That’s her name. Not Adriana Alvarez. She isn’t Raul’s daughter.
I don’t know whose daughter she is or what she was to Raul, but she was most likely a maid or one of his servants.
I don’t know why she was wearing the wedding dress when I first got her, and I swore she was kissing Felipe when I crashed into that hall back at Raul’s estate in Mexico.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Every fucking thing is a mess, and the real Adriana could be alive somewhere in Mexico or fucking hell.
That means I have no cartel.
If people find out, I’m fucking screwed. It could cause a war from the men who signed their allegiance to me in blood.
If that happens, blood is all there will be, and I will have to kill men who would be assets to me.
I gave her the choice to marry me or die, knowing I could take the cartel the hard way, but that would have never been a benefit to anybody. If you want something the way it is, you try to preserve what makes it good.
But listen to me. As if my rage is really about the fucking cartel.
It’s not.
I admitted it the other day. Taking the fucking cartel was just a side quest. Something to teach those who crossed the Bratva a lesson they would never forget. It was something to warn enemies away from thinking they could come and kill me and mine without consequence. I wanted to take the thing they revered and crush the man who led it.
Taking the cartel was never something I needed, though. Not for anything. So, my wrath isn’t about that.
It’s about her and the lie she represents to me.
My wrath is for myself because I dropped my guard and loved her.
Hearing her real name in my head makes sense in different ways, and I think I knew the answer all along. I think I knew she couldn’t have been the woman I’d heard such horrendous stories about.
I think I knew.
I pull up to the parking lot at the shipping company and head straight to the back where I gave orders for José to be taken.
When I get to the warehouse and see him sitting on the chair with two of my men standing on either side with guns, I rush him and land a fist straight in his face.
Both he and the chair go flying backwards.
My men here don’t know what’s going on, either, so when they exchange curious glances and probably wonder what the fuck is going on with me now, it’s understandable.
“Leave us,” I bellow, and the two leave José and me in the room.
José rights himself but doesn’t get to do much before I land another fist in his face and grab him by his throat to shove him against the wall.
“You fucking liar. You lied to me this whole time and made me believe the woman I married was Raul’s daughter.” I cut to the chase and spare us both the bullshit of explaining by shoving the sheet of paper in his face.
His eyes go wide when he realizes what I’m holding, but there’s a defiance about him that irritates me even more.
I want him to beg for his life and explain himself, but he doesn’t.
“Fucking talk!” I shout in his face. “Say something to explain your fucking self. I spared your life.”
“You want me to say sorry?” he counters and smiles. “You won’t fucking hear that word from me. I’m not saying sorry to you or anybody for what I did. You act like I owe you something, but I will never owe you for nothing. You fucking spared my life so you could use me.”
It’s like a light switches on in my head and I realize the truth in his words—all his words.
“Why did you lie about her?”
