your father’s at least, is the only reason why you’ve kept my attention for as long as you have.”
Before I can counter that, he starts to drift, carrying me into an even deeper section of the pool while my thoughts reel. Only our heads are above water now, and I find myself bracing my hands over his shoulders, unnerved by the loss of control. In his grasp, I’m at his mercy. If he decides to pull me under here, I won’t be able to fight him.
Satisfied by that very fact, he positions me so that our faces are inches apart, our mouths so close I feel each brush of his lips as he speaks.
“This is the part where I give you permission to run that smart ass mouth of yours,” he murmurs.
It’s the best chance I’ve had to question him. So I’ll take it.
“Tell me what you want? Who is Jaguar? Why were you fucking Alexi? Why is she even here? How—”
“So greedy,” he scolds, flexing his hands against my waist in punishment. Beneath the water, his heat is neutralized by the colder temperature, meaning that I’m forced to contend with the texture of his touch in a way I haven’t before. He’s strong, every finger resonating a subtle pressure that warns he could easily hurt me if the mood strikes him.
And it already has more than once.
His eyes are unreadable, shrouded by heavy lids that cast shadows over those imperceptible green irises. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed by my barrage of questions or amused.
“One at a time like the good girl you’ve been so eager to be.”
His tone makes his meaning clear—choose wisely. Piss him off or push too far, and he’ll stop.
I lick my lips only to realize that his eyes drift down to track the movement of my tongue from one end of my mouth to the other. His throat lurches, betraying a hard swallow, and I nearly lose track of what it is I’m supposed to be doing.
Right. Learning whatever he’s willing to give.
“Tell me about Jaguar.”
“Julian,” he corrects, putting a harsh emphasis on the name. “Tell me something, have you ever heard of Carlos Domingas?”
I frown, recalling the many acquaintances my father had circling around his orbit at any given time. There are too many to keep track of, their names a blur.
“No—”
“You should have,” Domino cautions in a way that recalls a disapproving teacher during a complex lecture. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you haven’t. Carlos Domingas was a man your papa knew very well indeed. They were partners, long before Don Roy slipped across the border and became the polished, savvy politician he presents to the world.”
I’m curious despite myself. He could be lying, but I don’t have the privilege of ignoring him. To his credit, I don’t know enough about my father’s past to challenge anything he might assert. It was a time in his life he rarely spoke about, not even among family. In fact, he only ever referenced himself as a boy when boasting about his scrappy instincts and cunning that led him to crawl from poverty to where he is today.
My father, the ultimate survivor, fashioning himself as the city’s savior.
“Carlos Domingas was a tough son of a bitch. He ran a whole series of enterprises that your daddy would swear now never to have been a part of. That doesn’t erase the fact that when Don Roy first entered Terra Rodea all those years ago, he did it hand in hand with Carlos Domingas and the full backing of his cartel.”
It’s a blunter retelling of the same rumors that have plagued my father’s entire career from its inception. That he was a puppet for drug trafficking and used his cozy position with those in power to force the authorities to look the other way or outright ignore corruption.
He’s always denied as much, publicly, anyway.
If I had to be honest with myself, the man whispered about in those rumors sounded closer to who I knew my father to be than the way he portrayed himself during his campaign speeches.
“When Roy got too big for his britches, he tried to turn on Carlos Domingas, arranging a hit on him. It was clever, of course, and he covered his tracks. But Carlos Domingas was a man who thrived on revenge. Before Roy ever got the thought in his head of betraying him, Domingas already had ten plots of retaliation set in motion.”
“You?” I ask, hazarding a guess.
He grunts out