GEMMA CRINGED. HANGOVERS WERE THE worst. She’d only had a few in her life, but they all felt the same. Bongo drums between the ears beaten with a hammer, mixed with a touch of nausea.

Strange, I don’t remember drinking.

She went to rub her eyes, but couldn’t. A coarse binding pulled against her wrist.

She was sitting in a chair. Tied to it.

Shit. This is not the plan.

Solana. The palace. Where was Carlos? Had he and Rico made it to Bendetto?

She lifted her head, which still pounded viciously, and tried to recognize where she was. A massive bedroom the size of Reyna’s ranch, infinitely more grandiose and warm. The tropical air blew through the opened curtains set against massive bay windows. It was still dark outside, so not much time had passed. Hopefully. The furniture in the room was gaudy, but not as much as the sculptured ceiling. Beautiful, yes, of which only a true artist could accomplish, but still gaudy. This much gold in one room should be a bank.

Around the time she realized she was alone, she noticed her Kevlar vest was missing. Along with her weapons.

Dammit! Someone got the drop on me. Little use I am like this.

She wiggled at her bindings again, judging how loose she could get them. Not very. The prick was good at knots. She glanced around the room for anything to cut with. Something had to be useful in that credenza by the window. If she could get there. The wood chair she was stuck to was heavy, yet moveable. But the rug in this room was plush, and the legs sank like quicksand with every shove of her feet. The only positive was it helped cover the sounds she made.

Gunfire raged somewhere in the palace, consistent and terrifying. But only because she didn’t know who was still alive, still fighting, or how many were left. Was this Bendetto asshole still a threat? Her heart pounded as the gunfire continued, this time with rapid shots, the number of bullets indistinguishable. No one her team had carried an automatic weapon like that.

Shit. I have to get out of here now.

She pushed harder, scraping the legs on the rug until she reached the desk. Her breathing was heavy and fast, but she inched the lower drawer open with her fingers. Inside was a bunch of paper with official seals and signatures. But she couldn’t move them around in her position. She turned the chair and lunged forward, forcing the legs into the air and balancing on her feet, like a turtle carrying an oversized shell.

Using her mouth, she sifted through the drawer, and a fresh line of sweat trailed down her temples.

Please let there be a knife or scissors or something. Don’t let me die sitting in a damn chair while they’re fighting.

The side door opened and Gemma gasped. Three men entered and their eyes locked on hers, full of hate and something infinitely more sinister.

“Aren’t you a sneaky whore?” one sneered. He rushed over and pushed her chair back. The ropes burned on her flesh as she was flung backward. Then he backhanded her across the face, and her cheek exploded in pain. Her eyes watered, but she blinked it away.

The other two men circled the desk and pulled her chair across the room. But they didn’t bring her back to the original spot. Instead, they dragged her backward, through the doorway into the next room. The one with the queen’s portrait.

“There are no cameras in the king’s chambers,” the first asshole drawled in a thick Spanish accent. “But I want an audience for what’s next.”

The evil in his voice made her cringe. The guy was infatuated with invoking fear and pain, obviously. Her cheek still throbbed from it.

“So you must be the Bendetto prick,” she taunted. “You’re shorter than I thought.”

His brown eyes resembled the color of horseshit, and his greasy hair fit the image of a snake perfectly. The lines on his face were deep, and his leathery, tan skin was broken up by scars across his cheek, chin and nose. This man had lived a hard life and wouldn’t win any modeling contests. But invoking fear and pain weren’t his only obsessions. At least three guns were visible on his belt or shoulder. Gold plated Colt 45’s, mid 20th century—not just for use, but also to make a statement. That lifelong grudges get bloodier over time.

The man leaned over her, his rotten breath washing over her face. She almost gagged, but didn’t shy away from him. Instead, she glared right back.

“You’re the bitch who shot Vasco,” he sneered. “Congratulations. You lost me my best dog.”

“He’s dead?” she asked, not hiding the hope in her voice.

Bendetto laughed and pulled a cigar from his pocket. “Hardly. Merely interested in more lucrative deals in Manila, now that he’s upped his price.” He lit the cigar with a lighter, swirling it slowly and drawing in short breaths.

Gemma wasn’t sure what all that crap was about with Vasco, except the bastard was still alive. And not on Solana. Her hopes of vengeance deflated, just a touch.

Focus, Gemma. One psychopath at a time.

He wanted an audience for this part. Which meant there were cameras in this room. But who would be watching? What did this asshole have planned?

Cameras in two corners of the ceiling were centered on her. Her guns and the Kevlar vest lay on the couch behind Bendetto, including Lil’ Pete. But those were no use to her if she was tied to this chair. Her fingers twitched, wishing she had that shotgun in her hands.

“You’re awfully…plain for the prince. Crass and common.” The word dripped off his tongue like garbage. “He’s been seen with much prettier sifrinas than you. With considerably more to offer.” Bendetto circled her, assessing her like a car he was about to buy—or steal. He crouched in front of her, and it took all her worth not to spit in his face. “Why would you risk your life for that man? Some silly dream of marrying a prince? A treasure you could never hope to grasp.” He sneered and stood, circling her again. “But I can see what’s stolen his affections.” He cupped her chin from behind the chair and slowly stroked his hand down her neck and shoulder. Then he moved lower and grabbed her breast, hard. Squeezed. She wanted to cry out from the pain, the raging anger, but bit her cheek instead and turned her face away from his rancid, hot breath on her neck.

This was all for the camera in the corner of the room. For whoever was on the other side of it, watching.

Bendetto let go and moved to the front. He gripped her hair and she winced, grinding her teeth together. He yanked her head back and then slapped her across the face again. The taste of blood filled her mouth as the searing pain flooded her cheek.

“You’re such a coward.” She forced herself to laugh at him. She wouldn’t let this power-hungry ass get off on her bowing to his whim by showing pain or defeat. “You’re beating up a woman tied to a damn chair. Some hot shot you are. You probably can’t win a fist fight against a baby.” She laughed again, trying to make it sound real and thoroughly hilarious.

The man growled, like an actual dog, and his lips peeled back into a snarl. “The only reason you’re still alive is because I want to rip the prince’s heart out by shredding you to pieces on camera.”

That one statement made her relax. If André was watching from a camera, then they didn’t have him. Otherwise, they’d make him watch in person. With the surveillance camera, he was still in the building. Still with Stefano.

Which meant she had to stall this bastard. Give them a chance to make it up here.

But how did this maniac know about her and André? Or was he merely guessing? Fucker needs to learn how to bluff.

Gemma smiled.

Bendetto leaned forward, his snarl slipping. “What are you smiling at, you dumb puta?”

Gemma swirled the blood in her mouth and spit it in his face.

He reared back and wiped his eyes with his hand. The disgust was almost comical. Until he punched her in the jaw.

Spots flashed behind her eyelids, and the room spun. Followed by a stabbing pain in her lower face. More blood filled her mouth and dripped down her hot chin. Forcing her jaw open, she wiggled it to make sure it wasn’t broken. Just insanely painful.

More gunshots rang outside the room, drawing all three men’s attention. Bendetto pulled a pistol from his waist and pressed it against her temple. “If your men come into this room, I blow her brains out and then fuck her corpse,” he shouted at the camera.

That thing records sound, too?

Then it hit her. She couldn’t help herself. She laughed.

Bendetto looked at her like an ugly, rabid dog chewing on its own leg.

“Esta loca,” one of the men murmured.

But she didn’t care. “You’re stuck in this room, holed up like a rat with a single piece of cheese as collateral.” She laughed again, trying to stall until the room stopped spinning. “Stefano has succeeded in taking back the palace, except for you. Which is why I’m a bargaining chip…again. You’re using the one expendable asset in André’s crew. You are so fucked.” All she could do was laugh. Her eyes watered she was laughing so hard. “The only fight you have a chance at winning is against a battered, unarmed woman. Some dictator you are.”

Take the bait, you sick, dickless bulldog.

Bendetto swirled the cigar in his mouth, drew in a long puff and exhaled the smoke in her face. “We’ll see about that. Guarde la puerta,” he ordered and holstered his pistol.

One man moved to the door while the other untied her hands. Bendetto yanked her to her feet, gripping her wrists behind her back with one hand and jerking her hair back with the other. He pulled her towards the desk and bent her over the top, crushing her face into the cool wood. He then set the cigar a foot from her face, the smoke drifting into her eyes.

“I’ve already killed André’s family. The real piñata at the party will be slicing you to pieces, his new infatuation, while he watches. Let’s see how much you mean to him.”

He reached down and fumbled with his belt and zipper, releasing the hold on her head. Which was all the room she needed.

She kicked the heel of her boot back and rammed him in the sac. Bendetto gasped and gagged, immediately releasing her hands. She swung around and clocked him in the face, throwing him backward against the window.

One of the other men rushed over and grabbed her from behind. The huge fingers wrapped easily around her neck and lifted her off her feet, dragging her over the top of the desk. As she clutched for something to grab onto, her hand found the cigar still resting on the wood. She gripped it, fighting the hold on her neck. Her legs flailed as she was pulled back.

The man slammed Gemma to the ground and hovered over her, his spittle landing on her ear. His hands then closed over her throat and squeezed. Gasping and choking, she clawed at the man’s face, but it did nothing. The smell of cigar smoke invaded what little air she could manage. She flipped the cigar in her hand, and slammed the burning end into the man’s eye. When he wailed and let go of her throat, she kicked him in the gut and crawled away.

Grab Lil’ Pete.

Something caught hold of her ankle and pulled her back across the carpet. Her nails dug into the rug, but accomplished nothing. Bendetto’s snarl behind her sent her into panic mode. She lunged for the couch, but her fingers just missed Lil’ Pete’s handle. She was dragged back another two feet. Turning on her side, she rammed her boot in Bendetto’s face. Bone crunched under her heel.

She swung back to the couch for another last desperate plunge for Lil’ Pete. Just as her fingers closed around the butt, the door exploded, flinging off its hinges and shattering wood splinters everywhere. Gemma threw herself onto the floor, landing on her back, and gripped the comforting shotgun in her hands.

“Gemma!” someone called from behind her head. Bendetto clawed his way over the coffee table like a wild monster, his face bloodied and nose crooked. He raised his pistol, aiming right at her head.

Gemma squeezed the trigger.