Page 1 of Heart of a Villain
PROLOGUE
Sayeda Price stood with her hands tucked behind her back next to the long dining table in the grand ballroom at the Verde Horizonte mansion in Brazil. In the ornate chair at the head of the table was Cipriano Castilho, the boss of South America’s most powerful criminal organization. At the other end sat Marcela Castilho, his “queen.”
Five men were seated along one edge, all dressed in expensive suits and dripping in sparkling jewelry. Across from them sat Cipriano and Marcela’s only daughter, wearing a gold-sequined dress with a slit that flashed a generous helping of her golden-olive legs whenever she shifted in her chair.
Alessandra “Princesa” Castilho.
Sayeda glanced down at her own immaculately kept chef’s coat, which hid part of a couture dress that fell to a pair of four-figure heels. Despite being only the private chef to the executive-level clientele of the Chamasagrado cartel, she had to dress as close to the company she kept as possible. That meant designer heels, suits, dresses, jeans, and skirts, and makeup done by a professional one rung below “celebrity expert.” The only caveat was that she could never outshine the cartel princess.
Or leave the mansion.
Ever.
Unless, of course, it was in a body bag.
All five suitors were from Brazil, all relatively good-looking elite members of the crime syndicate, and they shared one ultimate goal: they hoped to assume the role of chefe after Cipriano officially stepped down in the coming months. To do so, Chamas tradition and bylaws said that the cartel king needed a queen.
Among the group was Lorenzo Henriques, Chamas’ revered tenente, and Cipriano and Marcela’s clear favorite. Fortunately for them, Lorenzo was the most accomplished, attractive, and loyal of the five. Unfortunately for Alessandra, Lorenzo only loved two things: obedience and control.
While Alessandra laughed and flirted, Sayeda tried not to visibly check the time. One opportunity was all she had, and with Lorenzo preoccupied and his brother nowhere to be seen, this was the only moment she might be granted outside of that body bag.
When she first met Cipriano and Marcela, it was long before she learned that the restaurant where she’d cooked her way up to executive sous chef was owned and frequented by the cartel.
One day, Cipriano and Marcela requested the presence of the culinary wonder who’d prepared what they’d called a “flawless duck confit.”
They invited her to dine with them.
From that moment on, whenever they came to the restaurant, they welcomed her to their table. Over time, she found herself feeling less isolated and lonely in a country as large as Brazil.
An evening was all it took for that to change.
While throwing out the day’s trash before heading home, she was cornered by three men; however, the men never got the chance to threaten her, proposition her, or so much as explain what they wanted.
Cipriano intervened.
On his command, Lorenzo killed them.
Suddenly, her “friendship” with Marcela and Cipriano became a “debt,” and inside Chamas, the only ways to repay one’s debt were blood and lifelong servitude.
“What do you think, Alessandra?” Marcela asked. “The next few months will be exciting, yes?”
Alessandra twirled her hair, her gaze darting from man to man, giving none of them her attention for too long.
“But keep them mindful of the rules,” Marcela continued. “A man who can’t offer you a few months of loyalty and fidelity cannot be the leader of this organization. Chamas will not grant an empire to a man unable to conquer the demands of his own body.”
Sayeda looked over just as Lorenzo turned her way, and his expression barely flickered before he faced Alessandra again. The only saving grace that had come from being moved into the mansion, against her will, after being forced to pledge her allegiance to the cartel, was that the house never slept. No one could enter her room in the servants’ wing as easily as they’d once entered her downtown apartment.
“Juliana,” Cipriano called.
It had taken her almost no time to get used to the alias, which had been her identity for the last few years. At first, she was Mariana Shillingford, a cook at a resort hotel in Dominica, for seven years. When a hitman, one sent by her mother, found her there, she’d suddenly found herself actively on the run again.
On the surface, she told herself that she chose Brazil because the size of the country made it easier to hide, but she knew it had more to do with the unfinished pieces that lived inside her heart.
“You can go now,” Cipriano said. “Everything was marvelous, as usual.”
She dipped her head. “Thank you, Chefe.”
On her way past the table, Lorenzo grabbed her hand. She’d been moving so fast that the abrupt stop nearly dislocated her shoulder, but she hid any signs of distress. The only ones she would grant him were the ones he wrenched out of her. It didn’t matter what she had to do; never again would she allow him to transform her fear into terror.