Tate’s rasp vibrated the speaker. “Do you have a photo of Lucia?”
“Yes.”
“My request…” He coughed, his voice hoarse. “I want to finish the tattoo on my arm, feel her face on my skin, with me always.”
Tears welled in Kate’s eyes, her nostrils pulsing above the hand she held against her mouth.
Tate had more than proved his love for Lucia in the basement of the Caracas compound. Having her inked into his skin would add a layer of commitment that made his devastation that much more meaningful.
The idea moved Tiago, sinking deep into a graveyard of memories and resurrecting ghosts. He harbored an ugly past, one that made him fixate on rare and beautiful things, like the mutual devotion between two people.
Wrenching Tate away from Lucia had been as cruel as carving a portrait into his back, but that was the point.
The strongest love rose out of the greatest hurt.
With regard to the logistics of Tate’s request, it just so happened one of the local guards was a tattoo artist.
“Very well.” Tiago switched the call off speaker. “Return the phone to the guard.”
After making the necessary arrangements with Arturo, he disconnected and glanced at Kate.
“Can I see another video?” She wiped her damp cheeks. “Proof that your guard isn’t killing him?”
“No.” He locked the phone and tossed it aside.
Her lashes lowered, and another tear slipped out. “Please, let him go.”
If she thought he kept a watchdog on Tate, she was wrong. The few guards Tiago had with him were needed here, watching the perimeter of the house.
When he was carried out of Caracas a month ago, he was comatose and bleeding from two fractures in his skull. Only Arturo and Boones came with him—the two men who saved his life.
Boones had taken care of everything, treating his injuries and transporting him to this isolated area in the Venezuela desert. Tiago owned this land and had decided days before Lucia’s attack that Tate would be captured and brought here. Boones followed through on that plan perfectly.
Only five other guards joined them here, all of which were pulled from Tiago’s other domiciles around the country.
His outfit in Caracas didn’t know about this place, and he intended to keep it that way. He had countless enemies and trusted no one. Except Boones.
Every day, the old doctor delivered Tate’s meals and nursed his wounds. Only then did a guard go near the shack, and that was for Boones’ protection.
If Tate managed to free himself from the ankle cuff, no one would stop him from escaping.
Tiago reclined against the wall and captured her gaze. “When Lucia finds him, he’s free to go.”
“You said Lucia’s in prison.” Her brows gathered. “You also said you let her go.”
“You may not believe this, but I haven’t lied to you. I did let her go.”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Good, because you have no—”
“Opinions. I heard you the first time.” She looked away, giving him the profile of her willful chin.
Why hadn’t he sent her back to her room? He wouldn’t need her until later, if at all.
He’d captured her to send Tate and his friends a message. Fuck with the most powerful gang leader in Venezuela and pay the consequences.
As for Kate’s fate, it wasn’t pretty. He would offer her to his enemies as a bribe. Or give her to his guards as a reward for their loyalty.
Or he would just kill her.
He tilted his head and let his gaze wander over her, really taking her in for the first time.
Blond hair hung in wild waves to her elbows. Bony shoulders, smallish tits, she was skinnier and shorter than the average twenty-two-year-old.
For all the profanity and thunderous noise her face produced over the past month, he’d formed a completely different picture in his head. Between bouts of unconsciousness and listening to her bellow in the other room, he’d imagined a tough Amazonian beast of woman. Someone tall and strong with meat on her bones.
Not that he had complaints about the image before him. That was the problem. Kate was a goddamn knockout.
Her fair complexion, ethereal figure, graceful legs, and fuck, her eyes… As vivid as the ocean and too deep to measure, those bottomless blues could enchant a man, make him change course and lose his way.
He should just kill her now and be done with it.
With a slow breath, she sat taller, pushed back her shoulders, and faced him. “Will you tell me what happened? With Tate and Lucia?” Her eyebrows knitted together as she faltered over her next question. “Is Van Quiso alive?”
Interesting how she asked about everyone else while her own life hung in the balance. And Van Quiso no less. The sex-trafficking rapist enslaved her for weeks, no doubt violating her six ways to Sunday. He didn’t deserve her concern.
One might argue that Van couldn’t hold a testicle to the crimes Tiago had committed. Nevertheless, Tiago felt a strange itch to answer her and found himself wondering how she would weigh in on his decision concerning her fate.