I lift a shoulder. “Bad circumstances.”

“I’d argue your circumstances are quite good. He hasn’t killed you, after all.”

Now Heitor looks at me, and a chill slips down my spine. His eyes are kind—cold and kind. It sets my nerves on edge.

“He hasn’t.” But others might.

I let the last unspoken part of the sentence linger in the air between us.

Rocha stares at me a little longer, then abruptly, he stops, turning to a door I didn’t notice.

“Ah,” he says. “Here we are. Your room.”

He opens the door, and I peer inside, half thinking that this whole thing is a trap and I’m about to die. But Heitor did lead me to a bedroom, a very feminine one. It has paintings of beautiful women set in gilded frames, vases full of fresh flowers, a dresser inlaid with mother of pearl, and an enormous mirror that leans against the far wall. But the most impressive feature of the room is the massive canopy bed, gauzy fabric draped along the carved posts.

This is clearly a room meant for a woman—perhaps a mistress? Whoever this woman is—or maybe there are several women—it’s empty now.

I step inside, my gaze going to the ceiling, where a delicate chandelier hangs.

Heitor’s hand slips down my backside and squeezes my ass. Just like that, my attention shifts from the opulent room to the man who led me here.

“Enjoy your room,” he says, his eyes lingering on me, his expression saying, I own you.

For a moment, I don’t react. Over the last five years, I’ve been conditioned to go along with unsolicited attention—that was how I landed new clients—but old conditioning is meeting new. I don’t want the attention, not from Heitor; and besides, I think he did it to demean me.

My old programming finally snaps into place. I step into Heitor’s space.

“It takes a lot more than an ass-grab to get me off,” I say, my voice low, intimate, “but I appreciate the attempt, all the same.”

There’s a spark of … something in the man’s eyes. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s interest. Or maybe Heitor thought I was a conquerable challenge, and now he’s realizing that even I come with sharp teeth.

He holds my gaze for a second longer. “You’ll know when I’m trying to get you off. Perhaps sooner than you realize.”

Rocha turns his back on me and walks away, his shoes clicking along the floor.

Long after he’s gone, my skin still crawls.

Definitely going to die soon.

Chapter 27

That evening I sit with Famine in Heitor Rocha’s grand dining room, fidgeting as the two of us wait for dinner.

“This is a bad idea,” I whisper to the horseman.

He leans back in his seat, slinging a leg over his knee. “Loosen up a little, flower.”

I open my mouth to fire back a retort when several of Heitor’s men enter the room, each carrying a platter of food. Heitor himself is nowhere to be seen.

So much for serving us.

“And where is your insufferable boss?” the Reaper asks, noticing Rocha’s absence. “I believe I asked him and not you all to serve me.”

One of the men mutters something vague about Rocha being in the next town over, making arrangements on the horseman’s behalf.

It’s more likely that Heitor is wherever the hell Heitor wants to be; not even Famine himself can make him do otherwise.

The Reaper glares at the men, but just when I think he’s going to grab his scythe and start gutting them, he leans back in his seat and lets them set the platters of food on the table.

“You there,” Famine calls, pointing to one of the men.

The man’s eyes move to the horseman. It’s not fear I see in those dark irises—more like caution. I guess that’s what you get when you’re used to working around sociopaths.

The Reaper gestures for him to come over, even as the other men set down their dishes and retreat back into the kitchen.

“What is it?” the man asks, moving towards Famine.

“Grab a plate. Sit.”

Maybe I was wrong earlier. Maybe Famine is planning on killing someone right now.

The man hesitates for only a moment, then he leaves the room, returning with a plate.

Tentatively, he sits across from us.

“Serve yourself,” the Reaper orders. “There’s plenty here, and I want you to try everything.” He sounds almost benevolent, like he himself made the dishes.

The guard eyes Famine for only a second or two before he reaches for each dish, putting a little of this and a little of that on his plate until it’s a heaping tray of everything.

“Now,” Famine says, “eat.”

It takes me longer than it should to realize that the horseman isn’t going to kill the man, like I assumed. He’s using him as a food tester, making sure that the dishes prepared weren’t laced with poison.

“And the wine—don’t forget to try that,” the horseman encourages.

The two of us watch the man in silence as he eats and drinks his way through the meal. The guard’s eyes are flinty as he does Famine’s bidding, but he polishes everything off.

When it becomes clear that he’s not going to keel over, the guard stands.

“I was hoping to eat with Heitor,” Famine says casually, and I’m impressed the horseman actually remembered the man’s name.

“I will let him know he was missed,” the guard responds. “I’m sure he regrets his absence.”

“Does he now?” Famine says.

The two men stare each other down. Eventually, the corner of the Reaper’s mouth curls into a lopsided smile. “You will find me Heitor, and you will bring him back here. He and I are to have a little chat.”

My stomach dips again at the thought of one of Rocha’s own men forcing their boss to do something. From everything I’ve heard, loyalty is a big deal in cartels. But Famine’s wrath is barely leashed as it is. And I’m in the crosshairs of it all.

The Reaper sits forward as the man leaves the room, and he begins serving himself. When I don’t follow suit, Famine serves me as well.

“I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to sit next to you and not get bombarded with all your petty thoughts,” Famine says, pouring us both a glass of wine. Setting the bottle down, he picks up his glass.

I glance at the horseman. I’ve been distracted today, it’s true. Distracted by our violent entrance into São Paulo, by Famine’s barely muzzled brutality, and by Heitor’s unsolicited touch.

Before I know exactly what I’m doing, I stand.

The Reaper reaches out and places a hand over mine. “Stay.”

“Is that an order or a request?” I say. I don’t know if it’s something in the water, but like Rocha, I don’t really want to follow orders at the moment.

The horseman thins his eyes at me. “Would it make a difference?” he asks, his words sharp.

I stare at him for an extra beat.

It would. It does.

And today I don’t want to play games.

Slipping my hand out from under his, I begin to leave.

I think the horseman’s going to call on Heitor’s men to stop me.

Instead, he says, “If that’s the way you feel about it, then it’s a request.”