“Jesus Christ!” one of them said.
“You said ‘fling.’” I spoke in a low voice from my seat in the shadows. “Is that what you call raping a woman? A fling? Is that how you justify it to yourselves? To each other? To your daughters, maybe?”
The men’s heads swung in unison to where I sat behind them.
“What the fuck?” A tall skinny guy said.
I took a long drag of my cigarette.
“Do you think the Mexican authorities will take kindly to you raping one of their women?”
“Who the fuck are you?” another one said.
“I’m here to teach you a lesson,” I said, exhaling my cigarette smoke.
“Oh yeah?” The biggest one started stumbling my way.
I raised my gun. “Easy sailor.”
He drew up short.
“Fuck, she’s got a gun.”
“It has a silencer,” I helpfully pointed out.
“What do you want from us?”
“I really want to kill you, but I don’t think I can do that right now.”
“Right now?” I could see the man’s Adam’s apple bob.
“Strip,” I said.
“What?”
“Take off all your clothes.”
“No fucking way.”
I was up and had the gun shoved halfway up the guy’s nose before he could react.
“I said strip.”
“Okay,” he said.
I stepped back out of range of any wild throws or kicks he might attempt.
He took off his shirt first. I could see the rage race through him as he did.
He kicked off his shoes and dropped his pants to the cement,
The other two followed suit meekly.
“Stand there. Together.”
While I wished I had time to do more, I settled for taking their cell phones and snapping pictures of them all standing naked in a huddle and then sending them to the wives’ phone numbers. They were easy to find. They were the most frequent numbers dialed or in the “favorites.”
I sent a text that said. “I am a pig and a rapist and don’t deserve you. You should ask me what I did to Catalina in Mexico and take me for every cent.”
“What are you doing with our phones?”
I didn’t look up and just continued texting as I spoke. “Did you know her name was Catalina?”
One of them swore softly. Another moaned and said, “I told you that was a bad idea.”
“If it was a bad idea, why’d you go along with it, fuckhead?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Please, please let us go. I’ve been sick ever since it happened.”
“Not so sick that you didn’t talk about doing the same thing to me tonight, though, right?”
He closed his eyes. Good. Be afraid.
I started to walk away with their phones
“Wait!” the tall skinny one said. “You can’t just take our phones.”
“The hell I can’t. There’s a car out front. It will take you to the airport. You will remain there for the rest of your trip and wait for your flight. Pick up your clothes and go now. You can dress in the car. It is leaving in exactly two minutes.”
“Fuck you.”
I didn’t know who said it. I paused, and without turning said, “A car has already gone ahead to the airport. Your passports and plane tickets will be waiting for you at the airport’s lost and found. If you don’t get in the car and leave immediately, I will make sure that the passports never make it to lost and found. If you are late, they will be destroyed.”
“Shit.”
I heard them scrambling to grab their clothes as I dipped into a corner corridor that led to the alley. There, I crept around the building and peered out from the side until I saw all three pile into the car and it drove away.
22
Nico woke late at his beach house. The sun was high overhead. He hadn’t arrived until late the night before and hadn’t turned in until almost dawn. He’d been up late thinking about his life and wishing that he had fallen in love with Valeria. He was lonely.
But all that would end when his daughter was there with him.
Anthony had said they were following leads. He told Nico not to worry. He was confident they would find the girl before Nico left the beach house.
And Nico believed him. Anthony was utterly reliable. When he said something would happen, it did.
Nico climbed out of bed and was preparing to do his morning workout when he saw he’d missed a call. It was from Anthony.
He dialed his attorney’s number.
“Your men arrived at the hotel,” Anthony said. “But the American men were already gone. They went to the airport.”
He glanced at the clock. “Are they still in the country? Were they warned?”
“Interestingly enough, there was somebody else in town unhappy with their actions.”
Nico froze. Who would dare to act without his orders in Farallon? It was his town. From top to bottom. From north to south.
“Do you remember that woman they said arrived a few days ago?” Anthony said.
“The Palm Beach divorcée?”
“Yes.”
“What does she have to do with it?”
“Maybe everything.”
23
It was nearly too good to be true. All his problems might be solved in the simplest manner. And sometimes simple was best. Just like ex parsimoniae, also called "the law of briefness,” specified: “more things should not be used than are necessary.”
24
The next morning at breakfast, Miguel brought me coffee and then paused.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Senorita, you do not need to worry anymore,” he said.
“Oh really?” I looked up, sounding curious.
“The American men are gone.”
I made an exaggerated sigh and leaned back in my seat. “Oh, thank God.”
There was not even the slightest suspicion in Miguel’s eyes as he smiled at my reaction.
“It is good, no?”
“Yes,” I said, exhaling loudly again. “I was actually considering hiding in my room all day until I knew the coast was clear.”
He nodded seriously. And then he leaned down conspiratorially. “Somebody took care of them.”
I gasped. “Are they dead?”
I could’ve won a fucking Oscar for the whole performance.
He shook his head. “No, but they were forced to leave last night. All of their belongings were destroyed. Thrown in the pool.”
I sat up straight. “Good.”
“Yes,” he was practically gleeful.
I leaned over and whispered. “Who did it?”
He kept his voice low. “I cannot say, but I do know that we are expecting a very powerful, important visitor today. He has sent his men ahead of him. Maybe they learned of these men and wanted them gone ahead of time.”
“Oh,” I made my voice sound intrigued. “Is it a famous movie star or celebrity I might know?”
“I cannot say, senorita. My apologies.”
It was time to change the subject.
“Thank you for that wonderful news. I think I will celebrate by having a mimosa.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You know—orange juice and Champagne.”
“Aha. Yes. I do know that. Mimosa. That is good. I might even have one myself,” he said with a small laugh.
Once he’d left, I finally relaxed. My cover remained intact.
And I’d just received good intel—El Jefe was arriving today. Not tomorrow as expected.
After a quick breakfast—an egg dish with chorizo and cheese—I downed my mimosa and coffee and, with a cup of coffee to go, headed back to my room. It was time to scope out El Jefe’s place from the beach.
Eva had said it was south of the downtown area and had tall concrete walls separating it from the beach.
I changed into a red bikini, put a white crocheted cover-up over it,
slathered my scar with stage makeup, donned my dark sunglasses and floppy hat, and packed a straw beach bag with a towel, a book, suntan oil, and a bottle of water before setting off. But at the door, I turned and stuck one of my daggers into the bottom of the bag. Just in case.
About a quarter-mile down the beach, the houses became larger—big white stucco or sandstone homes with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean. Most had low brick walls separating their backyards, filled with lounge chairs, from the beachfront.
All the houses had signs advertising alarm systems. Most looked empty. It must have been the off-season.
Even from a distance, I could tell I was growing close to El Jefe’s beach house. A few of the homes now had large walls, but this one was over the top. Inside its walls, it was surrounded by a forest of palm trees and other tropical foliage. I idly walked out to the water, stepping in the wet sand with the waves lapping my feet, so I could get a better vantage point of the house beyond the wall.
As I drew closer, I only got a glimpse of the uppermost story of the house. It rose slightly above the canopy of trees. It looked like a glass-walled penthouse with a small deck. Since I was still some ways away, I was staring directly at the home and practically jumped when I saw a figure standing on the upper deck. Slowly, in an attempt to not draw attention to myself, I slightly shifted my head so it was more forward facing, but kept my eyes—behind my dark sunglasses—trained on the figure. Shit. El Jefe was already there.
This was the big boss in the flesh. A jolt of fear and excitement-spiked adrenaline ripped through me as I realized I was looking at El Jefe himself. He wore a white button down shirt and loose white pants. He was leaning against the low railing of the upper deck and staring out at the sea. His head turned to clock my approach. I kept my gaze straight ahead, as if he could see through my sunglasses, and watched him out of my peripheral vision as I passed along the beachfront in front of him.
I’d planned on possibly spreading out my towel near his house and sunbathing that day, but now it seemed obvious and contrived to do so since I knew he was already there.
I could practically feel his eyes on me as I continued down the beach. I went about another twenty minutes down the beach until I hit a rocky outcrop where that stretch of beach ended.
I walked leisurely back toward the house one more time, this time pausing briefly before I reached it to extract a bottle of water from my bag and take a long pull on it. I wasn’t directly in front of the house, but I wasn’t far away, which gave me a chance to stop my stroll and watch the house out of the corner of my eye. It looked deserted now. The upper deck was empty. But I’d definitely gotten his attention earlier. My hope was that he’d send someone to town to ask about me. And good old Miguel would tell him the story about the Palm Beach divorcée, heartbroken but looking for help in healing her heart with a handsome Mexican man.
Right before I tucked the water back into my bag I caught a glimpse of someone standing at the upper deck window looking out. At me.
I straightened and moved on, passing by the house and keeping my eyes on the stretch of beach before me.
Back in my room, I slammed and locked the door behind me for some reason. I lay on the bed; my heart was pounding. And it wasn’t from the walk. Game time, bitches.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the man standing on the upper deck in detail. I was pretty far away, but I recalled an image of a man with a full head of slicked-back black and gray hair and a matching goatee. Dark skin was a stark contrast to his white clothing. But his posture leaning against the rail was what interested me most. He appeared confident, secure, poised. Powerful.
My eyes snapped open, and I laughed at myself. All that from a few seconds of glimpsing the man? What? Absurd.
I sat up and reached for my to-go cup of coffee. It was cold. I went down the hall to the ice machine and made it an iced coffee.
Then I grabbed my woven bag and stepped outside onto my tiny patio. A foldable lounge chair rested on the wall. I picked it up and headed down to the water. About halfway to the waves, I set up my chair. I rubbed my body down with the suntan oil—the coconut, tropical smell taking me right back to summers at Carmel Beach with my girlfriends as we worked on our tans. I was always dark by the end of the first day. My fair-skinned friends acted jealous, but there was always that underlying hint of prejudice.
Even on the Monterey Peninsula where the Italians were the most powerful businessmen—the ones who founded Cannery Row and still ruled that stretch of coast—people looked down on Italians.
A lot of it I didn’t comprehend at the time, but now as an adult, all the looks and the strange comments from my friend’s parents— “Your dad seems to do very well in business? Isn’t he friends with the Bonadonna family?”—made sense now.
They all thought they were better than us. That much had always been clear to me.
The first time I realized it as a kid was when a classmate had called me and my father a racial slur.
Thank God those days were gone.
I wouldn’t trade all the money in the world to be a teenage girl again. Pure. Fucking. Torture.
Sipping on my coffee, I fished my cigarette pack out of my bag. I would quit again as soon as I was back in California, I vowed. I needed something to tamp down this surge of anxiety I felt. It was like the adrenaline rush I used to feel before a martial arts sparring match in high school. It was the anticipation of battle, confrontation, something big.
I lit the cigarette and had just exhaled when I heard the sound of a boat approaching. Soon, there was a larger size ski boat straight out in front of me on the water. It only had one person in it—the driver. El Jefe. I watched as he dropped anchor off the side. I leaned forward in my chair, fascinated. What in the fuckity fuck was going on? He’d blatantly stopped right in front of my hotel.
He was fiddling around with something, then he stood and stripped off his shirt. Even from my seat I could see he was in excellent shape. Then he dropped the loose white pants, revealing swim trunks that looked like spandex bicycle shorts. He stepped onto the sleek bow of the boat and walked confidently to the pointy prow. He’d seemed to not notice me. Until now. He turned to look right at me.
My breath caught in my throat. He gave the slightest nod and then executed a perfect dive off the boat and sliced into the turquoise waters.
I quickly gathered up my things and hurried back to my patio. There, in the safety of the patio’s shade, I lit another cigarette and watched him paddle around the perimeter of the boat until his sleek head emerged out of the water at the stern. He pulled himself up by a small ladder. I watched as he stood in the center of the rocking vessel and dried his hair with a white towel. He pulled up the anchor and started his engine, heading north, away from his home.
I realized I’d been standing there with my mouth wide open as my cigarette had burned down to the filter, a huge, long ash plopping to the ground.
Well. Well. Well. He’d certainly done a good job getting my attention.
Mission accomplished, sailor.
Thank you, Miguel, for spreading word about the distraught Florida divorcée looking for love. Good thing old El Jefe was apparently a player. This would be easier than I thought.
25
Of course, he knew who she was before she walked by on the beach below his house while trying so hard to seem nonchalant, thinking foolishly that sunglasses and a hat could fool him. He’d studied pictures of her over the past week. He knew every curve of that body. How her jawline was defined. The pout of her lips. That sexy scar near her temple.
As soon as he’d learned that a woman had confronted the American rapists, he’d known. Reports of a black-haired beauty who could take down three large men at once made it pretty obvious. Although, interestingly enough, she’d allowed them to live. Unlike the fate of his three soldiers in Calistoga. He was intrigued.
It was obvious it was the same woman.
Giada Valentina Santella.
26
After El Jefe’s performance at the beach that afternoon, I knew he would be at the restaurant that night for dinner. What I hadn’t anticipated is that he would already be there seated at my “usual” table.
As Miguel walked me in and I saw El Jefe sitting there, I drew up short.
He stood and smiled. “Would you care to join me?”
I purposefully hesitated for just a second and then gave a slightly surprised and uncertain smile before nodding.
He jumped up and pulled out my chair for me. When I looked around, Miguel had disappeared.
I demurely unfolded my napkin and placed it in my lap, trying to avoid his eyes.
When I looked up, he was staring. He had flashing black eyes and was unexpectedly handsome. I hadn’t heard this about him. He exuded a powerful animal magnetism that made me wary.
I waited for him to speak first.
“I don’t usually encounter visitors like you in my secret hideaway,” he finally said. He frowned as he said it. Fuck. He was suspicious.
“Who said this is ‘your secret hideaway?’” I said lightly. “Do you own this town?”
He let out a loud laugh. “No.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“It’s just that it’s not on the regular tourist destination path. Especially for Americans.”
I lifted my glass of water to my lips and took a sip before answering. “Which is precisely why I’m here.”
“So I’ve heard,” he said in a murmur. “A beautiful woman named Serena who obviously has a fool for an ex-husband.”
“I guess nothing remains secret in this town,” I said. I kept my tone light and my manner nonchalant.
“I make it my business to know what’s going on.”
“What is your business?”
He smiled and his teeth flashed white. “Knowing what’s going on.”
“The advantage is yours,” I said. “I don’t even know your name.”
Stone Cold Page 7
