too small, leaving me no choice but to go barefoot. Turning in circles, I search for anything I can defend myself with. My silver dinner tray and the nail file from my manicure kit are the best I can do; but better these weapons than none at all.
Tucking the file into my waistband, I hold the tray by one of its handles and take a deep breath before yanking open the door. There’s only one man in front of me, and he’s so startled by my sudden appearance that I have just enough time to strike first. The tray vibrates in my hands and makes a loud clanging sound when I whip it across his face. He drops like a stone.
“What the fuck!”
I whirl at the sound of that roar and find the second man running toward me. He must have been walking away when I attacked his friend. Panic sets in, and I can’t react fast enough to dodge him before he takes hold of my shoulders and slams me against the wall. I flail and free one arm, clawing at his face.
“Goddamn it … you bitch!” he growls, wrestling to get me under control.
I kick him in the shin and it dislodges him enough for me to reach for my nail file. My arm comes up in a swift arc, slashing the point across his face.
Cursing and bellowing in pain, he covers his bleeding cheek with one hand and makes a grab for me with the other. I thrust with the file, embedding the metal shaft in the center of his palm. As he doubles over, I yank the pistol from the holster on his hip and jam a knee into his side. He goes down, grunting and groaning, so I turn and run. The hallway seems endless, my bare feet thudding on the hardwood floors too loud for my liking.
Turns out I don’t have to worry my footsteps will alert the whole house. The man I injured is screaming into the intercom behind me. Just as I reach the stairs, an alarm starts blaring, piercing through my eardrum like a knife.
I take the stairs two at a time to the second floor. Various male voices echo off the walls, and the cadence of running feet spurs me faster. Clearing the second floor without being apprehended, I let out a little huff of surprise. The foyer is in my sights now, the front doors so close I can almost taste the free and open air.
A dark form appears from out of nowhere, blocking my path. Skidding to a stop, I raise the pistol and level it at Diego. He’s dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a white t-shirt, his arm tattoos on full display. His menacing glare pins me to the spot, one hand coming up as if to will me not to shoot him.
Others appear from the two hallways feeding into the foyer, and I hear more pounding down the stairs behind me. All other escape routes are blocked, and now my only way out is through Diego. Since I don’t stand a chance of that without the help of a weapon, I use a shaky, unsteady thumb to cock the hammer of my stolen pistol. I’ve never fired a gun before and this one is a man’s weapon—big and heavy, and awkward in my hand. But it’s all I have, so I grit my teeth and lay my finger on the trigger.
“Move,” I snap, never taking my gaze from his.
“Elena,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly and filled with threats of violence. “Lower the gun.”
A tear rolls down my cheek as I see my one—and probably final—chance at escape slipping away. “I will shoot you, you son of a bitch. Do you understand? I will pull this trigger!”
You could hear a pin drop and the tension is thick in the air, as if Diego’s are men are holding their breaths waiting for him to let them tear me to shreds.
Diego remains calm, but there’s an undertow of malice under the surface. He isn’t the least bit afraid, but he’s furious, staring me down like a predator sighting its prey.
“I’m in control of your life, Elena,” he reminds me. “Once I’m gone, there’s no one here to say whether you should be allowed to live. You will have killed the head of an entire cartel, and I can promise every last one of them is going to want you dead for it. If I