Chapter Twenty-Two

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Elonzo disappeared after their return to his compound, so she'd eaten alone in her room. A salad to wash down the eight tacos and cake she'd scarfed through the course of the party. Nelly said he'd been detained by important business, which meant heads were probably rolling over today's failed assassination.

Elonzo also had to be upset about the egg on his face. He had bragged to her about how safe it was, only to be shot at moments later.

What messed with her head was that he'd thrown himself on top of her to protect her. He couldn't have known what sort of bullets those were or how good the shooter's aim was. Plenty of guns could pierce a vest. Most could pierce a skull.

He risked his life to save me. It genuinely blew her away. She was no one to him. Yet he'd broken her out of prison, which saved her life given she'd killed a guard at the supermax and payback was inevitable. He'd had her checked out by a doctor to ensure her injuries weren't fatal after that beating. Thoughtful . He'd brought her here, claiming she had a price on her head, and thought it would be safer. He was wrong . But then he'd put his life on the line for her today after introducing her to his family.

God, I'm so confused. This man was not turning out to be the ruthless criminal she thought. He loved his children, his family, and he'd do anything for them. Yet when he got up for work each day, he was the Heroin King, running what was likely a multibillion-dollar enterprise. He employed a massive group of sicarios —assassins—who'd taken over the border communities and wreaked havoc on their citizens. He had no interest in saving lives beyond those he cared for.

Charge, on the other hand, only cared about saving strangers, even if it cost him those he cared for.

Charge and Elonzo were opposite sides of the same coin. Both did their jobs and offered no apologies for it. They were both indifferent to the downsides of their chosen professions.

But Charge was a man who could change and adapt. He was a realist. He knew that his job was only as good as his planning and execution. He understood that someday he'd have to be replaced.

She was beginning to wonder if—and it might sound completely crazy—if Elonzo thought the same way? If so, she might be able to convince Elonzo to change course. She wasn't dumb enough to hope he'd leave his business, not when some other money-hungry thug would simply take his place. But he might comprehend the need to adapt.

What if she could convince him that the way forward was to let go of the fent, the sex trafficking, and the violence inflicted along the border? It would mean less trouble to operate, fewer people to oversee, and fewer palms to grease. But would he be happy with the money he earned through only selling narcotics? Not that she approved, but it was like Charge had once told her; until people in the US stopped asking, someone would always be selling.

Before the week was up, she could broach the subject. The worse that could happen was that he'd laugh in her face. Or put a bullet in my head.

The next morning there was a light knock at the door.

"Yes?" she said, having just woken up in her pink pajamas.

Elonzo appeared in the doorway. He looked tired—dark circles under his puffy eyes, his hair disheveled, and a wrinkled shirt that looked slept in.

"Are you…all right?" she asked, suddenly noticing his bloody, raw knuckles. "Or should I be asking about the other guy?"

"The other guy is wishing for better days, and I could not sleep. My bruises are deep, and I do not take painkillers or any sort of drugs."

How was that for ironic?

"By the way," she said, "I want to thank you for saving me yesterday. With all the commotion, I forgot to say something."

"I brought you here, and you are under my protection. What choice did I have?"

Okay, tough guy . "You could've let me die."

"That would not serve my interests. Speaking of, I have decided to cut our week short. We must return to New Mexico this afternoon. A meeting has been called by my stakeholders for this evening."

"Stakeholders?" She arched a brow.

"Everyone answers to someone. But before we leave, there is some personal business you and I must take care of. I had been saving it for later, but plans change."

"What sort of personal business?" she asked.

"Yesterday, you stated that I brought you here as part of a vetting process, and you wished to know for what. I am prepared to tell you. Today. After which you may decide to leave or accompany me home. With one caveat. We must have trust, and since you claim this will never happen, I have found an alternative."

He wasn't making much sense. "Okay?"

"Be downstairs in thirty minutes. Nelly will help you prepare." He left, closing the door behind him.

So this was it, the big moment when he put his cards on the table, when she would have to decide to trust him or not. Whatever came next, she had no doubt that her life was coming to a fork in the road.

***

"You are to wear this dress and these shoes." Nelly placed a sundress with pink-and-yellow daisies and spaghetti straps on the bed, alongside a pair of pink sandals.

Emily swallowed hard. "Wha-what's this?" It was an outfit the old her would have worn for Ed.

"The boss said you must trust him," Nelly replied, seeming agitated. Not a good sign.

So why this outfit? Did Elonzo know she used to wear stuff like this to please the man who'd tormented her for years? Maybe it was a coincidence.

"You don't want to be late. The boss is on a tight schedule today," Nelly urged.

Yeah, she's acting weird.

Wanting to get this over with, Emily put on the dress. She dried her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. She put on a little lip gloss, but that was it.

Why does Elonzo want me to show these? She stared in the mirror, looking at the deep bruises on her arms and legs. The other night, he'd seen her skin and flipped out. He'd beheaded a bunch of people—the warden and the guards who hurt her.

The memory of the photo on his phone was a sharp reminder of who she was truly dealing with. Don't let your guard down, Emily.

She followed Nelly downstairs. Emily thought they were going to the large dining room for breakfast, but Nelly went through the kitchen, where several staff members were cleaning.

"He is waiting for you down there," she said, pointing to a dark staircase.

"The basement?" Emily's stomach churned.

Nelly nodded. "Do not keep him waiting. The boss is in a very, very bad mood today."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What did this psycho have planned? Was this the end? The torture session she'd been dreading? If so, where could she go? She was trapped in this place, completely surrounded by armed men.

Knees shaking, she slowly descended the staircase. When she got to the bottom, a pair of familiar eyes stared back through a curtain of blood covering his face. A face almost unrecognizable.

"Holy shit," she muttered and looked at Elonzo, who stood to the side, holding a bloody baseball bat, his white shirt spattered with red.

Elonzo held out the bat. "Welcome to your final test, Justine. Now take the fucking bat and prove who you really are."