Page 2 of Trapped Truth
“I need to rest—”
“I said move! Now!”
His dead eyes refuse to lift from me as I rise from the narrow cot, gingerly toeing on my shoes then smoothing my bedhead. A familiar, cold weight nudges into my lower back when I pass him, silently urging me forward.
Yet he’d never shoot me.
I make them far too much money.
The Gael mansion is a beautiful, timeless slice of windswept architecture. Terracotta archways. Wide open verandas. Talavera tiles that splash vivid colours against a barren, sandy backdrop, far from prying eyes that would threaten his business operations.
Across the open-air courtyard, there’s a formal dining hall often frequented by Gael for business meetings or parties with his scumbag friends. The hum of conversation and clinking glasses floats outside. He’s entertaining tonight.
Roughly escorted inside, the barrel of the gun soon disappears from my lower back. Carlos loudly clears his throat. Multiple sets of heads lift from their places around Gael’s full dining table, overflowing with all manner of meat and liquor.
“The asset, sir. As requested.”
“Ah, 768.” Gael’s yellow-hued gaze twinkles with pleasure. “Do come in.”
“Señor Gael,” I recite obediently.
“A little closer now. I’ve been telling my friends here about our infamous asset. They want to take a good look at you.”
The men in suits clustered around him all wear expensive pinstripes and slick haircuts. Among them, there’s only one female. I can’t help but stare a little. She isn’t one of Gael’s pets—I know those poor girls well enough by sight.
Head lowered. Eyes averted. Lips pursed in a flat, stern line. A stunning oil spill of inky black hair is swept over her shoulder, bare beneath a thin spaghetti strap. Something tells me the fine silk and gold jewellery she wears weren’t her choice. She appears tense, uncomfortable even.
The sweet melody of rich, accented Spanish washes over me without making impact. I’m used to being discussed and dissected like a creature displayed behind bars. Gael loves to boast. My winning streak is his pride and joy.
“A demonstration, perhaps?” Gael claps his ring-clustered hands together.
Several guests make sounds of agreement.
“Excellent. Dimitri, select one of your men. 768 will easily put him to shame.”
On his immediate right, the silent woman’s captor understands his friend’s command without translation. His frosty blue orbs skate over me from underneath thick, curling black lashes. He’s handsome. Devilishly so.
“Very well.” His voice is a deep rumble.
With a click of his fingers, a shadow rises from the far-right corner. The guard had been leaning casually, watching the scene unfold, but he now fixes all his attention on me while shucking off a charcoal suit jacket.
“Señor Gael,” I rush out. “My last fight… I haven’t rested…”
“Silence, 768. Don’t let me down now.”
Swallowing my protests feels akin to gulping down a house brick. I should know better than to question him. With no other feasible options, I roll back my shoulders, flexing bruised skin and sore knuckles.
“Better,” he praises.
“Where did you find her?” Dimitri questions, running a hand over his silver-streaked hair.
“Purchased at auction, of course. Though I believe she shares a homeland with your lovely wife, Dimitri.”
“How… coincidental.”
“They do cultivate an excellent product, in my experience.”
As my feet edge back from the table, the well-dressed thug advances. He looks about as pleased to be subjected to this as I am. Tuning out the multiple hungry stares watching us, I focus on his approach, each step bringing us closer together.
