Envy: A Dark Mafia Romance (Criminal Sins Book 1) Read online

“Most people haven’t,” I reply. It’s why I was brought there in the first place. It’s a good hideaway for a girl that needed to be hidden. I’m not hiding any longer, though. Now is my time to climb back up to where I belong.

  Carlos foregoes any more questions when he spots a waitress pop out of the kitchen. He waves her down like a drowning man at sea and then promptly orders two meals—I assume one for both of us, until he tells the waitress that I’ll just be having a salad. “Small,” he commands.

  Oof. Not a great start.

  The rest of our evening follows a similar pattern. Awkward pauses, dismissive orders, general rudeness.

  Whether or not Carlos is a bad apple or just a regular rich kid is hard to put a finger on. Since Luis hatched this plan to get me hitched, I’ve been told over and over again to act a certain way around these people, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that Carlos has been told the same things, just from the other side of the table.

  By the time we’ve cleared our plates and had our dessert, though, it’s more than clear to me that we’re not compatible, but I don’t harbour resentment towards the man—at least, not until I see the tip he leaves.

  Zero.

  That’s right. This spoiled brat leaves our waitress a $0 tip. He even specifically writes in a big fat $0 under the line.

  Now, I can stand for a lot of foolishness from people, especially from those I’m trying to use for my own personal gain, but Marcela and I have worked as bartenders and waitresses for years trying to make ends meet in our small adoptive home town, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s someone who can afford to leave a big tip but doesn’t.

  The act seals my tubby date’s fate right then and there. Still, there’s no point in burning bridges. I hold my fire back and follow him into the basement garage where his driver supposedly waits for us... I need a ride home, after all.

  “How did you enjoy your dinner?” I ask, trying to make small talk as we search for the limo that we came here in. Apparently, Carlos’s chauffer isn’t answering his phone.

  “I’ve had better,” Carlos snorts. “Where the hell is that bastard?”

  The parking lot is half empty, and as far as I can tell there’s no sign of a limo anywhere. “Do you ever drive yourself?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “No. Driving is a peasant sport. I do sponsor a race car driver, though.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “He better be, I’m paying a lot of money to have our firm’s name on the hood of his car.”

  “You don’t watch him when he races?”

  “I don’t have time for that.” Somehow, I think he does. Carlos just doesn’t seem like the kind of person who slaves away all day behind a desk. He clearly doesn’t have the longest attention span...

  “Are you sure your driver isn’t outside?” I ask, getting a little sick of his presence. This ‘date’ can’t be over fast enough. Oh, how far we’ve fallen since his well-practiced My lady, earlier in the night. I should have known better than to expect anything good to come out of someone who says such things unironically.

  “We never meet outside. Too many people,” he huffs.

  “Well, there definitely isn’t anyone down here,” I point out. “It’s very... private.”

  For some reason, that seems to turn Carlos’s mood around. His frustration melts as he catches onto a non-existent hint—one that I definitely wasn’t throwing out there.

  “... Kind of romantic,” he smirks. For such a big man, he really has a small mouth—or maybe his cheeks are just that puffy.

  “Not really,” I nervously giggle, not liking where this is going. I should have kept my mouth shut. The slimy glint in my date’s eyes is all too familiar to me. I’ve seen it far too many times in far too many drunk patrons. Sure, Carlos barely had any alcohol at dinner... but that doesn’t mean he can’t be drunk off of something else.

  “So, I heard you were a virgin...” he suddenly says, licking his sausage lips. A chill skates down my spine. I’m immediately aware of just how alone we really are. I’m not a big woman, and my sass alone isn’t enough to fight off a man twice my size. “... How many dates until you put out?”

  Despite all of my disadvantages, my first thought is that Carlos deserves a cold hard dose of reality, delivered through an open palm slap to his pudgy red cheek. But before I can stamp that delivery, an ear-rattling, but oddly familiar, roar splits through my ears.

  Carlos and I both whip our heated gazes from one another, just in time to see a single headlight speeding down the underground garage’s only ramp in or out.

  “Oh shit, it’s Montoya!” Carlos blubbers. I can barely hear him over the roar, but I know it’s true. That’s the same sound I heard at the gala, only now it’s louder and coming right for me.

  Carlos whips out his cell phone, but his sausage fingers must already be soaked with sweat because the device slides right out of his hands and shatters on the cold hard cement below.

  “Hey, man. I’m not involved with whatever is going on between you and my father!” Carlos throws his hands up and stumbles backwards as Montoya hops off his bike and cuts the engine.

  All I can do is watch.

  One of the reasons I’d settled on Carlos in the first place was because it looked like his father had done something to piss this Montoya asshole off. I liked seeing the jean-jacket douche angry, it matched the anger I felt at his flippant dismissal of my advances.

  Sure, it was a good thing that he barely acknowledged me when I foolishly approached him—I was acting on pure rebellious impulse at the time, and my carefully laid out plans would have surely crumbled into a thousand different pieces if he had shown even the slightest bit of interest—but that doesn’t mean a girl can’t be mad at such a rude rejection.

  I deserve more than that... but, still, it was probably stupid to purposely attach myself to someone I don’t care for just because they pissed off a beastly stranger.

  What am I saying—there is no maybe about it, it was stupid. Marcela warned me to keep my head on straight, but I didn’t listen, and now it feels like I’m about to witness a kidnapping at best, and a murder at worst, and all because of my irrational decision-making.

  “You’re coming with me!” Montoya commands, pointing at Carlos like a bat out of hell.

  “No!” the piggy squeals.

  I feel like I should do something, but what could I possibly say to stop this train wreck? “Hey, you can’t just take my ride home!” It’s hardly even a thought before it escapes my lips. For some reason, I’m not afraid.

  That all changes when Montoya’s attention turns to me. The second those intense dark eyes catch me in their gaze, I’m frozen in place like a scared lamb. Oh shit.

  Montoya stops in his tracks as Carlos scurries behind a nearby car. “You!”

  Is it weird that my first thought is how he actually recognizes me? I didn’t think I had registered enough in his mind to warrant such a reaction. Maybe I’m not as invisible as I thought I was...

  ... Though, maybe I wish I was—my presence seems to spark something in the brute, like I’m the final piece to a puzzle he’s been trying to solve. There isn’t time to turn and run, he’s in front of me before I can blink twice.

  “Who are you?” he growls, suddenly completely uninterested in my hiding date.

  My forehead barely goes up to his broad, heaving shoulders, but I force myself to meet his intense gaze. My neck strains as I make the trip up his hard barrel chest, which is barely contained by the tight-white undershirt half-hidden underneath that same dark blue jean-jacket he wore to the gala. From up close, the harsh features of his sharp handsome face almost seem familiar.

  “Catalina,” I offer, careful not to sound too friendly. This guy looks like a common criminal, but he’s obviously infamous among the elite... I wonder if he knows anything about my family?

  “Catalina what?” As if I’m going to tell him. I’m sure he’d have no trouble finding out my real last name and connecting it to my past, but I don’t have to make it easy on him.

  “None of your business.”

  “Catalina None-of-your-business, huh?” he smirks. His grin is evil, but his sharp cheeks dimple and I have to punch back a wave of heat forming in my belly. “Doesn’t sound very Colombian.”

  Fuck this dude. “Maybe I’m not Colombian.”

  “No, you are. I saw you in that dress the other day. Only a Colombian could pull that stuffy old thing off.”

  What the hell is this guy’s game? Does he think he’s charming? I’m sure he’s seduced a lot of information out of a lot of women before, but I’m not so easy.

  Carlos still cowers behind a nearby car, seemingly too afraid to even go find a better hiding spot. Some knight in shining armor he is—it looks like I’m all on my own.

  “Didn’t think you noticed,” I spit, trying to make it clear that he has no chance with me. I may have done the opposite, though.

  “I notice everything,” he darkens, stepping forward and covering me in his immense shadow. “Now, I’m going to ask you one more time, what is your last name?”

  I resist for as long as I can, or at least until a proper lie can pop into my head. There’s something dark and mysterious about this Montoya brute that makes me worried he might come from the same circles my family did. What would he do with me if he found out who I truly was?

  “My last name is... Cuadrado,” I lie. The idea of actually marrying Carlos and making that my official last name nearly makes me lurch, but I hold it together.

  Montoya raises his left eyebrow, like a predator amused by his prey. “You’re related to this chump?”

  “No,” I immediately blurt out, maybe a little too disgusted to properly make my next case.

  “So, you’re married to him?” It’s like he’s a jungle cat pawing a little mouse. What a fucking bully.

  “Not yet,” I spit. Ha! As if I’d ever marry someone like Carlos, I don’t care how rich and connected that chubby brat is.

  Montoya’s dark eyes dart back and forth between me and my cowering date. There’s a mischievous intelligence in his stare that makes it hard to look away. I’m somehow both thrilled and completely overwhelmed by fear. He could crush me with his thumb and no one would care...

  “Do you know who I am?” he suddenly asks me. His deep and throaty voice echoes softly through the underground garage. A chill crosses my skin. I want to hug myself and scurry off to some place warm and private, but I can’t back down now, it’s too late for that.

  “A brute,” I hiss, not sure what exactly I’m hoping for him to do with me. Why do I always have to antagonize everybody?

  “No,” Montoya slowly shakes his head, that evil smirk returning to his ruggedly handsome face. “I’m your captor.”

  5

  Angel

  She puts up less of a struggle than I expected. Maybe she really is just looking for a ride home. Well, I’m not taking her home—at least, not to her home. She’s coming with me, and I’m going back to my compound. I’ve got a hostage to deposit.

  I don’t buy for a second that she’s Carlos Cuadrado’s future bride, despite all of his father’s wealth and connections, she’s still way out of his league.

  Sweet light brown sugar skin, tight around the limbs and waist and plump everywhere else; sharp cheekbones, with a straight nose and perfect pillow lips. She’s hotter than I remembered, but when her shapely figure finally slipped into that faceless silhouette that’s been floating through my mind since the gala, it hit me like a jolt of electricity.

  Her. The quinceaneras girl. Catalina None-of-your-business. She’s what’s been rubbing me the wrong way for the past few days. It wasn’t because of André that my thoughts kept getting stuck on that night, it was because of this tiny little fireball; the pretty lamppost who stood in my way when I first arrived; the only person at that stuffy event who had the guts to do something like that; the hostage I now hold between my chest and the handles of my speeding bike.

  She’s small enough that I can reach all the way around and steer comfortably from my position behind her. She’s not dressed appropriately for a motorcycle ride—her thin yellow summer dress sticks to her body, warped backwards by the rushing wind—but she’s not cowering, or even holding on particularly tight. Stupid girl. If I crash, she’s going to get some serious road burn.

  I’m not going to crash, though. I never do. But she doesn’t need to know that.

  I take a sudden sharp turn around a wide bend, racing past a lazy group of sauntering cars. Catalina’s carefree grip immediately shoots for my forearms, tightening around the weathered denim of my favorite riding jacket.

  Not so brave now, huh?

  We jump onto the highway and I weave between the slow hunky behemoths, leaving every last one of them in our dust, before turning onto an off-ramp and speeding up even more. The road isn’t as well-paved on this route, and I have a hard time distinguishing between the natural vibrations of the ride and the scared shakes of the tiny girl shivering beneath me.

  This lost jungle bird may be tough, but no one survives one of my thrill rides unscathed. I’m about to strap her onto a rollercoaster, and the best she can hope for is to come out of it all with some messy hair and a few frayed nerves. Right now, I hardly even care about her use as a hostage. Catalina may not be a future Cuadrado, or even anything more than a whore that those pigs take advantage of for kicks, but the further we jet away from the city, the less worried I am about making either of them talk—instead, my attention becomes entirely focused on making Catalina shiver some more.

  She doesn’t hold out. By the time the gates open at my countryside compound, the warm bundle of fire is shaking like a leaf in a hurricane—though, whether it’s more from fear or from the cool wind that whipped against us on the way here is impossible to tell.

  “Who’s the girl?” Juan is the first to greet me when I step off my bike at the front entrance.

  “Leverage,” I half-lie.

  “Against who?”

  “That fucking accountant.” Another empty truth.

  Juan pinches the bridge of his sharp nose and squints painfully. “And what’s she to him?” he groans, like I’m giving him a headache. Usually, I couldn’t care less about Juan’s wise-old uncle shtick, but I’m not having it right now, not in front of fresh meat, especially not in front of fresh meat I’m planning on taming to my will.

  ... It also doesn’t exactly help that I don’t actually know what she is to André Cuadrado. “Future daughter-in-law,” I growl, unconvincingly. It’s not like I believe that bullshit for myself, but what else am I going to say to my closest advisor? I thought she was hot and I appreciated her fiery attitude, so I stole her from an underground garage with no real plans except to loosely hold her as a hostage for an undetermined amount of time and for unconfirmed reasons.

  Juan won’t like to hear that, and I don’t want to deal with his nagging sensibilities, so I just shoot him the kind of look a king shoots his underling. Don’t question me right now.

  “Very well,” Juan sighs. “And where shall we keep her? In the pit with Dante’s whores?”

  I can tell he’s pissed at having to deal with a hostage, but something stirs inside of me at his demeaning words. Don’t call her a whore... only I get to do that.

  That silly thought is gone as quickly as it appeared. I only just met this chick, the last thing I need to do is get that possessive over her.

  I give myself a shake and wrap my fingers around Catalina’s tender wrist.

  She must not be listening to our conversation, because I don’t think she’s the type to take being called a whore lying down.

  “No,” I grit my teeth. “Dante’s not to come anywhere near this one.” For now, I’m going to play that order off as a business decision. We can’t have my brother fucking up our hostage, right? If there’s one thing I know about Dante, it’s that he’s not one to keep his throbbing desires sheathed. If he sees someone who looks like Catalina on our property, he’ll have no second-thoughts about trying to take her for himself. Usually, I don’t mind—he has his playrooms filled with all the women he’s bought in the past—but that’s only because I’ve been too busy to bring anything of my own home. When I fuck, it’s usually at one of my condos or clubs in the city, and it’s always just once. I don’t re-use the same pussy, unlike Dante, who will pound his whores into the ground until they’re buried six-feet under.

  But Catalina will be safe from us both until I figure out what to do with her. Despite her obvious lies, it’s clear as day that there’s some kind of connection between her and the Cuadrados. If it’s a strong enough link to take advantage of, then that’s what I’ll do, if not, then I’ll just do her.

  “Did you get that list of the gala attendees?” I ask Juan as I drag a nearly lifeless Catalina in through the front doors of my home. I try to shake her back to earth while my advisor searches through his phone. If a simple motorcycle ride was already enough to break her spirit, then this isn’t going to be nearly as fun as I thought it might be. What a shame.

  “Just sent it to you,” Juan says, before his phone buzzes alive and he looks to me for permission to answer.

  I nod and he turns away to take the call.

  When he’s out of sight I tug on my comatose captive. “Wake up,” I order, intrigued by her newfound bashfulness. Maybe she was drunk and just out of her head before?

  That line of thought is quickly extinguished, though, when Catalina’s seething nostrils lift and her dark hair parts, revealing a fuming face full of fire and fury. I quickly realize that she’s not stunned or shocked or even terrified. She’s pissed.

  “I have nothing to do with that fucking creep Carlos Cuadrado!” she shrieks, ripping her arm from my grip. I let her go, there’s nowhere to run. “You dragged me here on that speeding death-trap because of him!? You fucking idiot!”

  I can’t help but smile at her spicy vigor. She’s much more enjoyable like this. She’ll be fun to break.