sounds at the door. On the other side, I find a man with huge biceps, dark hair and eyes, and a scowling face. He introduces himself as Luis and tells me he’s in charge of securing entertainment for me. After listening to a list of acceptable and prohibited items, I request a television and some DVDs, a yoga mat, and any books or magazines that can be scrounged up. Everything is delivered within an hour, except the yoga mat, which I’m told someone has to leave the island to purchase.
I spend the rest of my day trying not to pace the room or climb the walls. The books are a hodgepodge of thrillers and mystery, with a few old romance novels thrown in. The DVDs run along the same vein, romantic comedies and dramas mixed in with action and horror flicks. It’s a really weird assortment of things for a house filled with hardened criminals, but I’m grateful for the variety.
Diego doesn’t appear at the door to my room until dinner time. By then, I’m picking at a meal of roasted chicken, potatoes, and glazed carrots while staring numbly at the television. My attention is only half-focused on Never Been Kissed when the door swings open and I find him standing there in the same getup he wore this morning. He looks haggard and exhausted, though, his mouth pulled into a tight line.
He looks me over, his lips pinching more when his gaze settles on the neckline of my tank top. My tits are fighting for freedom, thrust upward by the snug constriction of the top around my ribs.
Clearing his throat, Diego looks away and retrieves a cell phone from his jacket pocket.
“Come stand here so I can watch you send your text,” he says with a little less gravel in his voice than usual. He sounds as tired as he looks, which I find odd. Aren’t mob bosses supposed to live the high life—women, money, cars, and clubs? What’s he been doing all day that has him looking like he’ll fall over in a dead sleep any second?
I don’t care. I wouldn’t spit on Diego Pérez if he were on fire, so I certainly don’t give a shit if he’s had a rough day. He isn’t the one who woke up this morning with a hangover from being drugged, in a strange house under the threat of execution.
The lockscreen of his phone is a photo of a young woman who is absolutely stunning. Her skin is a lighter olive shade than his—more like mine—and her hair is shiny, black, and cut into a sleek bob. Her eyes are large and hazel, with shades of green and brown mingling together. She has full lips, and a heart-shaped face.
“That your wifey?” I joke as he uses his thumbprint to unlock the phone.
Diego’s only response is a rough grunt. He opens a new text thread and thrusts the phone into my hands. The look on his face says everything his mouth does not: I shouldn’t abuse this privilege. His promise earlier to ‘punish’ me if I get out of line goes through my mind, making the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Keep it short,” he says, standing close to look over my shoulder. His breath is warm and tingle-inducing on the side of my neck. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Biting my lip, I type in one of the few phone numbers I have memorized—the manager of my boutique, Belleza. Tracy has probably been blowing up my phone all day. My small staff know to always expect me there first thing in the morning with coffee, music blaring over the speaker system and a rack of new clothes ready to be displayed.
Belleza is my passion, a dream I’ve had ever since I sat on my mama’s lap to learn how to use her sewing machine. If I can’t contact anyone else, I know Tracy will at least take care of the business for me. If the worst should happen, I can only hope Tracy and the rest of the crew won’t close our doors. The sketchbook I keep in my back office is filled with designs that haven’t yet gone to production. Belleza could operate for years after I’m gone.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I push aside thoughts of my eminent death and focus on my message. I don’t want Tracy to worry, and Diego is standing too close for me to attempt an SOS.