Chapter 1: Numbers Don't Lie

The glow of my laptop screen was the only light in the apartment, casting weird shadows across the takeout containers and the stack of vintage calculators I'd rearranged for the third time that evening.

I muttered to myself like I always did when the numbers got tricky, my voice the only company in this quiet little box of a life I'd built for myself. 'Come on, Rosalind. It's just a standard audit. Shell companies, dummy transactions, statistically speaking this should be straightforward.'

My fingers flew over the keys, wild curls escaping the clip I'd shoved them into hours ago. The hoodie I wore—gray, oversized, the one that still smelled faintly of the laundry detergent from my old place—clung to my skin in the Miami humidity that no AC could quite defeat. I shouldn't have taken this freelance gig, but the money was good and my brother needed textbooks that didn't cost an arm and a leg.

Then the file opened wrong. Or right, depending on how you looked at it. Encrypted ledgers blooming across my screen like some digital cancer, columns of money moving in patterns that made my stomach drop straight through the floor. I froze, hazel eyes narrowing as I traced the transactions with a trembling finger on the touchpad. This wasn't some small-time tax evasion. This was blood money. Cartel blood money.

'Oh shit,' I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my teeth. I should have closed the laptop right then. Should have pretended I'd never seen it. But the accountant in me—the one who talked to spreadsheets like old friends—kept digging, pulling up more files, connecting dots that painted a picture of the Ramirez family operation snaking through half the businesses in South Florida.

I talked faster to myself now, the panic making my voice crack. 'Okay, okay, this is objectively a terrible idea. Delete the cache. Wipe the metadata. Call Elena and tell her to forget I ever mentioned this audit.' My hands shook as I tried to cover my tracks, but I knew better. Digital footprints didn't vanish that easily, not when people like this were involved.

The sound of my front door lock clicking open cut through the silence like a gunshot. I hadn't even heard footsteps. One second I was alone with my terror, the next the door swung inward and a man filled the frame, gun already drawn, the barrel steady as death itself. He moved like liquid shadow, bronze skin catching the laptop glow, dark eyes scanning the room before locking onto me.

I should have screamed. Instead I just stared, my full lips parting on a silent gasp, hands still hovering over the keyboard like some idiot who thought she could type her way out of a bullet. He was huge, shoulders straining against a black shirt, the kind of muscle that came from doing violent things rather than lifting weights for show. A scar traced across his left knuckles as he gripped the pistol tighter.

'You've seen too much, Ms. Davenport.' His voice was low, accented, the kind that slid under your skin and stayed there. He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him without looking away from me. The click of the lock engaging made my pulse spike so hard black spots danced at the edges of my vision.

'Wait,' I said, and my voice came out steadier than I expected. Maybe because part of me had always known this moment would come, the way true crime podcasts warned about. 'I can explain. Or delete it. Or—statistically speaking, killing me creates more problems than it solves.'

He tilted his head, those intense eyes narrowing. Up close he smelled like gun oil and something expensive, cologne that probably cost more than my rent. The gun didn't waver, but something in his face shifted when I didn't cry or beg. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hide how badly my hands were shaking, chin lifting even as my knees felt like water.

Gabriel Ramirez. I recognized him from the files, though the photos hadn't done justice to the way he seemed to take up all the air in the room. Underboss. Enforcer. The man they sent when silence was required. My wild curls fell into my eyes and I blew them away, a nervous habit that felt absurdly domestic in this moment.

'You talk to yourself a lot,' he observed, voice almost conversational as he crossed the small space between us. His boots didn't make a sound on my cheap carpet. 'Most people scream when they see the gun.'

'Most people haven't spent the last hour realizing they're going to die because of a misplaced decimal point.' The words tumbled out before I could stop them, sarcastic and rambling exactly like Elena always teased me about. 'Look, I wasn't even supposed to have access to those files. It was a glitch in the system. I can show you how to make it look like nothing ever—'

He was on me before I finished, one big hand wrapping around my throat—not squeezing, just holding me still while the gun pressed cold against my temple. My breath hitched, hazel eyes flying wide as I felt the heat of him, the solid wall of his chest inches from mine. My nipples tightened against the inside of my hoodie, and I wanted to slap myself for noticing.

His thumb brushed my jaw almost absently, tracing the line where my pulse thundered. 'You're not what I expected,' he murmured, Spanish slipping into his words like a secret. 'Mírame, little accountant. Look at me.'

I did. I couldn't have looked away if he'd actually pulled the trigger. Those dark eyes held mine, searching for something I didn't understand. The scar on his knuckles brushed my skin as he adjusted his grip, and I wondered wildly if he'd used that hand to kill before. Of course he had.

The moment stretched, thick and heavy. I could smell the faint metallic tang of the gun, feel the calluses on his fingers where they pressed against my neck. My thighs pressed together without my permission, and I mentally screamed at my body to get its shit together. This man was here to murder me, not audition for my personal porn.

'Please,' I whispered, hating how small my voice sounded. 'I have a brother. He's only twenty. Doesn't know anything about this.'

Something flickered across his face—regret? Interest? He muttered a curse in Spanish, low and rough, the words vibrating through his chest into mine. The gun lowered slightly, barrel sliding down to rest against my collarbone. The cold metal against my overheated skin made me gasp.

'I was sent to end this problem,' he said, almost to himself. His free hand moved to my hair, fingers tangling in the wild curls as if he couldn't help himself. Then he yanked back, jaw flexing hard enough that I saw a muscle jump. 'One shot. Clean. No witnesses.'

'But?' The word slipped out, desperate and hopeful and stupid all at once.

His eyes darkened, pupils blowing wide. 'But you looked at me like you already knew what I am. And you didn't flinch.' His fingers tightened in my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head back. 'That makes you interesting. Dangerous.'

I swallowed hard, feeling the movement against his palm. 'This is objectively a terrible idea.'

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, gone so fast I might have imagined it. He holstered the gun with his free hand, never releasing my hair. The absence of the weapon should have been a relief. It wasn't. Now there was nothing between us but his body and my rapidly dissolving common sense.

'You're coming with me,' he decided, the words final as a death sentence. 'Collateral. Until I figure out what to do with you.'

'Like hell I am.' The defiance felt good, even if my voice cracked. I tried to pull away, but he just wound my curls tighter around his fist, the sting making my eyes water. 'You can't just—people will look for me. My friend Elena, she knows something's up with this audit.'

He leaned in until his mouth brushed my ear, breath hot against my skin. 'Then they'll find exactly what I want them to find. A woman who packed a bag and disappeared. Happens all the time in this city.' His teeth grazed my earlobe, just barely, and I hated the way my body arched toward the contact. 'Don't make this harder than it has to be, Rosalind.'

The sound of my name in his mouth did something unforgivable to my insides. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to summon the logical part of my brain that had gotten me this far. The part that knew monsters didn't suddenly turn into something else just because they found you interesting.

He zip-tied my wrists before I could think of another argument, the plastic biting into my skin with clinical efficiency. I tested them immediately, of course I did, earning myself a low chuckle that shouldn't have sent heat pooling low in my belly. When he lifted me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing, my hoodie riding up to expose the soft curve of my hip, I cursed him in every language I knew.

---

The ride to wherever he was taking me passed in a blur of tinted windows and the low growl of an expensive engine. I sat in the passenger seat with my hands bound in my lap, trying not to notice how his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, tracing that same scar over and over. The silence between us felt alive, crackling with everything neither of us wanted to name.

His penthouse was exactly what you'd expect from a cartel underboss—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water, sleek furniture that probably cost more than my entire life, and the faint scent of his cologne baked into every surface. He carried me inside like some captured prize, ignoring my attempts to kick him in the ribs.

'This is kidnapping,' I informed him as he deposited me in what had to be the master bedroom. The bed was massive, sheets black and expensive-looking. I hated how my mind immediately supplied images of him sprawled across them. 'Statistically, this never ends well for anyone involved.'

Gabriel rolled his shoulders, the movement drawing my eyes to the way his shirt stretched across his back. He traced the scar on his knuckles again, watching me with those unreadable eyes. 'My world doesn't run on statistics, little accountant. It runs on choices. And I've just made one that might get us both killed.'

I swallowed, backing up until my thighs hit the edge of the bed. My curls were a mess around my face, wilder than usual from being manhandled. 'Then let me go. Problem solved.'

He stepped closer, crowding me against the mattress without touching me. The air between us felt too thin, too charged. I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.

'Can't do that.' His voice had gone rough, almost gentle in a way that terrified me more than the gun had. 'Not after the way you looked at me back there. Like you saw the monster and still wanted to know his name.'

I opened my mouth to deny it, but the lie stuck in my throat. Because some broken part of me had wanted exactly that. Wanted to understand the man who could end me so easily and yet chose not to.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a name that made my blood run cold. Mateo. The older brother. The one who made even Gabriel seem almost reasonable by comparison.

Gabriel's jaw tightened as he read the message. For a moment I saw the conflict there, raw and ugly—the duty he'd been raised for warring with whatever madness had made him spare me. Then he looked at me again, and the conflict settled into something darker. Something possessive.

He reached out, brushing a curl from my face with surprising tenderness. His fingers lingered on my cheek, thumb tracing my lower lip like he was memorizing the shape of me. My skin burned where he touched it, and I hated how much I wanted him to keep going.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and I heard the lock engage from the outside. I sank onto the bed, heart racing, skin still burning where he'd touched me. The room smelled like him. Like gun oil and expensive cologne and bad decisions.