“To the ground?” The lines in his forehead deepened. “How many bodies?”
Reality slapped me cold in the face. “Bodies?” Running to the table, I braced my palms against the edge. “Whose bodies? How many?”
Mateo dismissed me with a wave. “How long before the medical examiner can identify?” With a slow shake of his head, he sat back in the chair and raked a hand over his sparse goatee. “Send extra men and call me the minute you find anything. Search the car, search the area…fuck, search within a ten-mile radius.” Ending the call, he cursed under his breath.
“Is he dead?”
A deeper voice called out to me. “Sit down, Eden.”
Panic shifted my attention toward Emilio. “What do you know?”
“Don’t stick your nose into business you know nothing about, Eden O’Dell,” he bit out, refusing to look at me.
“Lachey.”
“Whatever.”
It took me half a second to lose my shit.
Nine days of physical restraint, fear, and hunger strikes simultaneously set me off. Pushing off the table, I lunged at him, my fists curling into his dirty white button-up shirt as I shoved my nose against his in a bold move.
“My last name is Lachey. You remember it, don’t you, boss? You said it enough when you beat the shit out of my brother.” Bottled up anger and grief exploded into an uncontrollable verbal tirade.
Val explained that their rival cartel orchestrated Nash’s execution, and for some fucked-up reason, I believed him. Emilio didn’t kill my family, but when I didn’t know if the man I needed more than I cared to admit was alive or dead, rationality wasn’t a high priority.
Emilio’s eyes widened. “Get the hell off me, you crazy bitch!”
“Wrong answer.” Letting go of his shirt, I slapped him hard across the face.
“Eden!” Mateo called my name as Emilio blinked rapidly—frozen—as if he literally couldn’t process the concept a female had just assaulted him.
Fuck, that felt good.
I took a swing at Mateo and he caught my fist midair, curling his fingers around its momentum.
“Tell me what happened, goddamn it!” I screamed, struggling against his hold.
“We don’t know! A bomb went off at the stash house, leveling everything. The building is gone. A few beams are standing, that’s all. We don’t know if he was inside or not. All we know is his car was there, and it’s fucking barbecued.” Grunting, he grabbed my other hand as I fought against him. “Jesus, will you calm the hell down? Why do you even care?”
“I don’t!”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’re acting like a destroyed lover.”
“Piss off, Mateo.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What’s with you and Val? He’s never given two shits about witnesses before. The man is cold as fuck. Who are you?” Without warning, he jerked me to his chest, his breath fanning my cheek. “Are you working for the Muñoz family?”
I pushed my forearms against him, digging my elbows into his sternum. “What? No! Get off me, Mateo. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“He’s got a point,” Emilio offered with a raised brow as he leaned against the table, his face darkening. “You conveniently get a job at my bar under an expired name, somehow escape a Muñoz hit, end up our prisoner—live better than our men, I might add—and jefe refuses to let anyone get near you but him.” A sneer coated his weathered face. “Either you’ve got a magic cunt or you’re a Muñoz pump.”
The room organized against me in a move I never saw coming.
Me? Muñoz? They had to be kidding. Still, their leader and friend was missing and, for all they knew, presumed dead. Clear thinking didn’t seem to be taking precedence now.
I’d unknowingly become the third contestant in the Blame Game, and the two main contestants played rough and dirty.
Well, game on.
Dipping my chin, I bit down hard on Mateo’s left wrist. Cursing at a deafening level, he released his hold and stumbled backward. “You fucking bit me!”
“Don’t call me a cunt. Ever.”
Shoving a finger past my face, he pointed toward Emilio. “I didn’t! He did. Christ, you’re insane, you know that?”
“I’m not a Muñoz anything. I’m a miserable bartender whose life got ripped out from under her by your cartel bullshit.” I resumed pacing, as if I hadn’t just turned Rottweiler on a drug runner. “I thought my life was shitty before. God, it was a goddamn Hallmark card compared to this. So, my husband stuck his dick in my best friend, and my father blew all our money on coke…sucks, right? Right. But this?” I threw my arms out, indicating the insanity of the situation. “This elevates suck to a whole new realm. This is…this is suck, blow, and swallow. This is a whole face fuck of fuck.”
I had no clue what spewed out of my mouth. Fear for Val and rage toward their accusations, afflicted me with a sudden case of panic-laden Tourette’s.
“Look, let’s just all calm down, all right?” Mateo sighed, running his hand under the faucet. “My men will call back with an update, and then we can decide what to do.”
I shot him a look. “What to do? Don’t you mean, ‘what to do with the pain in the ass, rabid bitch’?”
I had a million and one questions, and even more smartass remarks to back them up, but an impending breakdown shut me up. My nerves had fried to a crisp, and I’d worn a hole in the carpet with over four hours of pacing. Honestly, I had no clue why either of them didn’t just cuff me back to the bed and be done with it.
I would’ve.
I’d just shoved my fingers back in my mouth—going for round seventeen on what was left of my nails—when I heard the lock turn. If a sound existed of breath lodging in one’s own throat, it exploded in my ears.
No one moved, as all eyes focused on the doorknob. My heart pounded so hard I could see the thin fabric of Val’s black button-up shirt vibrate against my chest.
I had a fingernail sandwiched in between my teeth as the door opened.
The minute he stepped through it, all the air in the room seemed to suck out with the momentum of his steps, choking the breath out of me. He paused in the entryway, our eyes connecting with a ferocity that almost knocked me off my feet.
He was dirty—filthy, actually—covered in soot and ash. His pants leg flapped open, torn up the side with a jagged rip. Blood poured down his tanned leg as well as both exposed arms. His T-shirt had burn marks, stained with the same scarlet patches as his limbs. The always-perfectly-styled midnight black hair fell shaggily over his ears and forehead. Cuts and gashes marred his perfect face, his bottom lip sliced at the corner, and a trickle of dried blood trailed from his right ear.
He was fucked up, but he was alive.
And we all stared at him as if a ghost walked straight through the front door.
Chapter Nineteen
Eden
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. In the distance, I vaguely recognized Mateo calling his name, demanding to know what had happened and that he see doctor. However, the noise faded into the background as his lips parted, and a labored breath fell from his chest.