Needful Surrender

AURORA

I’m crammed so tightly between two bulky men whose heads easily graze the ceiling of the SUV that it’s impossible for me to look behind us at the other vehicles in this caravan.

I desperately want to know what’s happening with Esteban, what he’s thinking, how he is. I’m not sure what these bastards will do to me, and I don’t care. What I am afraid of is what they’ll do to him in an effort to get him to heel.

You’re what they’re doing to him. You’re how they’ll get him to heel.

My stomach sinks as that thought enters my mind. If it weren’t for me, we might not be in this position. I want to berate myself. To allow the guilt to lead me down a path of self-pity. But I refuse to roll over and die. If there’s nothing I can do about being here, then I’ll make the most of it.

“Where are you taking us?” I demand from the man on my left. He sniffs, giving me a downward glance, but doesn’t reply.

So I turn to the guy on my right, but the question dies on my lips when I spot the tattoo on his neck. A skull with what appears to be tattered wings flanking it, the word Diablos written at the bottom. It’s an image I became familiar with during my research into Mexican crime organizations. The mark given to everyone who operates within the Diablos del Sur cartel.

I’ve only seen it in photographs, mugshots, and depictions. Never in person and never this close.

The man—Montero, I believe he was called—must notice me staring, because just then, he flexes his shoulder muscle, causing the thick cording in his neck to shift beneath the tattoo. It undulates, making it seem as if it has a life of its own.

He tilts his face toward me, and I shrink back from the unexpected intensity in his gaze. Clearing my throat, I smile. “Nice tattoo,” I say before looking toward the road ahead.

“We’re not going far,” the driver says a few minutes later, his voice sounding familiar. “I found us a nice little spot in Guadalajara. You’ll really like it.”

Our eyes meet through the rearview mirror. I frown as I attempt to place him, and when he winks and chuckles, I immediately know who he is.

“Santos,” I say. “I didn’t realize you were the getaway driver.”

“I like to change things up.” He slaps the steering wheel, playing it like it’s a drum. “Keeps it interesting.”

“Or maybe you were afraid Esteban would be too much for you to handle personally, so you had your guards do it for you.” The smile evident in his eyes vanishes, and I mentally pat myself of the back.

“Your boyfriend doesn’t pose a threat to me or my men, I assure you.”

I pull my lips down in mock disbelief. “So you say.”

The drumming on the wheel stops, and I notice with appreciation that he’s now gripping it tightly.

Half an hour later, he pulls into a winding drive that leads to a pretty colonial-style two-story house somewhere in the outskirts of Guadalajara. We’re surrounded by towering trees and foliage so thick, it completely covers the ground.

But it’s not just the greenery that gives this property privacy. It’s the distance between it and the next house. They could do whatever they wanted to us, and no one would be the wiser. I frown tensely as I ponder that.

“What is it? Not to your liking?” Santos asks.

“It’s nice enough,” I reply.

He chuckles. “Nice enough. I’m sure the owner would find that insulting, given how much he paid for it.”

“It doesn’t belong to you?”

We follow the circular path around a large fountain and stop in front of the main entrance. The first thing I do when we step out of the vehicle is search for the SUV that’s carrying Esteban and Rodrigo. I spot them just as they disappear down a split in the drive that goes behind the house.

“Where are they going?” I ask when Santos comes to stand next to me.

“I’m giving them some time to cool down. Besides, I’m starving, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s not to have life-changing discussions on an empty stomach.”

“That’s the one thing you’ve learned?”

He gives me an amused grin. “You should speak to me with a little more respect.”

I swallow down the retort already on the tip of my tongue and simply nod. He’s right. I have to tread carefully.

The two large guards fall in behind us as we he walks me toward the door.

“An old friend owns this place,” he says, and I realize he’s answering my question from earlier. “He rarely stays here, though. Uses it mostly for business. When I told him I had business to attend to in the area, he offered it up.”

I don’t ask what business he has going on, because I know what he’s talking about. Esteban.

The inside of the house is just as beautiful as the outside, with the same Spanish colonial architecture that’s so popular in the historic center. In fact, it reminds me a lot of the apartment building I live in—if it had been left as it once was, that is—with its golden stuccoed walls, high arches, and the ceiling’s exposed thick wooden beams.

I follow the cartel leader past the curved staircase with a wrought iron railing to a large kitchen in the back. Armed men guard two sets of opposing French doors that have been left open to allow for a cross breeze, but even their surly expressions don’t take away from the lovely garden out back.

That’s when I see the black vehicle I’m sure Esteban rode in parked beside what appears to be a guesthouse at the far rear of the property.

“Are you hungry?” Santos calls my attention back to him as he grabs a frying pan from one of the lower cabinets.

My stomach growls in response because it’s been hours since I last had a meal.

“Good, because I’m cooking.” He removes a knife from its block and points it at the rustic table that doubles as an island. “Sit.”

The man with the neck tattoo who sat beside me in the SUV comes to pull a chair out for me. There’s something about him that scares me, an aura of danger, something that screams, “I’m deadly, don’t mess with me.” I hesitate, imagining that the moment I set my ass down and turn my back on him, he’ll slit my throat.

“Don’t let Montero frighten you. He’s a big teddy bear on the inside,” Santos teases. “Now me, on the other hand, you should be afraid of.” The last is said with a chuckle, yet the truth in the statement sends a chill through me.

Straightening my spine—because, really, the only other option is to cower, which I refuse to do—I sit.

Santos grins. “Good girl.” He fires up the stove, then begins to chop a stack of tortillas into triangles, along with tomatoes, chilies, cilantro and onion. “I hope you like chilaquiles.” Tossing the ingredients into the heated oil, he fries them for a few minutes.

When he’s done, he serves the food like someone expecting to be judged on his plating skills, finishing it all off with a smattering of cheese, sour cream, and a roasted jalapeño. He sets my meal in front of me before he plops into the chair across the table.

Jabbing his fork through several pieces of his tomato-covered tortilla pieces, he says, “Eat.”

“You first.” I watch him warily, waiting for him to take the first bite.

Laughing, he slaps the table as he shakes his head. “Smart and beautiful. All right, I’ll prove it’s not poisoned.” He shoves the food into his mouth and makes a big show of swallowing it. “Happy?”

“Yes.” Still nervous, I take a tiny bite. Then another. But as delicious at it is, it goes down like a clump of dried mud. “I must admit, you’re a great cook,” I say casually.

“I like to hear I’m good at things,” he says, which doesn’t surprise me in the least.

Taking advantage of the silence as we chew, I observe him. He’s certainly handsome, with a bad boy sort of quality so many women love, scruffy cheeks, slight goatee. This is the second time I’ve met him, and both times, he’s been dressed in a black T-shirt and torn blue jeans that fit him as if they were tailor-made. No doubt they are.

Though he doesn’t seem to have that broody look the man he called Montero has—quite the opposite, in fact—the deadliness is there. It’s in the way he carries himself. Fearless, his muscles tensed, even when he jokes around, as if he’s ready to pounce at any moment.