Things are only going to get worse unless we take action.

I draw a deep breath, steadying my racing heart, and nod.

“I’m ready,” I say, taking my seat behind the wheel.

Time to win the game, once and for all.

THEO

Where is the governor?

I imagine this is the exhaustive question on the minds and lips of half the world.

I’ve stayed awake most of the night asking myself the same thing.

Roth never returned from his meeting with the lieutenant. I’ve mentally drawn up a list of the possible reasons why. None of them bring about a positive outcome for me.

And that’s only a fraction of it.

I ponder the fate of Texas, Dallas, the Common. I wonder where Mira Goodwin is in this exact heartbeat. I bet my Wright fortune that Roth is wondering the same thing. The Goodwin sisters’ names are on half the Guards’ lips.

I brood on whether Mira is safe, if she’s happy. If she’s forgotten about me.

I puzzle over my mom and dad, my messed up family, and its preposterous recent addition. The new raw fact that I have an aunt, my dad’s half sister, who is currently enjoying the springtime of life, three years my junior.

There are so many unresolved questions as to how that precisely came about, my head starts pounding. One thought hits the hardest. Did my dad know? Or was he just as ignorant of his own old man as I was of mine?

I feel the hooks again, the lies that I so obliviously swallowed whole, wrenching at my gut. At least one thing isn’t in doubt. Tonight, I’ll find no shut-eye.

With all the pacing I’ve done, the fresh boots I accepted with begrudging reluctance from Governor have already been broken in. I’ve inspected every inch of my spacious rooms, hunting for a getaway route. So far, I haven’t found any handles that turn or windows that open. No bookcase that pops out and leads down a secret passageway.

I flick my scrutiny to my untouched bed. One of the soldiers, I think it was my erstwhile personal guard, Wheeler, told me that was how Roth made it out of his mansion. An escape bed, he called it.

With a shrug, I step toward the gaudy upholstered bedframe, contemplating where a switch or button might be cleverly concealed, then the door opens.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” my alleged aunt says by way of hello. “I’m pleased you live by this adage as well.”

She wears the same bone-white suit from our earlier encounter, as sharp and flawless as she is. Not a wisp of her shiny hair is out of place, and her face glows with vivacity. Despite the hour, she looks fit for a gala.

Or her quinceañera, more like. Isn’t it well past her bedtime by now?

“Want to have some fun?” Valeria asks, a villainous twinkle in her eye. I’m guessing her idea of a good time is completely unlike mine.

Don’t be a fool. Water polo, soccer, getting lost on pebblestone beaches, the things I used to love, are entertainments for the boy I once was. The boy with the wool safely covering his eyes. I’ve no idea what fun is to me any longer.

Still, I hesitate. This causes Valeria to approach me, her unhurried gait as dignified as a tiger’s.

She embodies the meaning of her name: strength.

“¿Dónde está el gobernador?” I ask her in Spanish, trying to bypass the redundancy of the translator necklace. But this proves futile, as the device around my neck repeats my question in English. Where is the governor?

“You speak Spanish? You might be more than just looks after all,” Valeria says, seeming pleased. “The Lone Star is still with the lieutenant.”

She then surprises me by reaching out to touch me, laughing when I pull away.

“So jumpy,” she jeers. “Stay still.”

Cross at giving her the upper hand—Tigers can smell weakness—I force myself to stand unflinching.

She traces a finger along my translator to the back of my neck, then presses a series of buttons, disabling the device. “Let’s test if I can trust you.”

She doesn’t drop her hand. Instead, Valeria curls her long fingers around my throat.

I remember our earlier encounter and her warning. It was more like a threat, clear as Salazar crystal.

Never lie to me again.

That’s going to be difficult. Everything about me is a lie.

“It’s useful having someone here to practice my English with,” she says. “Even if you are a boring northerner . . .” The tips of her sharp nails dig into my skin, drawing blood. “Is that why the Lone Star brought you? To be my companion?”

Not on your life.

I say nothing, but don’t break from her inquisitive gaze.

Big cats are predators that prefer to ambush prey. If I show no fear by looking her in the eyes, announcing myself as a predator too, she will be less likely to attack.

“Follow me, nephew,” Valeria commands, releasing my windpipe.

If I’m not going to rest, it’s a better use of my time to go with her and scope out more of the fortress. I’ll sleep when I’m dead is right.

“Después de ti,” I say, not conceding everything to the girl. After you.

I extend my arm toward the open door.

She smiles, approving of my stubbornness.

“We’re going to be friends, aren’t we, Theo?” she declares, like it isn’t really a question. She has an eerie, wistful expression on her unnaturally symmetrical face, similar to the one Roth had when taking stock of me in the Beast after my final runaway attempt.

I don’t like it.

But I answer her delusional assertion with a coy smirk and an impish shrug. Better to play the puppet. Let her believe she is the master. Like with Governor.

I follow Valeria out of my room and down a long corridor that ends with a glass elevator. We walk slowly, quietly, and alone. The armed cartel women who I saw guarding her earlier today are nowhere in sight. From what I can tell, she has no weapon either.

Valeria scans her ringed thumb and the doors immediately ping open. As we enter the see-through compartment, I eyeball the gurgling water fountain in the entrance lobby three floors down, the two cartel men at the front door holding semiautomatics, then Valeria’s choice of statement footwear. I’d install an elevator too, if I had to walk around this mansion in those torture devices.

“Doesn’t the capo run the cartel from Mexico City?” I ask, breaking the silence. “Why do you live here, and not with your mom?”

Get her talking. Gather intel. Keep a look out for an exit plan.

“I don’t live here,” she scoffs, as if this sprawling estate is beneath her. “I left the Salazar property in Mexico City to be a part of the Lone Star’s welcoming committee.”

She orders something in the clipped code language, and the elevator dings closed. We drop smoothly to ground level.

“Did you really invent the cartel’s language?” I question. “Impressive.” What is she, a wunderkind?

“That’s just a taste of what I’m capable of,” she answers, strutting out into the lobby.

Valeria keeps her leisurely pace as we head into another extensive corridor, giving me adequate time to scour future break-out options.

Double windows flank the back entrance, no obvious locks. Four armed cartel men pace the grounds outside. No windows in the hallway.