Deceiving Lies

When I was back on my mattress, he turned off the light and I waited for the minutes to pass by until I could make out his form on the floor in front of the door.

“You never answered my question.”

“Which one?” he asked, his tone teasing.

I rolled my eyes though I doubted he could see the action in the dark. “When I brought up your room. You know you don’t have to stay in here with me; I really won’t try to leave again. You should be able to sleep in your own bed.”

After a minute he finally answered. His tone was dark again, and the way his eyes had looked earlier flashed through my mind. “I do need to stay in here with you. It’s not you I don’t trust; it’s them. At least I can lock you in here well enough that it would be extremely difficult for them to get to you when I’m gone.”

A chill shot down my spine at the thought of someone else coming in here; and confusion set in as I realized that, once again, I was thankful for Taylor. I didn’t want to feel thankful to him for anything, and I didn’t like that I felt indebted to him for what he’d done for me. Because despite his protection, he was still the one who had taken me from my house and was keeping me from getting out of here. I needed to remember that.

Instead of trying to continue the conversation, I pulled my knees up to my chest and shut my eyes. But even as I waited for sleep to come, I couldn’t help but acknowledge that for now, at least, I was safe—and as long as Taylor was in this room, nothing bad would happen to me.

Taylor

MY HEAD HIT THE WALL BEHIND ME when I heard her breathing even out. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I bit back a groan and tried to get the images from earlier out of my mind.

I could see her¸ so I knew she was okay. But, Jesus Christ, the way Marco had used Photoshop to make those images always looked so fucking real. Going so far as to take pictures of her hands when we’d had her knocked out and making it seem like we’d severed her fingers. Taking the recordings of her screams from when we’d taken her and those first couple days she was awake here, and playing them out masterfully so it sounded like she was being tortured when they called into the police department. And I didn’t even want to think about how they got all that hair that looked the exact shade of hers for the package they were sending tomorrow. Jaime had taken some of her personal things before we began trashing the room, and along with the hair matted in unknown blood, the earrings that had been on her nightstand were also spotted with blood and would be in the same box. If another two days went by without any progress, the detectives were getting the video.

In the twelve days since I’d brought her here, I’d spent practically every moment watching her like a hawk. I could pick her out in a crowd of thousands of people, if I were an artist, I could sketch her features from memory. Even so, I was having an impossible time making myself understand that whoever that girl was in the video, wasn’t the girl in front of me now. Again, where had they found the video? I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to. It was fucking sick.

She’s safe, I kept repeating to myself. But for how long? If she tried to escape again and one of them got ahold of her, I didn’t know if they would listen to Romero’s orders about not touching her.

Well . . . what I’d told them Romero’s orders were. “Take the girl and do whatever it takes to make the department release us,” he’d said to me. By that time, harming her was out of the question. It wasn’t just because she was female; it was because it was her. I couldn’t stand the thought of any of my brothers laying a finger on her, let alone torturing her.

When Romero gave an order, he only gave it to the person who was supposed to carry it out. With him in prison, none of us had an option other than trusting each other that we had relayed them correctly. Besides, if you changed an order, or didn’t follow through . . . Romero would have you put out. There’d never been a thought to go against him like this . . . until she came into my life.

We wouldn’t hurt her fiancé—that hadn’t been a lie—even though he and his partner were the reason all this was happening in the first place. But Romero was sure this would work, and the brothers would do anything to get the core of our family back together. So until the department gave in to the demands, they were going to continue to get very authentic-looking pictures, videos, phone calls, and packages that suggested the girl asleep on that mattress was going through hell on earth.

Not that I would say anything to Marco or Jaime, but I knew eventually they were going to test the hair and blood and find out neither belonged to her. Just like eventually one of the brothers was going to slip up somehow and the detectives would realize everything had been faked. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who realized that, but I’m positive everyone was banking on the fact that Romero and the main brothers would be released before then.

Despite who and what I was, I felt bad for her fiancé. We may not be causing him physical harm, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being tortured far worse than she could imagine. I couldn’t even imagine what he was going through as he looked for her and got the “evidence of torture” the guys had been sending.

If I’d lost someone like her, I’d fucking lose my mind. And he didn’t just lose her—she’d been taken from him.

If people were torturing my girl, I’d hunt them down and kill them. And I had no doubt that was exactly what he pla

She rolled over on the mattress, and even through the dark of the room, I could make out her bare legs curled up to her stomach. Images of how she looked when she got out of the shower tonight hit me hard, and I welcomed each and every one of them.

I wasn’t a fucking idiot. I knew she was going to drown in the shirts I’d gotten her. But I’d spent four months watching her every move as we waited for the right time to put our plan into action. Seeing her walk around in nothing but an overly large shirt had become one of my favorite things. So when given the opportunity of choosing what she wore, it had been simple . . . and worth the torture it would put me through.

I held my breath when I heard a harsh huff come from her. Every night she did this, and every night I felt like even more of an asshole.

“Stop . . . please,” she pled. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and after repeating those two words a few more times, she was silent.

I wanted to take whatever nightmares she was having away, but I had no doubt I was the source of them. Who wouldn’t have nightmares of being kidnapped? Especially after being kidnapped and kept in a tiny fucking room with the man who had taken you. Raking my hands over my face again, I wanted to die in that moment. Just like I had every night I’d heard her beg someone to stop. I didn’t want to be a part of kidnapping her. I didn’t want to be in this life.

But I didn’t have a fucking choice.

Like I said, when given direct orders from the head of your crew, the rest of the brothers don’t question them. They carry them out. When you’re the one who let the only blood relative of the head of your crew get murdered, you’re the one that’s chosen to carry out the bad orders. Every. Time.

I’d had a nightmare of a childhood. My mom skipped out when I was young, my pop had been in prison most my life, and the uncle who raised me had always been strung out. When I turned fourteen, he’d celebrated my birthday by bringing in one of his gang’s whore’s daughters so I could become a man. He’d rewarded me with bags of smack he wanted me to sell at school for him.

My best friend, Dre Juarez, had been my only way to escape my uncle at the time. His brother headed up a neighborhood gang, and they’d always provided a sense of loyalty for me. But I hadn’t wanted to be in a gang . . . even back then. I’d seen what it had done to my old man, and I’d had to live through the shit with my uncle. No matter how normal Romero Juarez’s house seemed, I wanted a different kind of normal.