Stone Cold

by Kristi Belcamino

  But El Jefe didn’t even look my way as he shook some red pepper flakes into the oil. The kitchen was starting to smell fragrant. I was frozen, half afraid and half exhilarated that he knew who I was. He turned to get the meat off the counter. I watched as he lifted the cutting board and lay the slices of meat in the oil one by one.

  “My mama made the best salsa in Guatemala. It is a closely guarded secret. Only other famiglia are allowed to know all the ingredients. You and I are, in a way, connected through Rosalie, so we are somewhat like family. Because of that, I think it is fair that you are privy to the recipe. Plus, I have really been craving it lately. I have a fresh bag of chips from the café that are still warm and salty. We will have that as our appetizer.”

  Still, I stood without speaking or moving. I needed to gather my wits. And fast. I was afraid to speak. I didn’t want to say something stupid or have him hear any fear or uncertainty in my voice.

  I took a few seconds to gather my thoughts and then reached over to grab a yellow flowered apron that was flung over the back of a chair. I tied it on and then picked up the butcher knife.

  “Okay, sailor,” I said. “I assume I chop the tomatoes first?”

  He looked over his shoulder and clocked me holding the gleaming butcher knife in one hand. I smiled and cocked my head.

  “Yes, please. The tomatoes are washed and ready to go. There are two dozen. I think we must use them all. At least enough to fill that stainless-steel bowl.” He paused, taking me in. “I should’ve let you wear the blue apron. Yellow is not your color.”

  Fuck you. But I bit my tongue and swallowed down the words.

  “But the blue looks so good on you,” I said instead. “Does your army of assassins know that blue aprons with flowers on them bring out your eyes?” I asked.

  “My white butcher’s apron is in the laundry,” he said and winked. “Besides, I was kidding about the yellow. You look stunning.”

  I ignored the compliment and set to work on the tomatoes using a small marble cutting board.

  “¡Buen dios!” he said loudly, and I jumped. “I can’t believe I forgot the music. One cannot cook without music.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “I was going to say something…”

  He laughed. I liked his laugh. A lot. He leaned over and hit a button and some up-tempo Latin music filtered out of speakers above us. He hummed and danced a little as he flipped the meat with tongs. I watched him from behind as I chopped. Could this be any more surreal? No. No fucking way it could get any stranger. I was standing in the kitchen of the world’s top drug lord, chopping tomatoes and watching him dance in front of a stove with a flowered apron on. What the fuckity fuck?

  When the tomatoes were done, I reached for the jalapeños. He glanced over and when he saw me slicing the jalapeños, he rushed over.

  “No, mia cara, you need gloves.”

  “Huh?”

  “You are Italian, no?”

  “Um, yeah. Italian-American.” I squinted as he reached into a drawer and extracted some latex gloves.

  “We Latinos know that you must use gloves with peppers. Wear these. The seeds and juices from those particular peppers are known to cause third-degree burns. The capsaicin is very strong. That is why I only have two small peppers for that entire bowl of salsa.”

  He took one of my hands and slipped the glove on, working the latex onto my hand with both of his hands in a caressing motion. When I looked up, he wasn’t looking at my hands but was staring at my face. I swallowed.

  When he reached for my other hand, I plucked the glove from him.

  “I got it,” I said in a matter-of-fact voice. “I think you need to check the meat.”

  His head swiveled. “Oh, yes.” He was at the stove shaking the pan with the meat in it before I could blink.

  “Thank goodness. This is a tricky part,” he said. “The meat has to be just right or the whole meal is ruined.”

  As I finely minced the onion and garlic, he extracted the strips of meat from the skillet with tongs and set them on a plate nearby. Then he poured more oil and red wine into the skillet and the liquids began to boil.

  He came over and grabbed a handful of the onion I had just chopped and dumped it in the skillet where it instantly sizzled. He plucked a massive bouquet of cilantro from a glass of water and chopped the leaves and stems into smaller bits. He tossed some into my bowl of salsa ingredients and then some into the skillet with the onions. Then he added the meat back into the skillet, turned the heat down and put a lid on it.

  “Aha. Now, we have a celebratory drink as the meat soaks up the juices and the salsa marinates.”

  He poured wine into a blue glass and handed it to me.

  “Shall we?” He gestured to the back door. I followed him out to a small patio area with a fire pit and Tiki torches. Everything was already lit, casting the patio in a soft glow.

  We settled into teak chairs with a small table between us.

  “Gia Santella. When they told me about you, they forgot so many important details.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Your beauty, yes. But what you have is more compelling than beauty. You have something else. I’ve met the most beautiful women in the world. But you have something they don’t.”

  I was tempted to roll my eyes. Dude could lay down the lines like a master fisherman.

  Instead of acknowledging his words, I reached for my wine glass and took another sip.

  But this time he didn’t speak first. I waited. Finally, I turned to make sure our eyes met as we spoke.

  “It is true. I do have something else they don’t have.”

  He exhaled audibly, instantly picking up on my meaning. “Yes.”

  “She is happy with me.”

  “I can see why she would be,” he said.

  “I would die for her.”

  His eyes bored into mine as if he were searching the very depths of my soul. I did not look away. I wanted him to see that I meant what I said. I wanted him to feel my sincerity deep down inside his being. His eyes slightly widened, and he nodded very slowly.

  “Yes. I believe that.” He stood. “I think dinner is ready. We will eat at the kitchen table. The formal dining room is a bit dreary. I usually serve meals there with people I don’t really care for.”

  He walked in without waiting for my answer, leaving his wine glass on the table. I picked up both our glasses and followed, perfectly aware that it meant I had no free hand to fight or defend myself. And still I didn’t hesitate.

  The weight of the gun in my bag as it slapped against my hip brought me comfort.

  I put our wine glasses down on the table and turned to the kitchen island. Nico handed me a small, colorful ceramic bowl with some of the salsa and a larger matching bowl filled with tortilla chips. I brought them to the table, and he soon joined me, bringing with him the strips of steak and a warm stack of soft corn tortillas.

  I hung my bag from the back of the chair as we sat down.

  “Not bad,” I said after I’d had a few bites.

  He burst into laughter. “That’s it? Not bad. I suppose you are naturally a gourmet chef, being Italian-American?”

  “Nah,” I said. “I can barely boil water. But my father was an amazing cook. And my friend….” I stopped. I’d almost said Dante’s name.

  “Oh, yes,” he said with a knowing smile. “Dante is an excellent cook. His restaurants have all received the James Beard award.”

  My appetite was gone. I set down my fork and knife. My face felt icy cold.

  “Yes, Gia. I know much about you and who you care for and how you spend your time. As I’ve told you—it’s my job to know things.”

  “What are you intending to do with those things you know?”

  “That depends on you,” he said, and speared another slice of steak and tortilla onto his fork. He chewed it and watched me.

  I took my bag off the back of my chair and set it in my lap. I watched his eyes as I unzipped it to see if he w
ould stop me. He appeared uninterested in what I was doing, blotting his mouth with a cloth napkin. Inside my bag, my fingers brushed up against the cold handle of my Glock. I withdrew a battered silver cigarette case and took out my pack of Dunhill blues. He watched me as I placed one between my lips and then leaned over one of the small votive candles to light it.

  I inhaled and scooted my chair back from the table, leaning back into it and watching him wordlessly.

  He oozed power in a way I’d never experienced before. I’d met some of the most evil and powerful men in the world. One man I’d fallen hard for had been a Silicon Valley founder who was going to build the first apartment complex to orbit the moon. He’d had world leaders in his pockets. But this man. This man’s power was something beyond even that.

  It wasn’t that he knew details about me and my life. Anyone could unearth those facts. It was the fact that under his tutelage, billions of dollars of drugs flowed throughout the Americas and beyond.

  “How can you live with yourself?” I said, exhaling above the table and reaching for my wine glass. I kept my eyes trained on him as I sipped. I didn’t need to elaborate.

  “It’s going to happen regardless of whether I’m involved—or even alive,” he said.

  “That’s not an answer,” I said.

  He pushed a small ceramic dish toward me and looked at the long ash hanging from my cigarette.

  I ashed my cigarette and waited. He reached over to my cigarette case and placed his hand on it, raising an eyebrow. I pushed it toward him.

  He lit a cigarette and exhaled before answering.

  “A boy born into the slums of Guatemala did not have many options to get to where I am today,” he said, looking off into the distance as if he were remembering.

  “And once you are there, are you trapped? Is it a prison?”

  “One with golden bars,” he said smoothly.

  “Must be rough,” I said.

  “I live a very simple and frankly, lonely, life.”

  “Is that why you decided that you suddenly want Rosalie? You want a daughter to keep you company?”

  Anger flared in his eyes, and he pushed his plate away forcibly.

  “You are not stupid. You know that I was lied to. You know that I didn’t even know Rosalie was alive.”

  “True,” I said, lightly. “But do you want a kid because you are lonely? Do you think it will bring you permanent company? Someone who has to stay with you?”

  I could tell he was trying to control himself. My words had pissed him off. Good. Now that I had my handbag in my lap, the weight of my Glock was reassuring.

  “I am her father,” his voice was louder than I’d ever heard it to that point. And powerful. I suddenly saw the cartel boss in all his glory.

  “And you think that means something to her? Or to me?” I said.

  He pounded his fist on the table and half-rose. “You are Italian. You know that familia is everything. You know. Don’t play stupid with me.” The angrier he got, the more his accent stood out. I hated myself for liking the way it sounded.

  I took out my gun and set it on the table, pointing it at him. “I came here to tell you to leave her alone.”

  He didn’t even look at my gun.

  “If I disagree?”

  “You die,” I said.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said. “You are not a killer like me. Do you know they call me that? Asesino a piedra fría?”

  I shrugged.

  “You will have to kill me to stop me from getting Rosalie. She is mine,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  He laughed. “You do not have the killer instinct.”

  “I’ve killed before. I took out three of your soldiers in California, remember?”

  To his credit, he winced.

  “Yes,” he said. “But you would not kill an unarmed man who just made you the most delicious meal you’ve had in ages. I dare you. Shoot me. Now. If you do, you can have Rosalie.”

  “I had better last night,” I said and squeezed the trigger. I aimed for his shoulder, near the collarbone. Red blossomed on the white shirt. The force pushed him back in his chair.

  “Mierda.” He grimaced but did not get up or even reach for his shoulder to staunch the bleeding. “Well?” he said. “Are you going to finish what you started?”

  I hated to admit it, but his tone was triumphant.

  “If I don’t, will you kill me?” I asked. “Do I have to kill you to keep Rosalie?”

  He shrugged. “If I didn’t kill you, people would no longer fear me.”

  I set my gun back down on the table.

  “You’re right,” I said, standing and turning toward the kitchen island. “I’m not a cold-blooded killer.”

  It was a gamble. But he had to take me seriously. He had to know I was not afraid of him. If I didn’t convince him, he would never give up on Rosalie. He remained seated. He hadn’t even reached for the gun.

  “I’m not a cold-blooded killer,” I repeated. “And neither are you.”

  “You are wrong,” he said.

  “The gun’s right there,” I said.

  “How do you know I won’t shoot you in the back?” he asked. “And what on earth are you doing anyway?”

  I was opening drawers in the kitchen one after the other as fast as I could.

  “Looking for something to stop that blood,” I said.

  “Under the sink,” he said.

  I found a small first-aid kit under the sink by a fire extinguisher. He was still sitting at the kitchen table, but he’d at least pressed his linen napkin to his shoulder to staunch the bleeding.

  The gun remained on my side of the table where I’d left it. I walked over with the first-aid kit and pulled a chair up close to his side. I leaned down and unbuttoned his shirt, trying not to think about the fact that he smelled really good. Some spicy cologne mixed with pure male scent. After his shirt was unbuttoned, I drew it back, taking the napkin he was holding away. I took a quick look at the flowing blood before pressing a small, clean square of gauze onto the wound. It was immediately soaked through. I grabbed another wad of gauze and pushed with both palms on it, leaning my body into it to stem the flow.

  He was losing too much blood.

  “You feeling okay?”

  He shrugged, then winced. “Would be a stupid way to die, bleeding out from a bullet to the shoulder in my own kitchen.”

  “You’re going to need a doctor,” I said.

  “She’s on the way.” His cell phone rested on the table. I hadn’t seen him do anything.

  “What are you going to say to her?” I said.

  “It was an accident.”

  “She’d better hurry,” I said, replacing the gauze with another one that immediately soaked through.

  “That was cute, though,” he said, looking at the first aid kit. “How you thought you could patch me up all by yourself.”

  I made a face.

  The doctor arrived less than a minute later with two male nurses. I used the code to let them in. She barely glanced at me and then rushed into the kitchen. She was older and rather large with a stethoscope around her neck. She was wearing a lavender velour tracksuit.

  The two men carried Nico into a small bedroom off the kitchen. I heard him exclaim loudly in a litany of Spanish curse words. I paced in the kitchen. None of this, not one single fucking second, had gone as I’d planned. I had no idea what to do next.

  Finally, the doctor came out. She handed me some pills.

  “Make sure he takes these when he wakes. They will fight infection. I gave him something to help with the pain and make him sleep.”

  I wordlessly took the pill bottle and watched as the two nurses filed out after her, closing the door behind them.

  I could hear El Jefe’s snores erupting from the open door of the darkened bedroom.

  What the fuck? I came to kill him or be killed, and now I was his goddamn nursemaid.

  34

  Once again, time to
pivot. Back to the original plan.

  All was good. He was nothing if not patient.

  Patience and persistence had served him well thus far.

  It was the secret to success.

  That and faith in the outcome.

  And he had nothing but faith.

  Full confidence.

  35

  I waited for two hours and El Jefe was still out. I had already snooped—oops, explored— the entire house. Part of me was tempted to just leave him there alone. But we still had unfinished business.

  I had immediately headed to the very masculine master bedroom on the top floor. It was within a small penthouse. The bedroom was taken up by a king bed with a dark brown leather headboard. I flipped on a light switch and hidden lights under the bed’s raised platform turned on. I flopped on the bed. I was tempted to close my eyes but knew I would fall asleep within seconds.

  Better to stick close.

  In his walk-in closet, I found a pair of silver silk pajamas. I stripped and slid them on. The pants were too long even if I rolled the waist over several times. I tried to cuff the pant bottoms but the silk material wouldn’t stay up, so I settled on wearing the pajama top alone, which was long enough to be a nightgown anyway.

  Back downstairs, I went to check on Nico. Still asleep. His breathing seemed less frenetic, though. I was so damn tired. I brought the gun in from the kitchen and set it on the nightstand before I crawled into the bed with him and slipped under the covers. I lay on my back staring at the dark ceiling, wondering what on earth was going on. But nearly as soon as I thought that, blackness closed in on me.

  I woke up startled and disoriented, sitting up and pushing bed covers off of me. I jumped when I felt someone at my side. I looked over to find El Jefe calmly watching me.

  “Buenos dias,” he said.

  I was already out of the bed. In the kitchen, I retrieved a glass of water and the pill bottle. Back in the room, I shook out two pills and handed them to him with the glass held out. He put the pills in his mouth. I watched as he struggled to sit, reaching for the glass of water. He winced in pain and lay back, groaning.