“We stay together,” Jet argued.

“Then you won’t see your wife until later tonight,” the head of security said with a shrug. “But you came in search of the lovely Mrs. Hannigan, yes?”

“Where the fuck is she?” Jet demanded, twisting his fingers in the man’s shirt. “Did you take her from me? Did you take away my life, you bastard?”

Guzman sighed heavily. “I didn’t take anything from you. Come to the house and see your wife tonight. Or go with my men and see her now. The choice is yours.”

I grabbed Jet by the shoulders, pulling him back. Reluctantly, he released his hold on the other man and turned to face me. “Go. See Felicity now. I’ll be fine. If Garret trusts him, then we should too.” Not that I fully did. I didn’t know if it was because my brain was still swimming around in all the vodka I’d drunk on the flight or I just didn’t like Guzman, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he knew something I didn’t and it amused him. It set me on edge, but I could handle the man with or without my guards. “Nardo, you are with Jet. Otto and I will go with Guzman.”

Jet seemed torn, but in the end, his need to see Felicity won out. When the second car pulled up, he climbed into the back with Nardo. I waited until the driver pulled away before motioning Otto toward the Jeep. The entire time, Guzman had stood back, watching us with hooded eyes. His gaze clocked my every move, assessing me, and from the way he shook his head every now and then, I figured he found me wanting.

My head was pounding by the time we got to the house. I’d been to the Ramirez house twice before, once when I was fifteen and again when I was twenty. If Guzman had worked for Matias either of those times, he hadn’t been head of security because I didn’t remember seeing him during either of those trips.

His attention stayed on the road as he chauffeured us up to the mansion-sized home that had once belonged to the biggest cocaine runner who ever lived. Now that honor had been placed on me and my family, but I still had to give Matias his due. The man had been business-savvy and invested his millions well. It was Manuel who’d fucked everything up, leaving the Ramirez empire with only a fraction of the funds and power it had once held with pride.

Guzman parked in front of the sprawling house and got out without speaking, dismissing me and my guard as if we were no longer worth his time. I nodded for Otto to exit first then followed, keeping my eyes on the Colombian at all times until he disappeared.

Inside, a middle-aged woman with gray-streaked dark hair and a kind smile greeted us welcomingly in front of a grand staircase. “You must be tired after such a long flight,” she said in Spanish. “I am Maria. Come. I will show you to your rooms and bring you a breakfast tray.”