"Kiss me." He picks me up and kisses me again.
His hands on my waist, my hands in his hair and my lips all over him.
I think I don't have a crush anymore.
I think i'm in love.
We break the kiss and he looks at me, "I'm so fucked aren't I my Val?"
︶꒦...
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"What are you going to do now?" Mateo raises an eyebrow.
"This is your fault," I explain.
I cringe at the high-pitched squeals from a group of girls nearby. Normally, I wouldn't mind, but this bar is loud and obnoxious tonight.
"Really, it's my fault? You're the one who couldn't get one thing right. I said, 'Shoot the girl,' and you went off and fell for her again." Mateo sips his beer, smirking.
"I didn't fall for her." My tone is stern, defensive.
I glance around the bar, avoiding eye contact with Mateo. He's the type who analyzes people for fun, and if I meet his gaze too long, he'll see right through my lie.
I didn't fall for Valentina. I sunk.
This woman was ethereal, extraordinary. From the moment I had the chance to have her in my life, I knew I had to take it. But I didn't realize the consequences until it was too late.
"Either way, you need to sort this out. Give her a new identity and tell her to run."
My chest tightens. I don't want to lose her, but I can see in her glassy eyes that all she wants is freedom.
"Her father will find out," I say, trying to stay rational. Don't be emotional.
"True. If only our father hadn't screwed up and left us with the consequences." Mateo's eyes drift to a woman swaying her hips to the music.
"You're married," I say, raising an eyebrow.
"Tell Valentina I'm officially divorcing her," he mutters, his gaze fixed on the woman dancing like there's no tomorrow, her hands roaming her body.
"Right..." I mumble, taking a sip of my wine.
"I give you my blessing," Mateo nudges me, grinning. I glare at him in disgust. I don't need his blessing.
"What did you call me here for?" I ask, annoyed. Mateo had called me an hour ago, claiming something urgent had come up.
"I just realized... whether we kill the girl or not, her father will still come after us."
"Great!" Sarcasm drips from my words as I watch Mateo rub his forehead in frustration.
"Look, her father doesn't even care about her. It's probably guilt over his dead wife or something..." Mateo says.
Who would feel guilty for her?
"So what do you want me to do about it?" I respond, exasperated.
"I need you to record her saying some nice things—like she's on holiday or something."
"I'm not doing that, dumbass."
For someone with an IQ of 160, Mateo can be dumber than the average guy.
