Eighty-One

The guard who escorted Sabrina back to her room after dinner kept a wide berth. He wouldn’t even look at her—just kept his slightly panicked gaze aimed down the hall as they walked. She couldn’t blame him.

She’d spent her day with Christina and Leo. Watching them take turns on the tire swing and play tag in the wide stretch of grass that surrounded the trees they played under. It would have been a good day if not for the armed guards on the roof and the turrets that dotted the retaining wall overlooking the ocean below. Everywhere she looked there were guards and guns—security woven together so tight that she was beginning to have serious doubts that even Michael could find his way in. She began to worry that she was on her own here. That it was up to her to save Leo. And Christina.

Somewhere between breakfast and walking down that long stretch of hallway after dinner, she’d decided that if she got out of this mess, she’d be taking the girl with her.

The guard stopped in front of her door and took a step back so she could open it. Shutting it in the man’s face, she leaned against it for a moment, just as relieved as he was that his assignment had not ended with his brains splattered across the lawn in front of her bedroom window. Twenty-four hours had come and gone, and no one had come for her. She was on her own.

We ain’t alone, darlin’.

The warning came seconds before the voice spoke in the dark. “I take it Pablo kept his hands to himself.”

Somewhere a light clicked on, and she turned to find Estefan lounging on the settee, shoulders relaxed, knees parted as if he’d made himself comfortable while waiting for her. As if he’d done this exact thing before.

Careful, now—this one’s got teeth and he’s itchin’ to use ’em.

She listened to the voice inside her head. A predator always recognized their own kind. The gun in her boot was useless; no way she’d be able to get to it in time. She thought of her bracelet, the one Michael had given her. “What are you doing here?” she said, walking into the room, careful to make sure he didn’t see the apprehension his sudden appearance caused her. A casual glance cast to the corners of the room told her that the security cameras were still active. As long as they were recording, she was relatively safe … and so was he.

“I wanted to make sure that you have everything you needed, Sabrina.” He smiled at her, his eyes flat and dark, tracking her movements across the room. “We are not savages, my father and I. We wish you to be comfortable.”

She stopped in front of the ornate dressing table tucked into the corner near the bathroom door. On its glossy surface lay the heavy silver brush and mirror that had once belonged to Lydia, Christina’s mother.

“Pretty sure my comfort isn’t very high on his list of things he gives a shit about. Your father plans on killing me in front of Michael …” She reached out and rocked the brush on its rounded back like Christina had the night before. Like the night before, something rattled inside its handle. “Just like he killed his wife.”

Estefan draped his arm across the back of the settee and smiled. “Lydia was a fickle whore who got what she deserved.”

“Lydia was twelve when your father married her. How old was she when you started raping her?” She did her best to strain the anger from her voice before she spoke, but it seeped through anyway, and his smile turned into laughter.

“She was nineteen … and I would hardly call it rape.” He shook his head, the picture of exasperated amusement. “Is that what Cartero told you? That I forced myself on his beloved Lydia?” he said with a shrug. “I supposed believing that would make her manner of death easier for him to swallow …”

“You loved her.” She watched him closely, the traces of bitterness and envy that surfaced in the flat pools of his eyes before being pulled under again. “But she hated your guts, didn’t she? You disgusted her.”

“When I realized she was pregnant, I offered to kill my father so that we could be together. Do you know what she said to me?” he said, leaning into her just a bit like they were sharing a juicy secret. “She said, ‘Michael will take care of us.’ ” For a moment, he looked toxic—like a simple touch from him could kill.

Sabrina imagined them standing face to face like they were now. Lydia, outwardly defiant even while facing down her own rapist. Estefan, so sick he couldn’t even recognize that what he was doing to her was wrong.

“Michael.” He spat the word at her, his lips twisted into an ugly smile. “I realized then that he was the reason she would never love me.”

“From a female perspective, I gotta tell you,” she said quietly, “it was all the raping that made it impossible for her to love you.”

If they’d been closer, she was certain he would have hit her—and not an open-palmed slap like his father had given her, either. He would have hit her with a closed fist and more than once.

He stood, and she took a step back, dropping in a defensive stance that told him the violence he had in mind would not go as smoothly as he was used to. Her hip bumped into the vanity, her sudden movement answered by that faint rattling again.

“Lydia believed he was her savior. That he could protect her from my father.” Estefan smirked, reading her posture perfectly, and changed courses. “From me.” He reached up to finger the scar that ran down the length of his face, and for a moment she could see just how much he hated both Michael and his father. How twisted he had grown living in their shadows.

You’re runnin’ out of time here, darlin’ … tick tock.

As if on cue, a metallic click filled the silence between them and her eyes automatically darted to the clock perched on the mantel just over his shoulder. It was nine o’clock, and the sound she’d just heard was the auto-lock engaging on her bedroom door.