Page 52 of Ravaged Hearts
“The demand for slaves exists. People will either buy them from us or find another supplier. If you want to blame someone, blame the ones who purchase them.”
I didn’t accept that excuse for a second. “You’re enabling their cruelty, which makes you just as bad.”
“Get used to it, Elena. We sell drugs and people, we launder money, and we kill anybody who gets in our way. You returned home because you didn’t want to be poor anymore.” He held his arms out wide. “Welcome to the family business. Whether you like it or not, now that you’re here, you’re a part of it, too.”
I wanted to tell himLike hell I am. If I fought Jorge too hard, he might question my motives for returning to my father. Then again, if I acted too agreeably, it would be out of character. I walked a fine line trying to manage this shrewd and violent man.
We made our way along the gallery, sidestepping a game of hopscotch, and came to a steel door guarded by two men withmachine guns slung over their shoulders. Jorge punched a code into a keypad, and we entered.
Once inside the walls, I immediately recognized the grounds Carlos had video called me from years ago. The concrete statue in the center of the bubbling pond, the immaculately trimmed hedge surrounding a flower garden, the bench seat in the shade of tall palm trees. All of it was painfully familiar and reminded me that evil men still controlled my life.
But not for much longer. Once Carlos was dead, I’d never have to worry about being dragged back into the cartel world again.
Jorge led the way along a stone path toward the mansion. Vines scaled the off-white adobe facade right up to the orange clay tiled roof.
As I passed through the carved double doors, I took in the interior’s earth-toned furnishings, exposed timber beams, and potted tropical plants. I followed Jorge up a terra-cotta tiled stairway, my trembling hands gripping the cool wrought-iron handrail.
We made our way down a wide hallway, passing several closed doors. Jorge stopped by one and raised his hand to knock, but paused and glanced back at me. “Your father is…different from how you remember him,” he said quietly.
What the hell did that mean?
I frowned. “Different how?”
“You’ll see.”
22
HOPE
Jorge knocked and didn’t wait for an answer before opening the door.
My brows rose when we entered and found ourselves inside a spacious suite complete with a cozy pair of beige linen couches, a marble-top dining table with seats for six, and a modest kitchen. Through a side doorway, I glimpsed a four-poster bed, and straight ahead, billowing sheer white curtains partially concealed a balcony. These must be Carlos’s personal quarters.
A gentle breeze wafted cigar smoke through the room. It was a smell I’d associated with Carlos since I’d been a child. And there, sitting alone on the balcony, overlooking the mansion’s expansive gardens, was my father.
I’d never wanted to see him again, but over the last three years, I’d sometimes wondered what this moment would be like should it come to pass. Would I clam up with fear, or would I unleash my anger? Now that I was here, I felt neither of those things, only the unwavering determination to complete my mission.
This was it. Time to face my nightmare as well as a freshbarrage of questions about how I’d survived and where I’d been. I felt as twitchy as a criminal plugged into a polygraph. Would Carlos believe me? My astute father prided himself on sniffing out a liar. I just hoped my miraculous return would bamboozle him enough that he wouldn’t notice any slipups.
What would Carlos do if hedidnotice? Or worse yet, if he suspected me of being a Trojan horse sent by the enemy? I didn’t think he’d hurt me, but he could lock me away. Both he and Jorge could make my life unbearable in so many ways.
More than anything, having freedom within the compound was vital if I wanted to get my hands on a weapon. There had to be plenty of guns around here, but I’d never have access to them if Carlos didn’t trust me.
Stay calm. Don’t fuck it up.
I wiped sweaty palms down the front of my denim skirt, drew in a deep breath, and walked toward the balcony. Carlos must’ve sensed our arrival, but he didn’t turn to acknowledge us in any way.
I brushed the curtain aside and followed Jorge through the balcony’s wide doors.
“Don Carlos. Llegó alguien a verlo,” Jorge said.There’s someone here to see you.
Someone here to see him?
Jorge made it sound as though I were a friend stopping by for coffee, not the daughter he’d thought was murdered three years ago who had somehow survived. Hadn’t Jorge told Carlos he was bringing me in?
As I stood before my father, I understood Jorge’s earlier warning. Carloswasdifferent. He’d aged more in the last three years than most did in ten. His sunken-in eye sockets and the way his skin clung to his cheekbones suggested he’d lost a lot of weight. His frame seemed withered, less menacing. And when his tired amber eyes slowly rose to meet mine, they were…vacant. Nowhere within them did I find the man whose mind was as brutally sharp as a machete.
Carlos frowned and rested his cigar in a tray on the side table. Then he picked up the newspaper in his lap and shook it open. “Where’s my dry cleaning?” he grumbled.