by M. Robinson
I didn’t waver, slamming the lid against his body, sending him reeling to the ground again. I was seeing red, making him see nothing but black. “Motherfucker, look what you did. This is one of my favorite fucking shirts.” I hit him once again, this time with my fist. “Now, I asked you a question. Do you like to hit women, asshole? Hmm… te gusta golpear a las mujeres?” I repeated in Spanish, his native tongue. “I asked you a question twice, motherfucker. Won’t be a third time.”
He spit more blood onto the pavement, grabbing onto his stomach. Failing miserably to get to his feet again. “Go fuck yourself, Montero!”
I slowly cocked my head to the side with a grin, peering over at Bossman who was leaning against the brick wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Cool, calm, and fucking collected.
“Did you hear what he said? He wants me to go fuck myself, right? That’s what he said?”
Bossman chuckled, knowing precisely what I was going to do. Not faltering, I spun back around and kicked him square in the throat. He recoiled, immediately gasping for air, thrashing around. Desperately gripping onto his throat as if his hands would suddenly allow him to breathe.
“You want me to go fuck myself, Luis? Is that what you want me to do?”
“No,” he whimpered.
With my foot, I rolled him onto his back before crouching down beside him. “What? You didn’t say that? You didn’t say go fuck yourself?” I taunted, kneeling one knee on his torso. Pressing all my weight onto his chest, making it nearly impossible for him to breathe. “You calling me a liar? I’m a liar, now?” I threw the lid in front of me, pulling out my gun. Aiming it right toward his cock.
His eyes widened.
“How about I fuck you, eh? How about I use my gun to fuck that tight, little, wife beating asshole of yours. We can even take bets on what goes off first, your mouth begging me to stop or my gun blowing out your fucking insides. My club would love that.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry,” Luis whined, his body shaking.
“You know saying sorry is a sign of weakness? Where’s the man who hits his wife, huh? The man who slaps around his little innocent kid? Where did that man go? The one who wanted to rape my girl and told me to go fuck myself? Where’s he hiding?”
“I…I…I—”
My phone rang, cutting him off. “Take care of this.” I nodded to Bossman, pushing off his chest to answer my phone. “This is Montero,” I answered.
“We’ve got a problem,” my security guard, Duke replied.
“Why is this my problem? I pay you a fuckload of money to handle it. So fucking handle it!” I argued, turning my back to the piece of shit. Walking a few feet away.
“It’s not that easy. We got two bikers at the door wanting to get in. Saying some shit about having a meeting with you.”
I looked down at my watch. “Fuck. Didn’t realize it was so late. Let them in, have one of the girls take their sweet ass time showing them to my office.”
As soon as I ended the call, I heard a single shot go off. Causing me to immediately turn around to find Bossman still leaning against the wall. The only thing that had changed was he was holding his gun aimed at Luis’ head. Laying him the fuck out.
“Seriously? After all that, you just killed him point blank? You couldn’t have fucked him up a little more?”
“Yeah.” He nodded with a stern expression, putting his gun away as he walked to the door. “You asked me to take care of it, and I did. I don’t play fucking games, it’s why I carry a gun. To take bitches out.”
I laughed, I couldn’t help it. Shaking my head, walking inside behind him to my office. Not bothering to clean myself up before taking a seat at the head of my long conference table. Bossman pulled up a chair to my right and one of my security detail stood guard on the other side of me.
I loosened my tie and undid the first few buttons of my vest, getting more comfortable. Deciding to leave my gun holsters securely strapped to my sides, but pulling out my Glocks and setting them on the table in front of me. The barrels pointing directly at where they’d be sitting.
Moments later, Electra opened the double doors, guiding the bikers over the threshold. Instantly noticing their hands never strayed far from their guns. I couldn’t blame them, they didn’t know what they were walking into. This could easily have been a setup.
My setup.
“You got some brass fucking balls, requesting a meeting with me when you’re a wanted fucking man,” I challenged, leaning back into my leather chair. Resting my hands behind my head.
My intense, menacing glare narrowed in, focusing solely on the first biker as if we were the only two in the room.
Creed Jameson.
VP of The Devil’s Rejects.
I did some digging into his MC after I saw who I assumed was his little brother in Oak Island. And goddamn did I find some gold. This was the first time I was meeting him in person, though. He looked like every other biker I’d came in contact with. Broody, pissed at the world, and covered in fucking tattoos.
He eyed me for a few seconds, taking in my disheveled appearance, specifically the blood on my rolled-up sleeves. He was fully aware of what kind of man I was, or else he wouldn’t have requested a meeting. His guarded stare quickly fell to where my guns were accurately placed.
“Please, by all means, gentlemen. Mi casa es su casa. Take a fucking seat,” I greeted, nodding to the empty chairs on the other end of the table. Directly in the line of fire with the barrels.
He looked over at Bossman, appreciating the detail of his ocean-inspired sleeve on his left arm. Not surprised in the least he was sitting beside me, probably realizing I had something to do with his escape.
“Who invited the white guy?” Creed joked, nodding to Bossman. I’m sure they’d done business together. Everyone knew everyone in this shady world, especially the men who were the most corrupt.
Bossman snidely smiled, scoffing out, “Your mom when she was sucking my cock last night.”
I stifled a chuckle.
“Good to see you out, man,” he added.
“Good to be seen.”
“Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? To what do I owe the honor of your presence, Mr. Jameson?” I chimed in, putting an end to the fucking chit-chat.
“Creed,” he simply stated.
“I wasn’t aware we were on a first name basis. You can call me Mr. Montero. You haven’t even earned the right to shake my goddamn hand, yet.”
“Just to sit in your presence then?”
“No. To answer my fucking questions. I’m known for having very little patience, Mr. Jameson. Would you like to test that fucking theory?”
I was over the pleasantries. We weren’t friends or even acquaintances for that matter. If it wasn’t for the fact I was genuinely curious on why he wanted a meeting with me, I’d call him in as a fugitive at large.
“With all due respect, Damien…”
I grinned, arching an eyebrow. Finding it amusing he didn’t bow down to me like most men would of in his situation.
“We asked for a meetin’ wit’ you. Not your fuckin’ entourage, yeah?”
“And here I thought we were all becoming friends now,” I mocked. “You’re coming into my territory, making demands? You really are just a stupid biker, eh?”
“Says the man who took the meetin’.”
I laughed, big and throaty. Grabbing my gun off the table and pointing at him. “I fucking like you! And because of that, I’m going to excuse your shitty manners, and not shoot you in the goddamn leg. You’re welcome. With that being said, what the fuck do you want?”
He nodded to my gun, silently ordering me to get it the hell out of his face.
“Bikers…” I dramatically breathed out, laying my Glock back on the table in front of me. Still pointing it directly at him. “They have no fucking respect for authority. You have five minutes before my hand gets cold and I get trigger happy.”
“What do you know ‘bout my father?�
� he asked, knowing he wasn’t going to win this battle.
“What do I know about him, or what do I have on him? See what I did there?” I leaned forward, placing my elbows on the table. “Learn to ask the right fucking questions to get the answers you need.”
The question he should have been asking was what didn’t I know about his father…
“I thought we were cuttin’ the bullshit. You know exactly what I fuckin’ mean. You help me, and I’ll help you. Now, those are words you fuckin’ understand, yeah?” he scorned, leaning into the table mirroring my posture. “You tell me what you got on my old man, and I’ll get you the fuckin’ evidence ya need to lock his ass away behind bars, for good.”
I smiled, leaning back into my leather chair. Now he was speaking my fucking language.
“You’re up for District Attorney, yeah? Breakin’ news… ‘El Santo, Damien Montero, brings down yet another notorious outlaw. MC President, Jameson of the Devil’s Rejects, who has been wanted by the FBI for decades. Evidence found, making him liable for the innocent lives he’s taken and other crimes punishable by the United States judicial system,” he proposed in a serious tone, glancing over at his friend. “What do ya think, bro? Sounds like a fuckin’ promotion to me.”
“I’d bet my Harley it was, and you know how much I love her,” his friend retorted, only looking at me.
“So… what do you know ‘bout my father?” Creed cocked his head to the side. “Am I askin’ the right question, now?”
I didn’t hesitate, ordering, “Leave us,” in a harsh, demanding tone.
They did as they were told. Bossman nodded over to Creed before he walked past them, followed by my guard. Standing up from my chair, I walked over to the makeshift bar in the corner of the room. Pouring three glasses of bourbon, setting them down in front of them before leaning against the edge of the table. I took a long swig from my glass, slamming it down on the surface when I was done.
Contemplating what I was going to say or how I was going to say it. “Have you ever wondered why your Prez and Martinez are friends?” I questioned, emphasizing the word are. Knowing he would immediately catch on to my subtle, yet not so fucking subtle reply.
He jerked back, stunned by my response.
“Hmm… I know you hate the motherfucker, but I’ve come to miss him. Things were a lot more entertaining when he was alive. Especially between your old man and him,” I added, setting out the bait I knew he’d catch.
“The fuck?”
“You said you wanted to know what I knew about your father. Not what I had on him. There’s your fucking answer. Now get the fuck out,” I demanded.
“You ain’t given me shit.”
“I’ve given you plenty. I’m a prosecuting attorney for fuck sake. Can’t put words in your mouth. Won’t hold up in fucking court,” I taunted, grinning. “It’s up to you to find what I need and then we’ll both get what we want. Entendido?”
I could have told them what I knew they’d eventually find, but again…
Where would the fucking fun be in that.
SEVEN
DAMIEN
One year later
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our new District Attorney, Damien Montero,” Mayor Tom Gino announced, introducing me to present my victory speech shortly after the local news stations announced my win. I strode with certainty and coolness onto the makeshift stage, past the armed security officers in fatigues up to the podium. Making sure to smile and wave at the press, my colleagues, and my campaign team, who were standing front and center, cheering me on. Everyone eagerly awaiting my first words as their new DA.
You would think after all this time in the public eye I would’ve been used to the reporters and the flashing lights from the cameras. The never-ending stream of microphones being shoved in my face, and every question under the fucking sun being shouted at me in a matter of seconds. I wasn’t though—at least not entirely. I never sought out the fame, it simply came along with the title.
“Damien, how does it feel to be the new District Attorney?”
“Mr. Montero, are you going to follow through on your campaign promises to clean up the streets for the lower-income housing?”
“What about the more strict, ridged policy you want in place for orphans when it comes to the homes they’re being placed or adopted into?”
“District Attorney Montero, please tell us how you plan to implement the new programs for our underprivileged youth to keep them off the streets?”
It was one question after another with no end in sight.
Once I stepped onto the stage, everyone started chanting my name, clapping loudly, and whistling from the crowd as white and blue balloons fell from the ceiling. Blanketing the crowd as they all anxiously waited for what I had to say.
Grabbing onto the microphone, I took one last glance around the space. Doing my best to ignore the stream of flashing lights that nearly blinded me. My eyes finally settled toward the back of the building where I could solely focus on what I had to say.
“Albert Einstein once said, ‘Strive not to be a success, but rather to be of value,’” I declared, making the sea of people go crazy. “Which is exactly what I will strive to do during my terms as District Attorney,” I confidently asserted, pausing for effect. Knowing damn well I would be re-elected for all three terms I could serve as DA.
One way or another, I’d make sure of it.
“I want to thank everyone responsible for me standing up here today. Especially, the people who pulled all-nighters, campaigning for my election. I’d like to thank my staff that worked around the clock, sacrificing time with their families and friends to be by my side. I’d also like to thank Police Commissioner Reynolds, Judge McClain, the police departments, and Mayor Gino for believing in me. Without all their efforts, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. And last, but certainly not least, are all the people who voted for me. Please, let’s give them all a round of applause.”
The crowd put their hands together as I did. Smiling down to my staff members before turning around to acknowledge everyone on the stage. Making sure I made eye contact with every last person I’d just named. Earning me a grateful smile and a nod.
I eyed the crowd again, giving them my full attention and spoke with conviction. “No man or woman could do what I plan to do in the next four or more years. No other man or woman knows the streets like I do. Being born and raised in Cuba under a communist leader has taught me more than anyone could ever truly understand. The life I’ve lived, the things I’ve seen, right from wrong, it all blends together in the end. What lasts eternally is the impact from the change I plan to immediately provide for our troubled youth and society.”
Right on cue there were more cheers, bright flashes, and commotion.
“I will use my resources and knowledge to bring down operations that are ruining our society. Crack down the criminals responsible for the increase in homicides across the United States. Continue what I have already started by bringing several crime lords to justice. Serve them with punishment far greater than what they’ve caused. Starting with the terrorists that threaten our land on a daily basis. Ruin the drug cartels who are using our borders under the radar. Build a better future for our children and their children for years to come.”
Before I could get my last word out, the crowd busted out in applause. Instantly taking me back to another place and time. When I was just a boy, worshipping a man who turned me into a fucking monster.
“Fatherland or death, we shall win!” echoed in my mind over and over again.
My speech was all political bullshit, but like George Orwell said, “Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful.”
I finished my speech and then answered questions from the press.
“Damien, on a more personal note… because you know every woman in America is dying to know, and since you’re not very vocal about your private life. Can you tell us if you have a special someone in your life? A poss
ible Mrs. Montero for the future maybe?” a nosey ass female reporter questioned.
I suddenly saw Amira’s face as if she was standing right in front of me and not just a torrid ghost from my past. Eight years without her, and my mind still loved to fuck with me any chance it got.
I charismatically grinned, shaking off the shuddering feeling creeping up my spine. I wasn’t prepped for these types of questions since I rarely answered them, so I chose to answer it honestly. Silently hoping it would suffice her curiosity and back the fuck off. There was a reason I didn’t discuss my personal life, mainly it was no one else’s goddamn business. Particularly when it came to the press, they loved to twist and turn my words, and fabricate them into something that wasn’t there. It’s what sold papers.
Sex, gossip, and lies.
“There is no special someone.”
“And why is that? What does it take to own the heart of one of the most desirable men in the world, according to People magazine?” she added, not letting up.
“You can’t own the heart of a man who doesn’t have one,” I blurted thoughtlessly, regretting my reply instantly. The press would have a fucking field day with that statement. “No more questions at this time.” I smiled and waved, maintaining my composure even though I wanted to get the hell out of there. I couldn’t. The night had only just begun, and my PR would never let me hear the end of it if I bailed.
A huge celebratory party was being held in my honor after the ceremony at some fancy, ‘my shit is better than yours,’ establishment. Surrounded by a mixture of the stuffy, elite, important people I’d met along the way, and those who were just there to kiss ass. I, for one, couldn’t wait for it to be over. I had my own plans that didn’t include fake-as-fuck politicians and an orchestra. I was throwing an after party of my own at my club.
“Thank you all for your time. Have a great night,” I concluded, exiting the stage.
I spent the next several hours portraying the man they all expected me to be.
El Santo.
