As she entered the central part of the prison, she dropped the bag of heroin on the floor and made her way through the filthy halls.
She’d killed Hector La Rocha.
Vera was alive.
She was returning to Arizona.
All of this should’ve lifted her spirits and carried her faster to the door. But it was overshadowed by longing and heartache.
She should’ve never fallen in love. But she did. Times two.
Nothing would ever compare to the three months she had with them. They were the touchstone of human integrity. A taste of a full and vibrant life. They were the real deal. Her deepest sorrow. Her greatest happiness.
She’d carried two-hundred dollars into Jaulaso.
Two years later, the only thing she carried out was a broken heart.It had been there for three months—this exhausting, unstoppable anger that kept Martin awake at night. He lay in bed at the Restrepo headquarters and twined his fingers through Ricky’s hair, trying to quiet his raging thoughts.
They’d been in Colombia for three fucking months, and no one could tell them anything about Tula. They didn’t know if she was protected by La Rocha Cartel, unharmed, or still alive.
Hector La Rocha was dead. It was all over the news two months ago. The reports claimed he was brutally murdered in his prison cell, along with his closest men, Garra and Simone. As for who had done it? That mystery was still being investigated.
Maybe it was an inside job by one of the inmates in Area Three. It could’ve been an attack by the González Cartel or one of the enemy gangs.
But deep down, Martin knew.
Tula had found a way to kill the cartel boss. If Martin weren’t so fucking angry with her for risking her life, he would’ve been beaming with pride.
Three dangerous men.
Murdered.
He couldn’t begin to imagine how she’d done it or what had prompted her. But whenever the scenario played out in his head, he couldn’t see past his blinding rage and fear.
Just because she wasn’t listed among the dead didn’t mean the cartel hadn’t retaliated in the two months that followed. There had been multiple prison riots since Hector’s death. Chaos had erupted in fires, gunfights, and prisoner breakouts.
The news didn’t report the names of the casualties from the Jaulaso riots, and none of Martin’s resources had been able to obtain that information.
Everything was on lockdown. The entire city was up in arms over the death of their leader, and the Mexican government was scrambling to keep the prison contained. There were talks about shutting Jaulaso down.
Where was Tula during all this? He couldn’t stop imagining her holed up in that foul cell, alone and unarmed, while the prison burned down around her.
He gritted his teeth to the point of breaking. His shoulders ached with endless tension. Animosity saturated his blood with acid—burning, seething, poisonous.
He was infuriated with the Mexican military for putting an innocent schoolteacher in Jaulaso. He was outraged with the Mexican government for ignoring his pleas to release her. He was pissed at Matias Restrepo for refusing to negotiate another deal that would send Martin back to prison.
And he wanted to strangle Cole Hartman for making promises he had yet to keep.
When he and Ricky left Jaulaso three months ago, they went straight to Cole. The retired military-spy-secret-agent—whatever Cole was—had been able to spring Van and Lucia out of a Venezuelan prison within one week. Yet he couldn’t give Martin a single update on Tula after three months.
Cole said the turmoil in Jaulaso had delayed his progress, but he would find her and get her out. He just needed time.
There was fuck all Martin could do about it, and that was the root of his fury. He was enraged with himself more than anything. He shouldn’t have left her.
The only thing keeping him from mentally snapping was the man in his arms.
Ricky carried his own anger with a quiet intensity that Martin envied. Even in his devastation over leaving Tula, Ricky had been able to wrap a blanket of calmness around Martin and cool them both down before they lost their shit.
He used that same calmness to control Martin’s unhinged aggression during sex.
Martin was nowhere near cured of his PTSD. Hard, rough fucking triggered him every time, but Ricky never gave up on him. He’d figured out how to battle Martin’s demons with a soft rumbling voice, sensual caresses, and assertive eye contact. Didn’t matter how deep in the past Martin fell, Ricky always pulled him back.
Even now, as his best friend slept beside him, he felt his rage give way to the patience that seemed to radiate from Ricky’s presence.
Black hair lay in tousled waves on Ricky’s head. His tanned skin glowed white in the spill of moonlight from the balcony door. Dark eyelashes, straight nose, square jaw—all his features formed a breathtaking portrait of masculine symmetry.