Chapter 1

ESME

Dad will kill me if he finds out I’m fucking his enemy.

Before that happens, I’m leaving.

I stare back at Lorenzo’s drunk ass. He’s splayed across the bed, legs everywhere, his breathing steady and deep. He’s completely oblivious to the fact that his little prisoner is currently escaping the grasp he’s held for years.

He’s been my everything, the only person who ever really gave a fuck about me in his own sick way.

My father never had a spare second for me while I was growing up; he was always too busy building an empire to notice the daughter living in it. Lorenzo was the one who actually showed up. He made me feel seen.

He made me feel like a woman—the kind of relationship you’d never expect between a niece and her uncle.

And despite my flight leaving in an hour, I’m paralyzed by sudden cold feet. The sinful, treacherous part of me doesn’t want to live this quiet life; it wants to stay and explore whatever more sick, twisted devotion Lorenzo has to offer.

But I can't.

It's best for everyone this way. For me and Dad.

For Lorenzo? He won’t be bothered. He’s always been better at punching his way through problems than feeling them.

________

At the check-in counter, I’m frantically digging through my bag, my heart pounding in my ribs as the line moves forward. It’s almost my turn. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be over the Atlantic, but I can't find my passport.

Finally! I found it at the very bottom, buried under a mess of old receipts and a stray lipstick.

Just as I'm about to take it out, my phone vibrates. An unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Hey," Lorenzo’s voice is low, smooth, and dangerously sober for someone who was wasted a while ago.

"I just realized I have your passport in my coat pocket. I must have grabbed it by mistake when we were in bed. Do you have mine?"

My blood runs cold.

I drop my bag, ignoring the annoyed looks from the people behind me, flipping through the passport as if my name will magically appear.....

But the name I see is LORENZO RODRIGUEZ

"You’ve got to be fucking—" I catch myself just as the woman at the counter looks up.

He didn't grab it by mistake. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

I grip the phone so tight my knuckles turn white.

"You—"

"Don't get worked up; mistakes happen." He cuts me off smoothly, and I can practically hear the smirk in his voice. "Be home soon. Your abuelito’s party is rolling."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the blank screen as the realization sinks in. He just took the only chance I had to escape flawlessly.

"Next in line,"

Shit.

An hour later, I’m standing at the entrance of the estate. The music is already thumping through the walls—that heavy jazz that my grandfather loves.

I don’t want to be here, but instead, I’m smoothing out my dress and trying to look like the dutiful granddaughter while my blood boils.

I scan the crowd, ignoring the greetings from cousins and family friends, looking for one person.

And then I spot him in the corner.

In a simple black shirt half-buttoned, hair messy as if he just rolled out of bed, literally. Putting on the fake hangover look.

He’s leaning back, completely at ease, as if he hadn't just committed a kidnapping by proxy. When he catches my eye, he raises his glass like an invitation to come play.

Bastard!

I storm towards him.

"Esme?"

Shit, Grandpa.

I stop dead in my tracks, plaster a smile on my face, and turn.

"Hey, Grandpa." My smile widens as I spread my arms out for a hug.

But he doesn't seem too impressed, face scrunched like wrinkled clothes.

"Where were you?"

Before I can finish cracking my brain for a believable excuse, he cuts in.

"Forget it. You’re late, and I’ve been standing here like a fool waiting for my favorite granddaughter to give me the first dance." He tries to look stern—the same look that makes grown men in this city tremble—but his eyes soften the second they land on me.

"Come," he commands, taking my hand. "Dance with your old man."

I let him lead me to the floor, but I’m a total mess. I’m clumsily moving my feet, nodding at his stories about the "good old days," my head is on a swivel.

I keep my eyes glued to the corner, tracking Lorenzo’s every move.

Lorenzo doesn't move for a long time. He just watches us, looking bored and lethal all at once.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it. He takes one slow drag, his eyes burning into mine over the flame, before he finally stands up, rounds the corner of the bar, and disappears.

Shit.

"Uh, Grandpa... I need... to go," I stammer, already untangling my fingers from his grip.

"What's so urgent now?" he hollers over the music, pure confusion on his face. It hurts to break his heart, but someone’s going to teach Lorenzo a lesson.

I weave through the dancing couples with a single-minded focus on the hallway where Lorenzo vanished.

He rounds another corner, and it looks like—

Wait, is he...?

That's my dad's bedroom.

The audacity!

Is he trying to get us caught?

"Lorenzo!" I yell, breaking into a run.

I march in, slamming the door shut behind me and intercepting him before he can even reach the bed, grabbing his collar and slamming his back against the wall with every ounce of strength I have.

"You---"

"Uh-uh, don't do that," he says, his face unreadable. Can’t tell if he's amused or angry or even being flirty; he’s so unpredictable and annoying.

Annoying in a way that makes my heart flutter and effortlessly makes me chase him.

I feel like I want to explode. It’s not just the rage for screwing up my plans; it’s the way he so easily overrides my common sense, making me want him even when I should be stabbing him. One look, and he sends a heat straight between my thighs. The ache that makes me hate myself as much as I hate him.

I grip his collar tighter, daring him.

He shakes his head, his voice dropping an octave, "I told you not to do that. It'll turn me on, and I'll end up fucking you in your daddy's bed. Would you like that?"