Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 118333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
The minute I stepped out onto the pitch-black road, low lights from a waiting car glared, and the car came toward me. The back door opened, and I slipped inside. Two of Diego’s guards were in the front seats. They had guns at the ready, and their eyes scanned the forest.
“No one is coming,” I said, slipping back into Spanish. “This isn’t a trap.”
They clearly didn’t believe me, and drove slowly, checking for an ambush. When we were away from the compound and taking back roads to Lord knew where, they kept their focus on the rearview mirror, I assumed for any sign of attack.
Closing my eyes, I wrapped my arms around my waist. I found I couldn’t breathe when I thought of Tanner, and leaving him behind. Of him begging me not to go.
I rubbed at my chest and tried to stave off the panic I felt building inside me. And I fought it as we arrived on a rural airfield and took my father’s private plane back to Mexico. As the plane soared into the sky, dawn began to break. The sky boasted a vibrant pink painting. I stared at the Texan ground below me and prayed, with everything I had, that Tanner would one day find happiness. And that one day again, in the next life or beyond, we would find each other again.
*****
I stared at the hacienda and had to fight my hands from shaking. I didn’t know what awaited me beyond the familiar wooden doors. But I wasn’t the woman who had left. I was coming back with knowledge of my father and ex-fiancé that I would never have previously believed.
The car came to a halt, and the guard who’d picked me up opened the door. I climbed out and made my way up the stairs. When I went inside, the foyer seemed cold and barren. And I now knew this was a house built on the pain and suffering of innocent women. On their loss of freedom and blood.
Carmen came rushing from the direction of my suites. The woman who had taken care of me since I was a child threw her arms around me and held me tightly. I held her back. “Adelita,” she whispered, and I saw relief on her face. “Come. Let us get you cleaned up and out of these clothes.” I glanced down at my black jeans, boots, and the Hangmen tank Beauty had given me. I felt a sudden urge to push Carmen away.
“I am going to see my father.” I headed in the direction in his office. Carmen stood in my path, face flustered.
“No, Lita. He has insisted you be cleaned and rested after your ordeal. He will visit you when his business is done.”
Pure anger ripped through me, and I pushed around Carmen, determination in my step. I marched to my father’s office. I didn’t bother knocking, simply pushed the door open and walked inside.
My father sat behind his desk. Diego sat in the opposite seat. At my entrance, they both spun around. Annoyance drifted across my father’s face until he saw it was me. Then his eyes absorbed what I was wearing. His face wore an angry expression. “I told Carmen to make sure you were to rest before I came to see you.”
“Tell me it isn’t true,” I demanded, working hard to stop my voice from shaking. My father’s head tilted to the side. As he sat before me, I felt like I was staring down a stranger. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
“What isn’t true?”
“The women,” I said, my voice losing strength. “The women and young girls you steal and sell to men for sex. To be slaves and God knows what else.”
My father was good. I knew there were years of schooling his expression—to enemies and business partners—that made sure his face remained neutral. But I was his daughter. And I saw, by a flash in his eyes, that it was true. It was all true. I knew this, of course. But to witness the lack of guilt in his eyes, eyes I had admired all my life . . . it was like taking a hammer to my heart.
“Why?” I whispered.
Papa changed in an instant. The ruse was gone, and he collapsed back in his chair. This was Alfonso Quintana. This was the man, the face people saw before he had them killed . . . before he raped them. This was the man who took Saffie over and over again. “It’s business.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t understand?” I laughed at the assumed naivety. “What wouldn’t I understand?” My voice raised a notch in volume. Adrenaline fueled my every move. “I wouldn’t understand that you kidnap women from their vacations or from vulnerable situations? Children, that you kidnap, buy, and sell into slavery?” I stepped forward and made sure I was looking directly into his eyes as I said, “And wouldn’t I understand that you requested young girls to fuck while visiting your slave camps and forced them to endure you taking them against their will? Children. Fucking children!” My chest rose and fell with the anger that was pumping through my muscles. My father’s face reddened. I had never spoken to him this way. I had never disobeyed him. Never even cursed in front of him. Silence thickened the air. “When?” I demanded. “When did this start? How long have you been trafficking women?”