Page 4 of Raphael

She blinked, turned around as if she thought I was talking to someone else. There wasn’t another woman around so she returned her attention back to me.

“With me?” Holy fuck, her voice was soft. And young. Way too young.

“I don’t see another woman next to you,” I retorted dryly. I should get the bouncers to escort her out. Yet, here I was putting my hand on her hip and turning her to face me. Something about the innocence in her eyes tugged at me.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re kind of old to be dancing with me,” she remarked but her arms came around my neck. “Like way old.” Sassy girl.

My eyes roamed down her body over the corset that accentuated her breasts. An unfamiliar feeling of possessiveness hit me.

“Well, this is a twenty-one and older club,” I said dryly.

Red stains marred her cheeks. An admittance to her underage. “I am twenty-one.”

The girl wasn’t a very good liar either.

“Yeah, so am I.”

The same laugh that grabbed my attention earlier rang from her lips, and I watched her, mesmerized. Her face lit up and the sound seeped into my lungs.

Her blue eyes met mine, shimmering like stars.

“Okay then, we’re both twenty-one,” she stated, her full lips smiling mischievously.

We started to move to the music, her eyes cautiously studying me. I wondered if she recognized me as one of the Santos brothers or if she was merely curious.

“So where are you from?” I asked.

“From the U.S.”

A little smarty pants, I see. “Any specific part?”

“East Coast,” she answered vaguely. “You?”

Okay, so it turned out she didn’t recognize me. In a way, I was relieved.

“Born in Colombia, but lived here for as long as I can remember,” I told her.

“Ahhh.” Her eyes lit up curiously. “Ever go back to Colombia?”

A sardonic breath left me. It was where most of my drug distributions came from. “Frequently.”

“Is it nice?” she asked, almost holding her breath. Like a bird that had been caged for far too long. “Caño Cristales are on my bucket list. So are The Rosario Islands.”

I cocked my eyebrow. “That’s an unusual bucket list.”

She chuckled. “Do you have a bucket list?”

Her voice was so soft I had to bend my head lower to catch it.

“Yeah.” It boiled down to staying alive. “I like your bucket list better.”

She tilted her head, studying me. There was something broken underneath all that innocence. I’d recognize it anywhere. I’d seen it in my mother. I’d seen it in the women my father and brother would break in.

Yet, it didn’t fit the type of woman that she was. Wealth. Privilege.

The air about her spoke of a sophisticated upbringing. The way she spoke was evidence of an excellent education. And the way she carried herself was a clear indication of a pampered life.

“So of all the places in the world, what makes you curious about Colombia?”