Rio sent the woman a quick glance. “We have to make certain she stays out. Leonardo, get the medicine kit. There’s a knockout syringe in there.”

“That’s not what I meant. Why did you insist she come along?”

“She spent too much time with us and Conner defended her,” Marcos explained. “First, she was in danger from Philip. Did you see his face when Conner interfered? I think he would have killed her after the party. If not, he certainly would have hurt her. And if Imelda was watching the tapes and this thing goes bad, she might very well think Teresa was a plant. Either way, it seemed safer to remove her from the situation and get her out of harm’s way.”

Isabeau remained silent, drawing up her knees and clasping her arms around them.

Marcos sent her a small smile. “Did you think I was a perverted old man?”

“You played the part very convincingly,” she agreed, trying to smile back.

Rio looked at her for the first time. He made a sound, more leopard than human. “What the hell happened to you, Isabeau?” He yanked her arm out to look at the striped, welling blood. “Damn it, why didn’t you say something? This is likely to become infected fast.”

Conner raised up enough to look over the seat, his gaze narrowing on Isabeau’s arm. “What happened?”

“You don’t have any fucking control, you bastard,” Rio snarled, “that’s what happened.”

“I need you focused, Conner,” Elijah snapped. “We’re not losing this boy.”

Isabeau could see the anguish in Conner’s eyes, the apology, and then he was back behind the seat, focused once more on Jeremiah. She was grateful that he wasn’t looking at her. She needed to sort out all of her emotions. The entire evening had been horrendous.

She’d been the one to do this—to insist they go after Imelda Cortez. Nothing she’d seen tonight had made her change her mind—only strengthen her resolve—but she was unprepared for the level of immorality, the complete disregard for life, or even rights of other human beings. Imelda surrounded herself with despicable people. It was as though they recognized one another, gravitated toward each other in order to reinforce their own behavior.

She bit on her knuckles. She’d killed a man. Maybe Conner had finished him off, but she’d been the one to pull the trigger. She’d never thought, never imagined, in all of her dreams or nightmares, that she’d kill another living being. She’d watched the life go out of his eyes and it had sickened her, not thrilled her. Philip Sobre had all but come out and said he loved to torture and most likely kill his victims. For the thrill. She heard a sound, broken and lost, and realized it came from her own throat.