Hunt Me

by Elodie Colt

  My heart sinks when I remember that Sam’s wedding will take place soon. I hope they don’t intend to cancel it because I disappeared. They’re better off without me, anyway. I’ve never worn a dress in public, I hate parties, and I’m agoraphobic. That doesn’t make me the ideal wedding guest.

  9:00 a.m.

  Emilio strolls in with a tray in his hands. My eyes swerve over the plate with bacon and eggs to the glass of orange juice.

  “Can I have coffee, please?” A razor-sharp glare is my answer. I ponder about what to say next. “I need tampons.” The horrified look on his face is priceless, so I point a finger at my pants and add in a whisper, “You know, the painters are in.” Emilio dashes out the door as if chased by a bee swarm, leaving me chuckling.

  A car rolls to a stop below my window. Glancing down, I see Javier and the handsome man with the Jesus Christ tattoo approach the shiny limousine. They talk, Javier nodding before he opens the back door for the other to get in. They drive off.

  12:00 noon.

  Who is the man keeping me here? He seems to be someone high up in the ranks. A rich ass, born with a face made for the front page of GQ and the imposing aura of the Pope. I remember the way he set one polished shoe in front of the other as he approached me, how his ringed fingers brushed his lower lip while he gave me a calculating gaze, how he emanated power from his masterful form, settling on my skin like an invisible spell.

  I recall his face, his features a mixture of scary and breathtakingly handsome, all sharp angles with high cheekbones and a set of pale eyes cutting through my composure like a laser sword. I was absolutely mesmerized by this man—in awe or fear, I can’t say. I came close to recoiling as he stopped in front of me, but it was more the invasion of my personal space making my heart shoot up like a rocket rather than fear of him hurting me.

  And then he said my full name, a name only my mother ever used. The way it flowed over his tongue in addition to his South American accent made it sound like a blend of a dirty chant and a religious prayer.

  3:00 p.m.

  Mister Mysterious’ fancy car rolls in. Javier steps out first, opening the back door, but instead of the black slacks from a designer suit, a silver high-heel comes into view, followed by a woman’s body clad in a white summer dress.

  She’s absolutely gorgeous. A Brazilian beauty with a body made to conquer the world’s biggest catwalks, as exotic as a Piña Colada with a tan coating her like liquid caramel. I hate her instantly. Not because of Mister Mysterious following behind with a hand on her waist but because of the jet-black hair she flips with her hand—hair that looks exactly like my mother’s.

  “Daniel, you can trust me on this,” she says to the man in question, and they vanish inside the mansion.

  Anger starts to boil in my stomach. While Daniel indulges in a ripe mango, I’m rotting away like an old banana peel. What does he want with me, anyway? Keeping me as a house slave? Selling me off to some pimp overseas? He doesn’t strike me as dangerous, but I can’t shake off the notion that, whatever business he’s in, it’s bordering on illegal. For all I know, he might be a gunrunner or dealing drugs. Doing the same dirty things my father thrived in.

  So, where do I come into the picture?

  “Why are you making such a face? The handover went as planned,” Victoria says, parking her ass on my lap. “The drugs get burned as we speak, and the case is now in the hands of the International Criminal Court.”

  I shake my head, trailing a finger over Victoria’s curves. She’s a rare beauty with legs reaching the heavens and lips made for the best blow jobs. Victoria was always loyal to me, and her proficiency to seduce men and draw out their deepest secrets was helpful on more than one occasion. It was never more than sex, and I think she’s okay with that, unable to commit herself to anyone, like me.

  “This guy, Alvarez… I need to find him.”

  Victoria frowns. “I already gave you his daughter. Didn’t you get any information from her?”

  “I haven’t spoken to her, yet. She doesn’t know about her mother’s death, and I don’t know how to approach the subject. Did you find out anything else about her?”

  A perfectly manicured hand glides down my tie. “It seems our girl has some mental issues. She’s visiting a shrink every week.” Before I can comment, Emilio enters, an uncertain expression on his face. “Looks like business is calling. I’ll be on my way, then,” Victoria announces before leaving with a sexy sway of her hips.

  Emilio waits until the door clicks shut before he speaks. “Boss, may I suggest that your housekeeper take care of the girl from now on?”

  I squint my eyes at him, irritated by the question. “I’m sure you’ll manage to keep one girl in check.”

  “It’s just…” He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Boss, the girl asked for tampons,” he finally reveals, whispering the last word as if it’s a dirty secret.

  I can’t help but bark out a loud laugh, imagining Emilio and Javier’s faces at hearing such a request. The two are my best men, skilled in every kind of martial arts, pros with all kinds of weapons, and professional through and through. Give them a cartel of the worst drug lords, assassins, and psychopaths, and they won’t bat an eyelid, but two days with this Alvarez girl, and she’s got them on their knees.

  “So, what’s the matter?” I ask nonchalantly just to tease him.

  “Uhm, nothing… We just thought that maybe, uhm, your housekeeper might be better suited for this task.”

  “This task…” I repeat in amusement. “It’s not so difficult, Emilio. Just ask her what size she needs and get it from the drug store.” I’ve never seen Emilio so utterly horror-stricken, his olive-toned cheeks fire red. I can’t help but snicker again. “Relax, my friend. I may be ruthless, but I’m not cruel.” Emilio exhales in relief, deflating like a balloon. My phone buzzes with a notification for my next meeting. “Mariana will take care of it. I’ve got to make a call. Keep an eye on the Alvarez girl. I’ll be done in fifteen minutes.”

  In the end, fifteen minutes turn into five hours. Being on top of this business comes not only with heaps of money but also with a hundred working hours a week, sleepless nights, and a bunch of shit to look after.

  The phone call with my new trafficker lasts for over an hour and leaves my nerves blank. Asshole thought he could just double the goods I ship on my fucking boat and get away with it. When I tell him what I’d do to his wife if I found a breach of contract, he caves in quickly.

  Next, I go through the contract of my new shotgun supplier. Just as I take the pen to sign it, Mariana storms in, completely delirious. She claims the pool boy stole some of the silver cutlery, a matter I have to take care of myself. It takes ten seconds to make him cower in fear and retrieve the spoons hidden in his pants. Mariana is so outraged, I have to calm her before she can run after the guy, armed with a pan and a potato masher.

  Diego, one of my guards, calls to tell me he has to leave immediately because his father had a heart attack. It takes me another fifteen minutes to reschedule his shifts and get a substitute.

  Victoria texts. A cocaine shipment expected to arrive at the US border is late due to a raid in Tampico, and it lasts an eternity to organize a backup crew to deal with the mess.

  The Ramos cartel calls. They have a lead on a mercenary we’ve been trying to catch for months. I send them five of my men to help scout out the area.

  An offer from a counter-surveillance company is on my task list next, listing an entire arsenal of monitoring systems, bug detectors, and audio-jamming electronics to ensure I’m not killed in my sleep anytime soon. With one click, I start the transaction of three hundred grand without batting an eyelid, knowing I’ll earn it back within the next forty-eight hours.

  I nearly groan when my phone rings for the millionth time, but I smile when I see Natalia’s calling. I switch to video call.

  “Hi, Mother. How’s it going?”

  “Hello, Daniel. Sorry, I didn’t call this week.”
The fact that she ignores my question, giving me a forced smile instead, tells me everything I need to know.

  “How is Valentina?” I ask with a heavy heart.

  Natalia sighs, and it takes her a moment to answer. “She had a seizure three days ago and another one last night.”

  I nod because I don’t know what to say. The Sanfilippo Syndrome involves the central nervous system, making it impossible to treat with medication. Valentina’s only hope is gene therapy and stem cell implantations. “Where is she now?”

  “She’s getting a neurological screening. I’ll update you when they’re finished.”

  Another nod on my part. “Did you get the money I sent you?”

  Natalia tilts her head and smiles. “Yes, my dear. As every month. We’ve hired a few more nurses and cooks, and we’re going to have a big event in two days with clowns and wizards and all that stuff. The children are already looking forward to it.”

  “That’s great,” I reply with forced enthusiasm. “Tell her I love her.”

  “Will do, Daniel.” Natalia blows me a kiss before the line goes dead.

  I close my eyes briefly, resting the phone against my forehead while I gather my composure. What good is all this money if it can’t save my sister’s life?

  Tossing my phone on my desk, I leave my work behind before I head to the upper floor. There’s still a mysterious girl I need to take care of.

  Javier stands guard outside her room. “Evening, boss.”

  “Where’s Emilio?” Javier nods in the direction of the door from where I hear Emilio’s agitated voice.

  “If I see you doing that again, I’ll make sure you’re going to shit in a bucket for the next week,” Emilio threatens when I enter.

  “Emilio,” I caution when I see him towering over the girl, hand wrapped around her upper arm. He drops it immediately. Seems Javier is not the only one to lose his temper around her. “What’s going on?”

  “Boss, she ruined the wall,” Emilio explains in defense, pointing to the wall where a drawing is staring back at me. My eyes flicker to the girl’s hand holding a sharp chunk of plaster she’s apparently used to chisel the portrait. “And she hasn’t eaten anything, yet.”

  “Leave us,” I order, and Emilio complies, visibly relieved to get out of the lion’s den.

  I step up to the girl who lifts her chin in defiance. Taking in her features, I immediately feel guilty about keeping her alone up here for so long. Her skin is pale, dark circles rim her eyes, and her hair looks as if she tried to tear out the strands. The longer I peer at her, the more she fidgets, and I notice her doing this strange jerk again—a sign that she’s uncomfortable.

  “I apologize I couldn’t come earlier. I’ve been quite busy.”

  “Busy being a bad boy?” she counters to my surprise, and I don’t miss the underlying accusation.

  “Busy hunting the bad boys,” I correct her. “Being a bad boy comes naturally to me.”

  “And now you’re hunting the good girls.”

  I smile, entertained by her sassy attitude. “Are you a good girl, Leonara?” My voice comes out huskier than intended, but my words seem to amuse her because she answers with a chuckle, “I’m far from being good and even farther away from being a girl.”

  “Sounds fascinating.” The genuine smile lighting up her face takes me off guard. Why is she smiling at me? I brought her here against her will. Shouldn’t she shout at me, kicking and screaming, demanding me to let her go? “I heard you asked my men for the impossible. You gave Emilio a heart attack.”

  An evil grin crawls up her face. “Unfortunately, not, because last time I checked, he was still in front of my door.”

  I snicker, feeling myself relax for the first time that day. “I see you’ve decided to restore the building,” I comment with a nod to the image on the wall. Considering she used a piece of plaster, the picture is hauntingly beautiful. Shadows and rough strokes form a woman with her head buried in her hands, fingers clawing at her hair. Dark, depressing, and full of grief.

  “Not my fault. They didn’t want to give me any drawing utensils,” she complains.

  My eyes stay glued to the wall. The girl has talent, and I know exactly whom she inherited it from. “She looks sad.”

  “Sorry, I’m not brimming over with joy at the moment,” she retorts sarcastically, drawing my eyes back to her. She still wears the same clothes she came in, the pile of fresh ones scattered all over the floor.

  “You didn’t like the clothes I gave you?” She frowns at me as if questioning my sanity before walking over to the opposite wall and starting a new masterpiece, ignoring me altogether. “And you didn’t touch the food,” I continue in hopes of getting an answer. She stays silent. “You should try it. Mariana makes the best Mexican soup.”

  “Your wife?” she asks, keeping her focus on her task.

  I laugh. “God, no. Mariana is my housekeeper.” As if she needs to see for herself if I’m telling the truth, her head whips in my direction, her gaze trailing to my wedding-ring-free hand.

  After a moment, she continues to carve scratches into the wall, but when she hears me stepping closer, she hurls around pressing her back against the wall. She jerks her head again, but it’s only a slight movement as if she’s trying to rein in her quirk.

  “Eat,” I command, nodding to the untouched plate.

  “Why am I here?” she counters.

  “I won’t tell you until you eat and put on fresh clothes.” My words don’t seem to register, so I take the plate and squat down next to her. “Come on, you must be hungry.”

  Out of the blue, she slaps my hand away, causing the bowl to clatter to the ground and spill soup all over the floor.

  My patience snaps, and I yank her up by her hand. She yelps and tries to hit me, but I’m faster and pin her hands above her head, backing her up against the wall.

  “Careful with your actions, girl, or I’ll tie you to this thing until you’ve learned some manners.” She follows my gaze, looking at a chain dangling from the ceiling where a chandelier once hung.

  “Fuck you,” she rants.

  What she doesn’t know is that her rage only turns me on instead of annoying me. “You have two options. Either you’ll do as you’re told, or I’ll make good on my promise, force the food down your throat and change your clothes myself. Your choice.”

  By now, I shouldn’t be surprised that even my most threatening tone doesn’t do shit at getting to the girl, but her words shock me nonetheless. “Good luck,” she counters with a daring grin.

  I debate what to do. Violence is out of the question, and I won’t be the one to wake her demons. If I want to get any information about her father, I’ll need her to open up to me.

  “I’ll make you a deal.” Letting my hands slide from hers, I step back, something she hasn’t counted on me doing if her confused look is anything to go by. “If you eat and get into fresh clothes, you’ll get a sketchpad and a pencil.” A stupid offer. I wouldn’t put it past her to use the pencil to stab Javier’s eyes out. I’ll need to tell them to watch out.

  My words affect her, and I know I won the argument when she bites her lip contemplating my offer. Without another word, she picks up the now half-empty bowl, plops down on the bed, and starts eating.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch her. Loud slurping noises echo through the room while she eats, and she munches with half her mouth open. Guess her father didn’t care about teaching her manners.

  “Good?” I ask in hopes of easing up the situation. She doesn’t answer, but I can tell she’s trying not to swallow the entire bowl at once.

  “Where am I?” she wants to know.

  “In Veracruz.”

  She snorts and shakes her head. “Of course. And now you’re going to tell me that the white stuff you ship all over the world is sugar.”

  I’m surprised she connected the dots so quickly, but I don’t fall for the hook. “Sugar is one of the most exported goods from here into the st
ates.”

  “The sugar export business must be really dangerous considering you need an entire squad to guard your ass twenty-four-seven.”

  “Mexico isn’t exactly the safest country on this planet.”

  “Hmm,” is all she mumbles before she sets down the empty bowl, gets up and—quicker than I can process—yanks her shirt over her head.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, dumbstruck by her brazen action and my eyes suddenly drawn to her black sports bra.

  “I thought you wanted me to change.” She gives me a befuddled look as if my reaction is irrational, and for the first time, I stutter an “Uh…” quickly lodging in my throat when she snaps open the button of her military pants and lets them slide to the floor.

  My eyes become round like the ones of a puffed blowfish when she bends down to retrieve a pair of denim cutoffs. Black hot pants stare back at me, covering a tiny ass that makes me want to take a bite.

  I’m equally dumb-struck and mesmerized by her bold action, unable to keep my eyes from roaming her body.

  A geometric design in peacock colors swirls around her neck. Purple angel’s wings adorn her shoulder blades. Lotus flowers cover her right side, and her right upper arm shows a mermaid with blue hair and a turquoise tail curled around an anchor. A dream catcher with emerald stones adorns her right thigh, a raven with deadly eyes on her left calf. And then there’s the gray feather hugging the swell of one breast.

  But what catches my attention is the elegant lettering stretching over her left side starting at the hip bone and reaching up over her ribcage. Before she steps into her cutoffs, I stop her with a hand on her wrist, lifting it to the side to get a closer look. She rolls her shoulder again, but I ignore it this time.

  “What does it mean?”

  Looking down her body, she follows my gaze. “Et In Arcadio Ego—Even in Arcadia, here I am,” she explains as if she’s rehearsed the line. “It’s the title of a painting by Nicholas Poussin, a French Baroque artist.”