Page 22 of Tainted Blood

I run my fingers across my mouth and into my thickening stubble. “Do you remember seeing Thalia after that?”

Sam wheezes through a scowl. “No, I was too busy bleeding all over your goddamn parking lot.” I’m about to tell him where he can shove his attitude when his eyes darken. “Wait… She was swimming.”

I pause, certain I've misheard. “I’m sorry, swimming?”

“Like treading water, but in the air.” His scowl returns. “Fuck, I don’t know. I was halfway to hell by then.”

“Treading water.” RJ shoots me a look. “As in kicking... That’s when they grabbed her.”

I fight the image in my head—of Thalia fighting for her life. Begging for help. Pleading for mercy.

Dios mío, did she scream my name?

The thought calls to all my demons.

“Did you see who shot you?”

“They had masks. Black fatigues….” Determination creases his face. “Carrera, you need to call Grayson.”

I smile at him coldly. “You don’t get to call the shots with two holes in you.”

“Don’t do it for me. Do it for Thalia,” he gasps out, his brief burst of energy fading. “This is bigger than all the shit between our cartels. She’s family.”

“She’s my wife.”

“We need that truce, Carrera. At least until we figure out who’s behind this.”

When I don’t answer, he clenches his fist by his side, “What if it were Lola?”

Pulling my gun from its holster, I’m shoving the muzzle under his chin before RJ can stop me. “Don’t you dare say her name, you piece of shit. Not only did you steal her innocence, but she ended up taking a bullet too because of your affiliations.”

To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. “Those are some big fucking stones you’re throwing. Your glass house is about to shatter, too.”

“Are we reduced to talking in riddles now?”

“Thalia,” he says, slurring her name. “You used her. You tried to turn her against Santiago, and for what? Some stupid revenge that isn’t even ours?”

“This is different.”

“How?”

I hesitate, the words resting on my tongue. Admitting it weakens me, but denying it weakens her.

Stepping back, I lower my gun. “Because I give a damn about her.”

“And I give a damn about—”

“Where is she?” The door flies open, and for the second time tonight my father storms in, trailed by an army of sicarios. “Where is she, you pinche cabrón?” he roars again, shoving his gun right between Sanders’s eyes.

Both RJ and I try to pull him back, only to get an elbow to the throat for our efforts.

Sanders gazes up at him with mild disinterest, as if it’s normal to have a gun shoved in his face every five minutes. “You must be Daddy Carrera.”

“Where’s my daughter, maricón? Where’s Lola?”

His facade slips, his foundations shaking. There’s an unfiltered look in his eyes, as if every truth he’s ever held sacred just turned to dust. That rawness… It’s a strong current that drags a man under. I know, because I’m drowning in it, too.

“She’s upstairs,” I say, answering for him. “Where she should be.”