at me. “And at a complete disadvantage when it comes to men like The Bastard, who might take advantage of you and your situation, whatever it is.”

“But you’ll help me, right?” I don’t know why I’m so certain of this. Maybe it’s the careful way he treated my wound or maybe it’s the spark lingering between us. An unspoken connection binding us together.

He hands me a washcloth. “Meet me in the living room when you’ve finished,” is his harsh reply before stalking from the room.

I run the washcloth beneath the water and hastily wipe the grime off my face, my décolletage, my arms, and legs. My hair is a wild mess and I comb my fingers through the long, black locks, trying to smooth them back into place.

But, as I do so, I’m reminded of why I’m in this state. Whatever harebrained scheme Diego has hatched has gone horrifically wrong. How long can he survive if help doesn’t arrive soon?

I swallow hard, and push my panic aside replacing it with a stubborn determination I’m notorious for having.

When I enter the living room, my attention is immediately drawn to the handsome stranger on the couch. Sleeves rolled up and biceps on full display, he reclines back on the cushion with his legs slightly parted, nonchalant yet in complete control. Faded jeans fold around his calves. And he’s barefoot, with big feet. Wide and steady, with long, thick toes. Feet that must keep him well-grounded. Perfect, like the rest of him.

He might be twenty-four but he’s all man.

He gestures to the chair.

I take a long, fortifying breath, and brazen as can be, sit next to him on the couch. Hoping the near proximity might somehow help. Just two friends on a couch ... who am I kidding? I’m at this stranger’s mercy and we both know it. “Is the Bastard coming?”

“Why risk so much by asking a cartel leader for help?”

“Arturo has my brother. His men broke into my house and hauled him away. Diego shot two men and was mouthing off terribly despite being beaten. I need the Bastard to get my brother before he gets himself killed.”

“Your brother killed two Cobras?”

“My brother, Diego. Yes, two of them.”

I find the stranger listening intently.

“He’s set on revenge. Tonight, I discovered he’s been trying to join the Cobras. Incredible and incredibly stupid. If he wanted to be in a cartel, it wouldn’t be the Cobras but the Bastard’s.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I believe my brother somehow discovered that the Cobras murdered our parents. They were shot in cold blood while shopping. My parents were good people, always helping the poor and less fortunate. They didn’t deserve to die, especially like that.” Two years later, and the anger is still fresh. I suppose the not knowing—the guessing game of which cartel is responsible—keeps it simmering.

And for Diego, it’s now reached a boil.

“Why come here?”

I pause, not knowing what to say. That the Bastard is my only hope? That he’s the only one left on a short list ofpandillerosI really want nothing to do with?

“I admire the Bastard.”

His eyebrows arch. “You’ve met him?”

I shake my head. “Just what my brother has told me about him.”

“Which is ...”