All I can fucking see is her smiling like some cheap whore. My Anna. Slamming my hand over the steering wheel, I ram the accelerator pedal to the floor.
I’m not doing this with her. I’m done.
71
Anna
“Rafael…” I reach out to touch his arm because honestly, he’s scaring me.
“Don’t, Anna,” he growls. I snatch my hand away, his words burning me. I’ve seen Rafael mad, but this is different. This is directed at me, and I’m not sure how to handle it.
“I was trying to get information on Dominges,” I tell him. Dominges is in the wind, and honestly, I’m desperate. All I keep thinking of is that boy, and that if I can get to Dominges then at least his life wasn’t lost for nothing. I need this, more than I ever have before. Not for the girls trapped in his compounds, or my own sense of justice. I need it so I can barter the weight of my wrongs against this one right thing.
Rafael huffs a humorless laugh. “By acting like a whore.” That word on his lips feels like a knife to the chest. He hates it. He hates when I call myself a whore, and I never thought he would say it to me. Ever.
“I’m doing what I have to.”
“No, you’re doing what Una tells you to.” He won’t even look at me.
“You don’t own me, Rafael. I told you I came here to kill Dominges, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“And you’re just going to pretend like you didn’t completely fall apart last night? You’re on a one-way path, Anna. Keep going, and I won’t be able to save you this time.”
“I never asked you to save me!” I shout, my voice hoarse yet deafening in the space of the car. He slams the brakes on, and the car screeches to a halt in the middle of the road.
He slowly turns to face me, his expression hard and implacable. The muscle in his jaw tics and I know he’s close to the edge, so very close to losing it. It’s only when I stare into his eyes that I see the fissure of panic, the slow unraveling of the man who has been my rock.
“Walk away.” He says it like a command.
“No.”
“Okay.” And then he simply puts the car in gear and pulls away. Okay? That’s it? Of all the things he could have said, I think that simple response scares me the most because Rafael never just lies down. Not when he clearly feels so strongly about something.
Silence reigns as we drive through the back streets of Juarez. We pull up to a chain-link metal fence, and we’re waved on through the open gate. He parks in front of a single story brick building that looks like a motel. Several of Rafael’s men greet us, armed with rifles. One of the motel room doors opens, and Samuel steps out, standing with his arms folded over his chest.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“You wanted Dominges…” Rafael throws the door open and steps out, rounding the front of the vehicle. Yanking the passenger door open, he grabs my wrist, dragging me roughly from the car. His grip is bruising, his patience non-existent.
“Rafael.” I fight his hold, digging my heels into the dirt floor, to no avail. He’s scaring me, and my heartbeat ticks up with each passing second. Samuel frowns at the scene unfolding in front of him, his lips pressing together tightly as though he’s trying to bite his tongue. I look frantically at him in the hope that he’ll help, but of course he won’t. Shoving past him, Rafael pushes the door open and pulls me inside, closing it behind us.
“Rafael, what the hell are you doing?” I can hear the tremor in my own voice, and I know he does too. I expect him to soften at the sound of it, but instead, he smirks. There’s something feral and violent lingering just beneath his demeanor, swirling in those dark irises, barely leashed. For the first time, I’m not entirely sure what he’ll do.
Gripping my jaw, he twists my head sharply to look at the room. I still; sucking in a sharp breath. The dirty looking room contains a bed and a small table. And between the two items of furniture is a lone figure, tied to a chair. His suit is dirty and tattered, and his chin hangs limply against his chest. A gash on his forehead slowly drips blood onto the leather toe of his shoe. Rafael slides his hand from my face to my hair, fisting it roughly and dragging me closer to the battered figure. With a well-positioned finger to the forehead, he tilts the man’s head back, and I’m met with the beaten and bloodied image of none other than Dominges.