by Logan Fox
“My men can call you whatever they want.”
“I may not defend my honor?” Angel whispered furiously. He glared up at Zachary. Angel was short for his age, growth no doubt stunted from years of poverty. But he was thin and stringy as a weed.
Zachary gave a small squeeze, but Angel’s only reaction was to shift his feet, evenly distributing his weight. Preparing himself. Not to fight, but to stay upright.
He leaned closer, until he could feel Angel’s breath on his mouth. When he spoke again, the boy flinched under his fingers. “I propose a different release for the pain and humiliation you have suffered. Something that will benefit both of us.”
Confusion flickered in Angel’s eyes. The young man swallowed nervously, and Zachary could feel every contraction of his throat muscles as he did.
He stepped back, ran a hand over Angel’s chest to smooth his disheveled shirt, and swept his gaze over the dusty, torn clothes.
“But first, get yourself cleaned up.”
Angel pushed away from the wall, and lifted trembling hands to the buttons on his shirt. He stopped when Zachary lifted a hand.
“You won’t see your brother again until you’ve mastered your emotions.”
If Angel had returned from his scouting, then so had Marco. And he’d already informed his men to seize this man’s brother as soon as they came back on the property. Not because he didn’t trust them out there by themselves, but because he had a feeling he had better uses for their talents.
Angel’s face solidified. “Por favor, Don—”
“Marco is safe.” Zachary spoke the words slowly, carefully. “He will remain safe, as long as you are useful to me.”
Another flash of confusion from the boy.
“If you please me, then Marco has nothing to fear.”
Angel dropped his head. His shoulders slumped. “Sí,” he murmured as he undid his buttons and shrugged off his shirt. But before it hit the floor, Zachary had left the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
Ailin straightened, regarding Zachary warily. He always did, and it was something Zachary would never take for granted. Even after serving under him for almost ten years, Ailin knew to expect the unexpected from his master.
“Give him clean clothes. Boots and a belt.”
“Breakfast?” Ailin asked as Zachary discarded his towel and began to dress in the clothes laid out on his bed. Saraphina—one of three serving maids he hired at the ranch—took it upon herself to lay out a new outfit for him every day. He couldn’t seem to stop her doing it, much to his chagrin.
“No.” Zachary glanced at Ailin over his shoulder and gave him a cold smile. “Let’s not overestimate the boy’s stomach for violence just yet.”
7
Lo prometo, Papá
Cora had her back to the door when Finn came upstairs.
“Hungry?” he asked in that rough voice of his.
“No.”
His footsteps paused. “You sure?” He came closer, boots thumping on the wooden floors, and paused a few feet away from the bed. Something clinked as he set it down on the nightstand. “Are you fine?”
“Yes.”
“Sure? Lars didn’t hurt you—?”
Cora sat up in a rush, yanking the blankets to her chest before they could fall away. “I said I’m fine.”
Finn cocked his head at her, studying her silently for so long she began to squirm under his gaze. “He has to know, Cora.”
“It’s not something you go around announcing—”
“Cora.” Finn’s voice was a barely audible rumble. “We can trust Lars.”
When she’d overheard Finn telling Lars about her father, her heart started beating a thousand miles an hour.
Despite what they might think, she knew her father was still alive. And not just in a naive say-it-ain’t-so kind of way. If her father died, a part of her would die too. And she would feel that as vividly as a knife to the heart.
“Trust is something I don’t have a lot of.”
Finn’s eyes were narrow blue slits, his mouth a matching razor-thin line. “Me neither,” he said. “So believe me when I say Lars is one of the good guys.”
She swallowed. “Maybe. Maybe not. You never really know, do you?”
Finn came closer and grabbed her arms, turning her to face him as he sank down on the edge of the bed. “If there’s something you’re not telling me…”
Shrugging, she looked away from his interrogatory glare.
“A few months ago—” She broke off, blinking back urgent tears. “A few months ago, Papá came home in the middle of the night. He’d been out to a meeting.” She began toying with the edge of the sheet, dropping her eyes. “I wasn’t supposed to be up, but all the commotion woke me. Bailey’d forgotten to lock my door when he went downstairs, and I followed him.”
“And?” Finn’s voice was still rough. Still interrogatory.
“Papá’d been shot.” She drew breath, but it was tainted with the memory of blood. The taste of it in the air, filling her nose, marring the pristine carpets in their manor. “His sicarios laid him on the dining room table and had one of the staff come look at him.”
“Hospitals report bullet wounds to the cops,” Finn said quietly.
“So no hospitals,” she agreed with a nod. “But we had a nurse on staff. She took out the bullets. Stitched him up.”
She expected Finn to prompt her again, but silence stretched thick and elastic between them for long moments.
“The next day, Papá sent for me.”
She’d never forget how frail her father looked that day. Skin as thin as tissue paper, and just as pale. Eyes bloodshot. The smell of antiseptic thick in the air.
“He had me sit next to him, and then he took out this file. It was full of photos and pieces of paper.”
God, how his hands had been trembling when he’d held out the first photo.
“’Casimiro Vásquez’, he told me,” she whispered. “’Head of the Pishtaco cartel’. He went through that whole file, showing me photo after photo. Telling me who the men were. A few women too. Capos. Lugartenientes. A few high-level sicarios. He showed me all of them. And then made me go through all those photos again. Say back their names, which cartel they belonged to, what they did.”
“So you’d know if you ever saw them,” Finn said.
“No.” She laughed, and cut off the sound. “So I’d know who captured me. Because, according to Papá, that would be inevitable.”
She closed her eyes, trying to will away the image of her father’s face creased with concern, tears gathering at the corner of his dark eyes.
“He told me everything. About our cartel. What he did. What Tío did. Which territories we cover in the US.”
“Why?”
She peered at Finn, and he tipped his hands up before closing them into fists.
“Why did he wait so long?”
“He never wanted me to be part of the cartel.” Her voice dipped. “He thought he could protect me until the day he retired. He thought I’d never even know what he did.”
“So what changed?”
“Two bullet wounds.”
She’d watched the nurse take those flattened slugs from her father. One from his gut, one from his chest. There was so much blood, it had dripped down from the table to the floor. There’d been blood in the grouting for a week before the maids got it all out.
“He know who shot him?”
“It was one of his own men. I didn’t know him—he was a halcon, I think. But he worked as a spy for a rival cartel.”
“Which one?”
“Don’t know. Papá didn’t know either. Could have been any of them. But he said, ‘If he couldn’t even protect himself, he didn’t stand a chance keeping me from it.’”
There was a clank from downstairs—Lars moving around the living room. Tidying? Making food? Getting ready for their trip? Her stomach tightened at the thought. What would it be like to meet Tío without her father there? Wou
ld he be happy to see her?
“Get some rest.” Finn left, glancing back at her without expression before pulling the door closed behind him.
When she lay down again, her eyes slid closed of their own accord. As sleep grasped at her mind, her memory served her another snapshot from the past. Her father, propped up by silk-covered pillows. The sheets had done such a terrible job of hiding the bandages around his chest.
He handed her a gift box. Bright pink, wrapped in a white satin ribbon. After the police lineup of cartel members she’d just gone through, she was too numb to thank him as she took it from his hands. The lid fell to the floor. Someone might have picked it up later in the day. She stared at the pistol nestled inside, fully assembled.
As she took the Taurus from its box, her hands shook as much as her father’s had when he’d shown her those photos. The inscription caught her eye when she turned the gun over in her palm.
Creo en ti, mi corazón.
Her father’s fingers were ice-cold and dry as dust when he wrapped them over hers, trapping the gun between them. “I can’t always be there, mi corazón. I can’t always protect you. This can. It doesn’t leave your side. Yes?”
Her voice had been a whisper. “Yes, Papá.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise, Papá.”
He’d been quiet for a moment, and then his voice had become diamond-hard.
“Sangre por sangre, mi corazón.”
Blood for blood. The creed of El Calacas Vivo. Biblical in its connotation. An eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth. Blood for blood.
“¿Lo prometes, Elle?”
Do you promise?
“Lo prometo, Papá. Sangre por sangre.”
I promise, Papá. Blood for blood.
“We’ll have to leave first thing in the morning,” Lars said as soon as Finn cleared the staircase. He had his feet up on the coffee table, the bottle of brandy balancing on one thigh.
“On one snowmobile?” Finn asked.
“I’ll go back into town, pick up my truck.”
“Or we could see if the Jeep starts.”
“Jeep?”
“You think we walked here?” Finn went into the kitchen and began making himself a cup of coffee. When Lars glanced back and saw what he was doing, he sprang off the couch and hurried over. The bottle of brandy thumped on the kitchen counter.
“This round’s on me,” Lars said with a wide grin.
“No, I’ve already—” Finn began, lifting his hand.
“Already what?” Lars asked, eyes wide with innocence.
“Christ, you know I shouldn’t,” he muttered.
“All I know is we’re stuck in a blizzard, there’s a roaring fire, and I haven’t seen you close on a week. One drink. Come on.”
Finn drew a deep breath, and pushed the cup of coffee to the side. He held up a finger. “One.”
Lars grinned at him. “That’s my boy.”
They moved to the sofa, Lars pouring them both a stiff measure of the brandy. Finn glared at him, but decided not to refuse it. Cora was asleep, after all; she’d be safe. And Lars knew how to defend himself.
He let out a quiet laugh, and Lars turned to him. “Dollar for your thoughts?”
“A penny,” Finn murmured.
“You can thank inflation.”
He laughed again, and tipped the mug against his lips. The brandy had stopped burning his throat, but his stomach was growing warmer after each sip. His thoughts foggier. And his beast stirred as if from a deep sleep, stretching its limbs in the basement of his mind.
“So…you two seem real cozy,” Lars said quietly.
Finn harrumphed.
“Didn’t know my clothes could look that sexy. Certainly don’t have that effect when I wear them.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried desperately to shove down the wave of irritation threatening to wash over him. “Lars—”
“No, I mean kudos, champ. That’d definitely be a notch in any guy’s belt. Bedding a capo’s daughter?” Lars let out a huff.
Finn’s fingers tightened around the mug, but he forced himself not to reply. He knew Lars liked to wheedle him, but he was too fucking exhausted to be a good sport about it tonight.
“She looks a tad inexperienced, though. Or is that part of the appeal, huh? Teaching her the ropes?” Lars cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Shut it.”
“Look, the mere fact that you’re not denying it—”
Finn slammed his empty mug down. Lars stiffened, mouth pursed to take a sip from his brandy. Just his eyes shifted to Finn, and that familiar Cheshire cat grin of his bloomed on his lips.
“Was it good?”
“What are you, fucking twelve?”
Lars barked out a laugh, and drained the rest of his mug, setting it down beside Finn’s.
“Well. Go to her.”
“What?” Finn said, a laugh in his voice.
Lars shrugged, not making eye contact with Finn as he shooed him off the couch. “Ain’t room for the both of us down here. Not unless you’re up for some spooning.” There was a wicked glint in those green eyes now.
Finn looked away, massaging his eyelids with thumb and forefinger. “I could sleep on the floor.”
“We’re all adults,” Lars said. “She is, isn’t she?”
Finn trudged up the stairs, not looking back at Lars. He heard the man making himself on the sofa—springs creaking and blankets whisking—but then he was in the bedroom. The lamp was still on; it cast a soft light over Cora’s body.
Fast asleep.
He moved quietly across the floor. When his hand was on his belt to undo it, he paused. That night at the inn, they’d been side by side. Innocent, like this. Until she’d turned to him in a moment of terror.
What if that happened again?
Third time’s the charm, purred a voice in his head.
Lars sat up when he came downstairs again. The man watched him silently as he dumped one of the blankets he’d taken from the bedroom closet on the floor. A pillow thumped down above it.
“Not a word,” he muttered.
He expected a string of words, even a laugh. Instead, Lars just watched him silently and, for once, without a hint of a smile on his face.
Finn turned on his side, his back to Lars, and faced the fire. It was dying out, but there was still some warmth eking from the coals.
A foot nudged his leg. He moved it away.
“She give you head for your birthday, at least?”
Finn swung around, punching Lars on the thigh. The man let out a laugh and jerked his leg away when Finn tried to get a second punch in. “Jesus, fine! I’ll quit.”
He fell asleep listening to the wind pelting the cabin with snow.
Lars woke Finn with a cup of coffee and a pinch on his arm. He sat up in a rush, groaning when his muscles complained. He massaged the back of his neck, took the coffee from Lars, and gave him a quick once over.
The man’s hair was as unruly as always, but he looked as fresh as a fucking daisy.
“So, about that Jeep,” Lars said before taking a sip of coffee. “Might be the fuck ton of snow around, but I don’t see one anywhere. Think it got buried?”
“It’s a mile or so down the road.”
“Went for the scenic route, yeah?”
“Hit a deer.”
“Fuck. What the deer do to deserve that?”
“It ran in front of the fucking Jeep.”
“Life’s lottery,” Lars sighed, and took another noisy sip of his coffee.
“Let me take a leak, finish my coffee, then we’ll go see if it’ll start.”
“Sure we should leave Sleeping Beauty by herself?”
“She’s fine,” Finn said. “Trust me.”
Lars’s eyebrows pricked up. “I’m sensing friction.”
“She has a gun.”
“An empty one,” Lars said through a laugh.
Finn paused with one foot on the stairs. “It was that obvious?
”
“Only so many times someone can threaten to shoot before they actually fucking shoot.” Lars drew a line around his face. “And she has to work on her poker face.”
Finn snorted and went upstairs. He’d closed the bedroom door last night, but opened it a crack to make sure Cora was still asleep. Her back was to the door, but she didn’t move when the door creaked. He pulled it closed again, used the bathroom, and went back downstairs. Tossing back the last of his coffee, he sat on the sofa to pull on the pair of snow boots he’d snagged from a downstairs cupboard. “Let’s go.”
Lars flung open the door and took a dramatic draft of air through his mouth. “God, it’s fucking beautiful out here.”
The crunch of snow underfoot followed them through the powdery landscape. It had stopped snowing in the night, but thick clouds blocked out the sky, promising a heavy snowfall in the next few hours. Their breath misted the air as they walked.
“Where in Texas we going?” Lars paused, hands to hips, staring around at the deserted stretches of snow between the pines. They were both breathing hard from the twenty-minute trudge through the snow.
“A drop-off point.”
Lars took another few steps before coming to a halt. He turned to face Finn, eyes narrowed. “We’re just going to leave her beside the road somewhere?”
“A hotel in Marfa.” Finn shrugged and started walking again. “I’m not happy about it, but what can I do?”
“I could give less fucks,” Lars said, pursing his lips. “And so should you. Your contract’s up the second she reaches those GPS co-ords. What the hell do you care what happens after?” Lars glanced back at him and then stopped. “Hey, I don’t know where I’m going over here. You mind taking lead, big guy?”
Finn inhaled a breath deep enough to push out his chest, and then worked his way through the snow, heading for the Jeep. They arrived a few minutes later and began clearing the snow from the hood. Lars inspected the damage with a low whistle, arms akimbo.
When he went around to the driver’s side door and began shoveling snow away from it to open it, Finn called out, “Won’t open. Deer hit it.”
