LOGINTwo lives. One obsession.By day, she's a street thief with killer curves and a hidden hunger. By night, she sells her body to the highest bidder.By day, he's a billionaire CEO closing deals. By night, he's the masked mafia king who rules the shadows.She stole his black card. He stole her freedom.But years ago, behind masks in a dark room, their bodies already knew each other scent, scar, birthmark. Now the chase is on. And when the masks fall... neither will escape.
View MoreValentina ReyesI walked until the streetlights ran out of patience and the city started to feel like a stranger’s dream.Medellín at three in the morning was not the city I’d imagined. It was quieter than Queens, and darker, with narrow streets that climbed and curled around the hills in tight switchbacks. Shutters were down. A dog slept on a doorstep with its nose under its tail. Somewhere above me, on a slope I couldn’t see, a radio played a song so soft and sad it could have been a lullaby.I didn’t know where I was going.I only knew I couldn’t stand still. If I stopped, the walls would close in. The word daughter would find me. And wife, and armor, and bridge, and a dozen other words that other people kept tying around my neck like ribbons.So I walked.It took an hour. My feet, healed enough now to carry me, throbbed in the borrowed sneakers. I passed a shuttered bakery, a church with a blue door, a plaza with a dry fountain. And somewhere in the gray hour before dawn, I
Alessandro RossiVictor’s house sat at the top of a hill in El Poblado, behind a wall twelve feet high and a gate that took three men to open.It was a white villa with a red tile roof and a courtyard full of lemon trees. Floodlights, dogs, men with rifles at every corner. A swimming pool that glowed turquoise in the dark. Valentina had gone straight to a guest room on the second floor with a maid and a blanket and a cup of tea she wouldn’t drink, and I had let her go, because she’d asked for ten minutes alone and I had learned that when she asked for something she meant it.It was two in the morning.We sat in Victor’s study, a long, dim room paneled in dark wood, lined with books and trophies and a stuffed jaguar in a glass case. A fire burned in the grate, though the night was warm. Victor sat behind a mahogany desk with a glass of aguardiente at his elbow. Gino stood by the door. Kira’s face glowed on a laptop propped on a side table.And in a leather chair by the window, wit
Valentina ReyesI laughed.I hadn’t meant to. It came up out of me like a hiccup, dry and cracked and entirely out of place in that kitchen, and once it started I couldn’t stop. I stood in the middle of the room with a toy truck in my fist and laughed until my ribs ached, and the men in the doorway looked at each other, and Alessandro’s hands tightened on my arms.“Valentina.”“I’m fine.”“You’re not.”“I’m great.” I wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist. “I’ve had a good week. I got kidnapped. I got sold at auction. I found out my boyfriend is a mob boss and the father of my child, and now, in the kitchen of the apartment where my son was sold by his aunt, a Colombian drug lord rolls up his sleeve and tells me he’s my dad.”“Valentina…”“Anything else?” I said, to the ceiling. “Anyone else want to tell me something? Is the Pope my uncle? Does anyone have a long-lost twin?”Nobody spoke.I looked at Victor.He hadn’t moved. He stood with his sleeve rolled back and his can
Valentina ReyesI’d never seen a man look at me the way he did.Not with hunger. Not with calculation. Not even with the dark, careful possession I’d come to know in Alessandro’s face. This was something else, something I had no name for: an old man in a gray suit, standing in the doorway of my son’s kitchen, staring at me as if I were a ghost he’d spent thirty years praying for.Gino’s gun came up.“Gino,” Alessandro said, very quietly.“Boss, he…”“Put it down.”A long, heavy beat. Then the barrel lowered, an inch at a time.The old man didn’t seem to notice. His eyes hadn’t left my face. His cane trembled against the floor. His mouth worked, once, twice, and when he spoke at last, the polished baritone I’d heard only secondhand was gone. What remained was cracked and soft and disbelieving.“Valentina.”I stiffened.“You know my name.”“Your friend told me.” He took a step into the kitchen. Another. “On the phone, from the plane. He said Valentina Reyes had a boy, and th






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