Page 57 of Raphael

“Mine either,” I murmured. I cleared my throat. “Neither yours nor mine. In fact, I’d be okay if I never saw my father again,” I clarified.

He nodded as if he understood and I believed he did. It was peculiar what people bonded over.

“And your mom?” I asked hesitantly. Maybe I was pushing it, but if I married him, I needed to know at least something about the man. Outside his criminal activity.

“I was my mother’s favorite.” A flicker of pain and regret crossed his expression. “She was a good woman, but my father’s cruelty destroyed her. When she died, she was only a shell of the woman she used to be. Addicted to cocaine and seeking relief in oblivion.”

He loved his mother. He didn’t say it but he didn’t have to. And that alone made me think there was a lot more to Raphael Santos than meets the eye.

“I’m sorry.” And I really was. I didn’t like the hint of pain that lingered in his eyes. “Anya was that for me. My mother. My father. My sister.”

Silence filled the air and fragile bonds weaved through it. It scared me and thrilled me. It confused me and settled me. I couldn’t understand it.

“You understand Spanish.” It wasn’t a question, but a clear statement.

“So?” I challenged. “You understand English.”

He ran a hand across his mouth, rumbling out some unintelligible Spanish words.

“We really need to talk,” he finally said. “About us.”

“We’re already talking,” I said dryly. Something about the way he looked at me had my internal alarm going off, and I’d be damned if I’d ignore my sixth sense ever again. “And didn’t we already establish there is nous.”

“There is something you need to read.” It didn’t escape me that he ignored my comment aboutus.

My phone beeped and temporarily forgetting about the man in front of me, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket. My brows furrowed seeing it was a message from an unknown number.

I slid the message open. It was an attachment.

Probably spam, I thought and I was just about to delete it when Raphael’s voice stopped me.

“You might want to open that.” My eyes snapped to him while my finger hovered over the keyboard.

“Why?” I asked, hesitantly.

“Because you’ll need to read it.” When I remained still, he continued, “It’s an agreement made by your parents.”

Dread filled the pit of my stomach and the old familiar anxiety touched my skin. In all my life, nothing good ever came out of my parents. Maybe they weren’t criminals like Raphael’s father, but it was only because they never got their hands dirty. They had others to do the dirty work for them.

I opened the attachment and my eyes skimmed the letters. My fingers trembled and with each shuddering breath my heart sank further and further. Nothing made your day worse than your parents proving your gut feeling right.

My father sold me to Santiago Tijuana. They wanted Gabriel dead.

I knew they didn’t care for him, but this was beyond the realm of even my fear. I scrolled back to the beginning of the document to check the date of the agreement. One week ago.

Fear crept into the corners of my mind. Memories hurt. It was like standing too close to the fire while the flames licked your skin but being unable to move. Even after seven years of keeping my distance, the two people who should have had Anya’s and my best interest at heart, hurt us the most.

“Little girls deserve to be punished.”

Each breath felt like shards of glass cutting my lungs.

“Stay hidden, Sailor.”My lungs iced over. “No matter what,” Anya said, “stay quiet.”

The bed creaked above me, suffocating me.

I bit harder, tasting blood. My hand hurt.

Whimpers. Grunts.