I release a frustrated sigh when I check my pockets, but I only have a few more dollars on me. It’s not enough to tempt him to stay, and I’ll just have to figure something else out when I leave. With a muttered thanks, I slam the door behind me and run to my condo, snatching the spare key from beneath the potted plant. I’m acting on muscle memory as I unlock the door and dart inside without a second thought, only to come to a dead stop when my sandals crunch over broken glass. That’s when I realize with painstaking slowness that my condo has been trashed.

“What the—?” My words falter when a masked man steps out from the shadows and stalks toward me.

My first instinct is to scream, and as I pivot, he snatches me by the fabric of my dress, yanking me back against his body. He’s large and strong, and a combination of terror and weakness is making me too slow to react. To think. But still, I try to fight him as he hauls me toward the back door. I slam my foot down on his, and he grunts, his grip on me tightening as he whispers one sentence with such finality it sends a shiver down my spine.

“Stop fighting before you really get hurt.”

26

Judge

When I am released many hours later, Santiago is waiting by his car. I walk on wooden legs to meet him, each slow step an agony.

Pain. It’s all I can think right now. Pain.

And her.

Dawn is breaking, but it’s still dark enough that the streetlamp casts an eerie shadow over his tattooed face. He leans against the Rolls Royce, hands in his pockets, face set in stone. I wonder how long he’s been here. A while, I think.

Without a word, he opens the door, and I sit, wincing as my back brushes against the leather of the seat. He looks at me, but swallows back his comment. In silence, we drive to De La Rosa Manor.

The house is quiet. Everyone is still sleeping, I’m sure. We walk to his office, and when I enter, Ivy stands up from where she was lying on the sofa. She must have fallen asleep here. For the first time in all the time I’ve known her, she doesn’t look at me with fear but something else.

“Sit,” Santiago says, taking my briefcase from me. I hadn’t realized I was still holding it.

I sit and happily take the generous tumbler of scotch, trying not to wince as the movement of my arm disturbs the opened skin of my back. We both drink, and he refills our glasses.

“Is Mercedes alright?” I ask, my voice sounding close to normal. I think.

“She is.”

“Good.”

“Why did you do it?”