Mine (Beautiful Sinner Series Book 3) by Elena M. Reyes

Author:Elena M. Reyes [Reyes, Elena M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-03-26T18:30:00+00:00

“Wake up, asshole,” I sneer early the next day while grabbing a bucket full of dirty mop water and throwing the contents at his head. The wetness spreads all around Sergio, one rivulet coming to a stop just in front of my all-white Pumas.

At once, Sergio sputters as a few drops of water rolling down his face slip between parted lips. His face scrunches up before his taste buds fully decipher the nasty taste; it’s the same water used to clean the mess my large hogs leave behind on the premises.

“What the fuck?”

I toss him an old rag. “Sit up and clean your face.”

Sergio glares at me, not fully taking me in as I stand in the doorway to one of our detainment cells. The bright Florida sun is harsh on the eyes and he begins to squint soon after. “Who the fuck is there? I demand to be—” His words die as I take two steps forward, my hard stare meeting his now scared one.

“Good. You’re learning some manners.” The table is an old, scratched up wooden piece of shit in a hideous pine color and the dirty water from the bucket pools at the center. The walls are an off-white that now seems yellow in the daylight, and the only thing dry is a chair against the wall and I grab it, flipping it around so I can sit backwards. “Full name?”

“Where am I, Thiago? Where’s Jadiel?” His eyes shift around nervously, taking in his surroundings. “What day is it?”

Miguel, who stands behind him, reaches out and grabs a fistful of his black hair and yanks back on his ponytail, causing Sergio’s neck to extend into an uncomfortable position. He stares at my guard, mouth agape, throat bobbing harshly as Miguel’s hand comes down across his cheek. “Only answer what is asked. Nothing else.”

“Okay.” That earns him another strike. Sergio’s face is now red, and the fingerprints left behind are becoming more pronounced.

“That’s enough.” At my mock admonishment, my guard lets him go, pushing him forward and toward the Ruger now atop the table. “Let’s give the man a chance to answer.” Scared eyes meet mine. He’s sweating. “What. Is. Your. Full. Name?”

He swallows hard. “Sergio Martinez.”

“And your age?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Where were you born?”

“New Jersey.”

“Where in Jersey?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. I also know that’s not the last name on his birth certificate. Martinez is his deceased grandmother’s maiden name.

Why’s he choosing to lie? Don’t know, but it won’t remain a mystery for long. Today is his only warning because Sergio Martin, not Martinez, is from the same city as my Luna.

He hung out at the same places. He was friends with her male older cousin from her mother’s side who passed away from a car crash the night of his twenty-second birthday.

They weren’t close—he barely knew my queen—but I do remember her sad eyes when they found out. I remember Yvette dragging her and Natasha back to Westfield for a weekend of mass, a vigil, and then burial.

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