Crowned In Blood

Chapter 11

11

Catalina

I rubbed my burning eyes and slumped back in my chair. I'd spent days combing through the files Marco handed over, but there was nothing here to implicate any of the families with direct ties to the port or Canadian border.

I felt like I was constantly sinking, being crushed under the weight of my life until I could barely keep my head above water.

I'd worked tirelessly, driving myself to the brink to find anything, to no avail. I'd even come to the club closest to the port tonight, in the hopes Fernando had stashed something away here, but there was nothing.

I'm so tired of coming up empty-handed.

According to the accounts I'd gotten from the few parents willing to speak to me, the trafficking started almost six years ago. Meaning, some of the children taken were now grown women and any photos their families had wouldn't help.

The only thing I could rely on were timelines and accounts. According to my investigations, Fernando had not integrated a new family in around two years, but that didn't mean he'd stopped trafficking. There were records of large deposits I couldn't reconcile until the day he died.

Still, I'd been running this familia for over half a year, and no one had approached me to continue any deals Fernando had previously put in place.

If his partner was still involved in trafficking, why hadn't they reached out to me or tried to establish some sort of relationship?

And if Fernando had been willing to traffic women for money, there was no telling what else he might have done. The deposits could have been from any number of things.

Fernando was incredibly good at covering his tracks. His personal guards were indoctrinated at a young age. Groomed, supported, and invested in to produce loyal soldiers that only he could control. But some of them had broken free.

Every few years, some of his men had died randomly, and I assumed it was to cover Fernando's trail. Perhaps they'd gotten tired of keeping his secrets, or he crossed a moral line they couldn't forgive.

But based on all the research I'd done, the last two men remaining were the ones I'd killed on my wedding night.

Fernando's entire system may have been a ticking time bomb, destined to cave in at any moment, but it was perfect for obedience and control.

There was a chance someone else in my familia might know something, but I was still winning over their trust, and this was a difficult thing to discuss.

When I'd approached some of the parents, several of them became so hysterical they couldn't even speak. Others just changed the subject. Only a few could share their story with me, and even less believed I'd be able to find their children.

They'd given up hope. They'd had to. If not, they wouldn't have been able to continue living their lives. They would have been stuck, feeling just as much of a failure as I did now. And that feeling could crush even the strongest spirit.

Between that, my day-to-day activities which were challenging enough, the gala party and award ceremony for Naya's non-profit, her clinic's completion, and my own issues, I was falling apart, drowning in a deep void with no end in sight.

And then there was Marco.

He was constantly around, throwing me off balance with his flirtatious banter and unexpected gestures. He texted, called, and emailed multiple times a day. He stopped by to eat with me daily, even when he had nothing new to report about the trafficking or mafia families.

He was always there. In fact, I half expected him to appear out of thin air in front of me right now.

Marco kept doing things I didn't expect, things no one had ever done for me. He brought me some random gift every day, always gauging my reaction to see what I liked and disliked. He brought flowers every week, always something new and different, like he was trying to figure out which ones I loved most.

He remembered my favorite coffee order, how much I loved chocolate, meals I preferred from specific restaurants we'd eaten from in the past. He'd gotten so good at observing what I'd liked that he could blindly pick something up for me, and it would fit with my tastes perfectly.

He spent so much time with me that I wondered how he got anything done in his own family.

I'd begun to grow used to him, finding his presence to be both unnerving and comforting—which made it that much worse. He was becoming something he shouldn't be—a constant fixture in my life.

I'd started watching for him, waiting for him, anticipating his text or phone call. At breakfast or lunchtime, I'd decide what I wanted then subconsciously browse the menu for something he'd like. I'd caught and chastised myself for doing so multiple times, yet it seemed to be a habit I couldn't break.

Not only that, I started to miss his banter, his laugh, his voice, and that wasn't good. He wasn't my boyfriend, colleague, or friend. He was my enemy, and I needed to treat him as such. But every time I tried, my stomach tied itself in knots and my heart ached.

I needed to get ahold of myself and let go of whatever disillusions I had of him, and fast. I couldn't trust him, for the sake of my familia. For myself.

He had to stay at an arm’s length, no matter what. Because if I let him in, he'd ruin me.

Closing my eyes, I listened to the softened beat of the club music below, trying to focus on it. I needed to clear my mind, think of anything else but that damning man. But it wasn't working.

My emotions, thoughts, and body were a wreck, and I couldn't work this way. I got no rest at home, at work, or anywhere else. I barely slept and was running on fumes.

It had to stop or else I'd be no use to anyone. I needed to go to the only place I could to let out some steam—my gun range.

I never imagined a gun, something that could take or save a life, could bring me so much peace, but as I pulled into the shooting range, my tension eased a little.

The hustle and bustle of the city echoed on the wind, the city lights gleaming over the hill. It was remote, filled with trees, no houses, and barely any passing cars: my haven.

When I first picked up a gun again with my instructor, I'd been terrified. Images of Fernando's fat, lifeless body filled my head.

The sound, the smoke, the weight of it in my hand filled me with dread. The uncertainty of whether I'd live another day, if I'd survive was endless.

Without adrenaline coursing through my body, I became weak. The fear running through me was suffocating.

This was where I practiced my aim. Where I cried, screamed, and released every bit of anger that threatened to boil over. Where I let myself wonder how I could lead the mafia. Questioned how I could understand a world that I'd never been in. Doubted if I could really manage countless businesses, families, people who depended on me all on my own.

It was the one place I could be vulnerable and embrace the deepest parts of myself. And if it weren't for this plot of land, I might not even be here today.

I hauled my assortment of guns out of my trunk and set them on a wooden table. I started small, with my pistol, Glock, then Magnum.

With each shot, I relaxed a little more. The tension and focus, how I had to hold my breath as I fired each round, the loud bang as it went forth, ripping into the wood, and the satisfaction when I hit the bullseye was like a balm to my nerves.

But while it physically satisfied my body, mentally, my thoughts were chaotic.

I needed more.

Another kick, a louder bang. Something that was turbulent, ferocious . Something with so much force it knocked me out of my head.

Picking up my shotgun, I adjusted my posture, and put my finger on the trigger, when a car pulled into the field. While my men could use the range if they wanted, they rarely ever did.

I turned to face the vehicle. It was too dark for me to fully make out who was in the driver's seat, but once the door opened, I lifted the shotgun over my shoulder and sighed. "I'm not even surprised anymore."

Marco's lips curled into his typical mischievous smile. "I have something for you."

His voice carried a note of excitement that only made my curiosity peak higher. How did he know about my gun range? What did he have for me? Why had the noise in my head quieted down the moment I'd seen his face?

"I'm too tired to play games right now," I warned.

"I know." His voice was muffled as he popped the trunk of his SUV, but he sounded almost sad.

Does he pity me?

Marco rolled his sleeves, revealing swirls of tattooed ink over his muscular arms. I stared at them a moment too long—based on the sudden dryness in my throat—as he pulled out several cases from his trunk.

Focus, and not on him.

I walked over to help, but he waved me away and brought the cases to where my guns were.

"What's in there?"

He opened the case, and my eyes bulged. Nestled inside was a black bazooka.

I had to close my mouth before I drooled. It was a thing of pure beauty.

Marco smirked. "Have you ever used one of these before?"

I shook my head. "I've always wanted to, though."

He held his hand out for my shotgun and I gave it to him.

"Stand in front of me."

Before I realized it, I did as he commanded. It was something about his voice, the smooth, rich, authority within it. For a moment, I wished I could simply surrender everything, give up control, leave everything in his hands.

That revelation shocked me to my core, but I didn't have time to fixate on it. Marco lifted the bazooka, then placed it on my shoulder.

"Is it too heavy for you?"

"No, I thought it would be heavier." I adjusted my arms around it, holding it in place.

"It's a Carl Gustaf M4. It comes in a variety of sizes, but since we don't need to blow up a tank, this one is big enough to be useful. Do you see that red dot?"

"Yes, is that the targeting system?"

"Yes. I'm going to load it, then stand to the side and keep you grounded."

How does he plan to do that?

He loaded the weapon first, then stood beside me. His hand came to my stomach and the middle of my back, holding me.

Heat raced along my body. Even though his hands never moved, it felt as if he was surrounding me. His scent enveloped me. Something like cedar, vanilla, sandalwood, and musk. It was intoxicating.

I licked my lips. "Why does it feel like you're doing this for an entirely other reason?"

He chuckled, low and deep, his breath soft against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "I brought them because you're a vicious woman and I was certain you'd enjoy them. My intentions are as pure and innocent as you want them to be."

Goosebumps rose over my entire body, and I huffed. "There's not a single thing pure or innocent about you."

He laughed softly. "Look at how good you're doing. You're getting to know me so well."

His tone was warm, flirtatious, but something about his words, his praise, nearly made my eyes roll into the back of my head.

"Shoot on a count of three. Don't worry, I'll breathe with you."

His voice jarred me back to my senses. I wanted to tell him it was impossible to shoot this way. I could barely focus with him beside me like this. How were we going to synchronize our breathing for the shot?

But when I looked at him, not a shred of doubt clouded his eyes. He actually seemed… happy.

Get it together, Catalina.

I took a deep breath until I could feel the pounding of my heartbeat slow, then nodded to him. I was ready.

"One."

I fortified my stance.

"Two."

I grasped the trigger.

"Three."

I held my breath with him. We were completely tense, still, and then I fired. One moment everything was calm, the next, my target was completely engulfed in flames.

It wasn't large and unruly like the movies, but it was wild, unique, beautiful. Excitement coursed through my veins as Marco smiled softly, and if I weren't still holding the bazooka, I would have thrown my arms around him and kissed him.

The thought was absolutely ludicrous, ridiculous, crazy , and yet the want was still there.

Would it be so bad if I just ? —

I mentally shook my head. Absolutely the fuck not. That would never happen, never.

"Feel better?"

My voice came out as a whisper. "Yes, thank you."

Marco was still standing far too close to me, the heat of his body invading every bit of sense I had left, and yet I couldn't pull away.

He had given me the best gift I'd ever received, an experience of a lifetime that made me feel alive. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so much joy and it was tied to him, like an extension of him that lived within me.

Whether he knew it or not, Marco had just seen a part of me no one else had, one I didn't even know I was capable of. His thoughtfulness brought that out, and though I'd never tell him, I was grateful. He had not only offered me a light to guide me through the darkness surrounding me, he'd yanked me out of it.

He cupped the bazooka, and I slipped it into his arms carefully, then took a step away.

"What are you doing?" he asked, slipping it inside its case before pulling out a fire extinguisher. "We're not done."

"What?"

He put out the fire, then walked back to me and opened another case holding an RPG.

As he had with the bazooka, he walked me through how to hold it, and the targeting system. He warned me about the weight and checked twice to make sure I was comfortable with it. Then he stood behind, but to the side to support me.

And when he wrapped his arm around me, my stomach flipped. I had to swallow to soothe my scratchy throat, hoping he wouldn't somehow see my hard nipples beneath my clothes.

I was terrified he'd find out the truth—that no matter how much I fought it or what I said… I wanted him.

I thought it would go away as soon as I fired the RPG, that the pretty explosion would calm me down and distract me. But when I turned around and looked up at him, he looked so pleased with himself, with how happy he'd made me, that it only grew.

We went through a similar cycle with the next weapon—a machine gun. Every shot I fired had our bodies bumping, vibrating against one another.

I'd never been so turned on in my life.

I all but shoved the gun back into his hands. If this was some type of seduction, it was working far too well and no matter how much I wanted to resist, I couldn't.

After all I'd gone through, I thought I'd never want a physical relationship with anyone ever again. The idea of a kiss or sex being pleasurable seemed like a fantasy to me. I'd had sex. It hurt, it left me empty, and I didn't understand why people craved something so painful.

But if Marco touched or flirted with me again, no matter how much I knew I shouldn't, that we shouldn't, I'd let him do whatever he wanted to me. Especially , if he wanted to fuck me.

I wanted to know what it would be like to feel his warmth on every inch of my skin. I wanted him to kiss me, to hear him moan and grunt in my ear. Feel him thrusting inside of me. I ached for it. I was so fucking wet that I was dangerously close to begging for him to do something, anything .

Marco put away the machine gun while I took several deep breaths to center myself. I glanced his way, but he was looking at everything else but me.

Was he just as affected as I was? The thought pleased me far more than it should have and I bit my lip.

His eyes met mine, then slid down to my bottom lip as I released it from my teeth. A tic started in his jaw and I grinned.

Good. I hope you'll have to take a cold shower too.

Then I imagined him naked.

Fuck.

Marco took a step closer. His eyes were on fire, so deep and intense it felt like I was burning alive right with him.

I licked my lips, his gaze following my tongue, then slowly slid back to my eyes. If he bent down, just a little more, I could kiss him.

Something needed to cut the tension between us and fast, before I did something I'd regret. That was what gave me the strength to take a step back from him. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and cleared my throat. "Thank you for this. Even though I'm not sure how you knew I was here, and it concerns me you did, you helped me, and I appreciate it."

His fingertips grazed my chin as he gently tipped my head up. His grin was wide, his dimples on full display. "Of course, it's my job."

"Job?" His touch, his smile—damn it, all of him—left me breathless.

I should have told him to stop touching me.

I should have told him to continue.

Which do I want more?

"Yes," he hissed, running his fingertips along my jaw, to my hair, where he slid down the shaft of my braid all the way to my waist. "I told you, I'd follow you wherever you go, and I will always help you. I'm on your side, Catalina. No matter how much you push me away, I will always choose you."

Why did he have to say those words to me? Why now? When I can't ignore or doubt them?

All I'd ever wanted was to be someone's first choice. To be their priority, to have their attention, to be wanted, not needed.

Why? Why did he make everything so hard?

I wanted to hate him, to despise and be wary about him. I kept trying and trying, and trying, but I couldn't. Instead, I'd laughed, shared, and grown comfortable around him.

Somewhere along the line, I'd let Marco in. I started to believe him, believe in him, and I shouldn't have.

You stupid, stupid girl. How did you let this happen?

This was only going to hurt me in the end. I knew that, and the thought of that devastating pain helped me break whatever spell he'd so carefully woven around us.

Marco's hand fell away as if he could feel the sudden shift in the air between us. He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning pale from the force, then turned to carry the gun cases away.

I watched him retreat. And with every step he took, he stole something from me. I could feel it, like a tether I couldn't break. It was so strong that I wanted to call him back. Wanted to apologize, to change, explain, beg him, but I didn't know for what or why. I just didn't want him to leave like this.

But instead of going to his car, he walked to mine and said in a gruff voice, "Open your trunk."

I tilted my head, following him. "Why?"

He put the cases on the ground and held onto the latch for my trunk. "I didn't just bring these for you to use; they're yours."

My heartbeat sped up again. "Marco… you cannot keep doing this."

"As long as it keeps that look of joy on your face, I can and I will. Now open the trunk, Catalina."

Marco followed me in his car until we'd entered the city, making sure I'd gotten there safely. But even after he'd turned off, heading in his own direction, I still couldn't get him out of my mind.

I was stuck on the same question, the one I knew he wouldn't answer honestly. What did he want from me?

There was no tracker on my car. I'd checked multiple times, which could only mean he'd invested resources into watching me.

It wasn't that hard to find out what property I owned. If he could identify the name of my corporations, he could easily track a lot of the things he wanted, but there was nothing there that would benefit him enough to explain why he acted the way he did.

Yes, I had clubs, hotels, hospitals, and a slew of other revenue streams, but so did he. In fact, all of my research showed he had more money than I did. So why? Why go this far?

My past with men was simple. They always wanted something from me and they'd use their power to try to intimidate me into giving it to them. If that didn't work, they'd take it themselves. It was the same with my father, Fernando, even the other mafia heads who tried to get me to marry them.

But Marco wasn't like that with me. He was never aggressive. Never tried to bully or pressure me. He could have been trying to work a different angle, playing kind and adoring until I'd finally give him whatever it was he wanted, but I didn't think that was the case. At least, I hoped it wasn't.

If Marco wanted, he could have fucked me tonight. He had to have known that. I couldn't hide it, and there was no way he missed it.

He had plenty of opportunities to take advantage of me, and he never did. Not once.

When I got home, I took a cold shower, ate a flatbread pizza, and slid into bed. I checked my phone, but Marco hadn't contacted me.

Maybe that's for the best.

I turned off the light, then my phone buzzed.

Marco

Goodnight, Catalina.

I had fun shooting with you. I hope you'll invite me the next time you go.

I forced myself to ignore the warmth that ran through me when I read his messages.

Why would I bother when you always invite yourself?

I’ll be there either way, but I'd prefer it if you asked me to come.

I smirked.

In your dreams.