by AJ Adams
“I don’t need computer files and image recognition software,” my former head of sicarios bitched. “I can smell undercover cops a fucking mile away!” Then he got killed by one, proving my point at the cost of his life.
Kyle is a pro who understands warfare, and our business is precisely that: a battle to the death. He upgraded and streamlined the system, and now we have files on everyone including God and the president – both the one in Los Pinos and the one in the White House.
Our database has practically eliminated threats from undercover ops as well as complications from internal problems. Everything we learn, everything we hear, from hard data our hackers get for us to gossip we hear at parties, goes into that database. As a result we hear everything, and we forget nothing.
We know the names and faces of hundreds of thousands of cops from dozens of agencies past and present. Also, as my men aren’t exactly lilywhite, it pays to know who’s got a coke addiction, a gay lover or whatever dark and dirty secrets that can be used to blackmail them into informing or to interfere with our business in some way.
Our database is a goldmine, actually more valuable than a goldmine. It keeps us where we are, and it keeps us safe. As such, only two people have complete access: Kyle and me. Everyone else can ask us to run anything, anytime, but nobody gets into the actual database. I don’t want anyone hacking their way in, so when I’m home, the system’s physically disconnected from all internet access. Most of the time when I’m out, I don’t need access, so it stays offline. I think it’s been hooked up for fieldwork only three times – and even then it’s designed to cut off if anyone tries to access it with the wrong codes.
Furthermore, my brother is a rock. I can say whatever I like to him, and it doesn’t matter because we’re brothers. Having him means I’m no longer alone. There are now two of us, fighting the world and keeping the family safe.
Mind you, Kyle’s different from me. He does what it takes, always, but he’s a romantic at heart. He once said that I would sacrifice my baby niece if I thought it necessary. That’s perfectly true. If it were her or the rest of the family, I’d make the sacrifice. It would kill me, but I’d do it. I’ll make any sacrifice, including myself.
That’s another thing that’s changed. In the past I wouldn’t have sacrificed myself, because my death would have been everyone else’s too, but now that Kyle is with me, I can be secure in the knowledge that if they get me, Kyle will watch over the family. That may sound depressing to you, but it’s a thought that keeps me warm at night. I’m a realist, you see.
If the worst happens, Kyle will step up, and then he’ll be the same as me. He’ll have to, because he’ll want to protect his Chloe. The difference between his romance and my practical streak is that he’s hoping it will never happen, whereas I anticipate that it probably will. Life is tough, and you have to make hard choices if you want to survive.
Because I always do what must be done, I was now walking about London with a beautiful girl on my arm. When I threw that match under Escamilla’s oil barrel, my business was safe again, the threat of war being eliminated. Also, as only a trusted handful of people knew that I was not still at home in Nuevo Laredo, I could go out and about with minimum risk. Hence the orgy of shopping and the pedestrian tour.
We walked for miles that evening. I love London, all those centuries of history crammed in a few miles, complete with clubs, pubs and sex shops. You feast your eyes on a building that’s a thousand years old, drink a microbrew beer that’s out of this world and then browse racks of whips, vibrators and gags. Everything a man wants, right?
Yeah, you may have noticed that I’m a perverted fuck. Hand me a crop and I’ll have an instant woody. Screams, wails and groans of pain are music to my ears. What can I say? It’s probably a Freudian thing. Or maybe a natural consequence of four generations of murder and mayhem.
Anyway, I’m a sucker for the rough stuff, and as Solitaire was similarly inclined, I intended to stock up on gear at some point during our stroll and to end a glorious day by working out a couple of kinks. The spanking had gone well that afternoon, and I was ready to bet that Solitaire would be up for something more demanding later that night. In anticipation, I had a plan for a slut game that would blow her mind.
Some girls will walk for miles in a mall and whine if you ask them to walk half a block, but Solitaire enjoyed getting some air. After walking from the Tower Bridge to Big Ben, I bought her a G&T as she calls it, while I tried a local Real Ale. It had a nice layered flavour that moved from smooth to somewhat bitter – refreshing and perfect for day, but not a night time drink. You may have guessed that I am a gourmet. I employ a superb chef, and it’s a constant struggle to keep in shape.
That night I drank my beer knowing Solitaire would help with a workout. She was sipping her drink, watching the people go by. The nervousness was almost gone, a testament to my people skills.
“You’re quiet, chica. Everything okay?”
She thought for a moment and shrugged. “I was wondering about my future. Where do you see me in six months, Arturo? Or six hours for that matter?”
Most girls would have skirted the subject, and I would have talked while committing myself to nothing, but Solitaire’s open, practical approach appealed to me. “You come home with me, to Nuevo Laredo. If we click, you stay.”
“Hmmm. And if we don’t?”
“That would be a problem.”
Solitaire sighed. “That’s what I thought.” She stroked the sleeve of her blouse, a lovely Chinese silk, and smiled at me. “Well, at least I’m embarking on my career as your slut with style!” She touched her glass to mine and added, “You won’t regret it, Arturo.”
I’d been expecting tears and protests, so her attitude took me aback a bit. It must have showed, because Solitaire asked, “Would you rather I have hysterics?”
“No, sirena.” That came straight from the heart. I’d had plenty of drama queens in the past, and I loathe scenes.
“Good. Do you have a wife, Arturo?”
“No.”
“A regular girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Am I strictly bedroom, or do you want a hostess?”
She really was unusual, this girl. I’d planned to keep her around for fun, but now I changed my mind. She was beautiful and smart, a combination that was too good to waste. “Both.”
“All right. You’ll have to tell me what you want, or I’ll make mistakes.”
“I don’t mind mistakes. Just don’t repeat them.”
“Okay.” Solitaire poked the ice in her drink with her fingers. “I’ve been running offices not keeping house, but I can learn.”
“I have a chef, and there are maids.”
“Blimey! You must be coining it!” she said it with interest. I was expecting her to ask what I was worth, but Solitaire just smiled at me. “And there I was, worrying about you going broke buying me all this lovely clobber!”
“Clobber?”
“Clothes.”
I could see Solitaire loved fine things, but she wasn’t rapacious. She wouldn’t be demanding a stream of expensive gifts every week like most of my women. I don’t mind if they do, because I can afford it, and I know money is a big lure, but I do like it when they like me as well. I guess I’m a romantic too in my own way.
“I’m on the pill, but I need to stock up. I’ve got a pack in my bag, but it’s almost gone.”
“No problem. I’ll get you fixed up.”
Solitaire leaned in close and dropped her voice. “That file of yours says I’m clean, but we’ve been doing it without condoms. Are you always a bareback man?”
“No, but I figured Escamilla would have had both you and him tested every ten minutes.” I was exaggerating, but his doctor’s files, nicely available in an easy-to-hack database, had revealed that the OCD fuck had insisted on weekly tests for everything from cancer to ten types of plague.
“When you do other girls, will you use protection?”
&
nbsp; “Of course, sirena. Do I look like a fool?”
Solitaire shrugged. “You might have some macho shit going on about real men being immune.”
I liked her practical approach to health and the fact that she acknowledged she didn’t have an exclusive on my cock, but she didn’t seem to think much of me. “I went to Princeton.” The moment I said it, I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. What the fuck was I thinking? I came across like some mouthy kid.
“Meaning you’ve got a brain too,” Solitaire said calmly. “What did you study?”
“I majored in economics.”
“Looks like it’s paying off,” Solitaire smiled. She saw my beer was finished and downed her G&T. “Shall we continue our stroll? There are lots of lights up the river. It’s bound to be something good.”
“It’s the wharf.”
Solitaire giggled. “Brilliant. Give me a five minute start, and I’ll be standing on a corner, swinging my handbag and crying, ‘Hello sailor! Looking for a good time?’ You can pretend to pick me up.”
Before I could answer, a blonde giant stumbled out from a dark corner of the bar. “Solly!” he slurred. “Bloody hell, babe! How’ve you been?”
Solitaire looked totally blank but she answered straight away. “Fine. Long time no see.”
Security were homing in, but as he knew Solitaire, I motioned them to back off.
“I heard you were living with some Mexican plonker.”
“That was ages ago. I’ve been back in town for almost a fortnight.”
A quick, clever thinker, this girl. I relaxed and decided to let her deal with this. You can learn a lot from the way a woman deals with unwanted attention, especially unwanted drunken attention. This little scene would tell me if I was right in thinking she’d be a social asset.
The drunk hadn’t even noticed me; all his attention was on her. “So why haven’t I seen you? Where’ve you been hiding?”
He was leaning all over Solitaire but she dealt with it by pushing him away. “Look, I’m on a date so let’s talk some other time.”
“But Solly!”
He put a hand on her arm and Solitaire shrugged it off. “Now stop hanging all over me, do. I’m not a stripper’s pole.”
“God, you’re a cold bitch!”
That was too much. “Hey friend?” I hadn’t spoken loudly but I put my hand on his, bunched his fingers and squeezed. It looks friendly but there’s a big nerve running through there. “Leave. Now. No looking back, hear me?”
He nodded frantically. Putting the arterial nerve under pressure is rated on a par with childbirth, and the pain made him eager to please. When I let go, security walked him gently to the door and pushed him out. No fuss, no muss.
Solitaire was staring at me. “That was bloody impressive. Did you learn that at Princeton, too?”
“Sure. It’s in the foundation course.”
She grinned at me. “I don’t see why you have people trailing behind you all the time. You can look after yourself just fine.”
Her admiration made me feel pretty good about myself. Yeah, I know. So I get off on beautiful women telling me I’m tough. So I’m conforming to type. What are you going to do? Sue me?
“Who was that, Solitaire?”
“I’m not sure.” She looked a bit troubled and then shrugged. “But Solly? Yech!”
I reflected that dozens if not hundreds of men probably lusted after a girl as gorgeous as Solitaire. It wasn’t surprising that she didn’t remember them all, but it was interesting that the blond drunk had called her cold. I found Solitaire pragmatic and self-contained out of bed and hot in it. She smiled easily enough, but she didn’t take any shit from anyone. I guess that kind of emotional control passes for cold with self-indulgent types.
Solitaire was looking at the lights down the road. “Shall we go trawl the wharf?”
“We’ll go for a drink, but we’re not trawling. I’m on holiday, and that doesn’t include fighting off half of London.”
Solitaire looked down at herself and sighed. “I do clean up nice, don’t I?”
I drank in the sapphire eyes, rich black shining hair, soft creamy skin and those beautiful bones. “You’re a heartbreaker.”
Solitaire blinked, and then she smiled. It was a real smile, one that made her eyes sparkle. I would have thought she’d get compliments by the truckload, but from the way she was looking at me, she hadn’t. She looked fucking gorgeous, and I felt my heart begin to beat faster at the thought of the fun to come.
But I didn’t want to lose the opportunity of taking a walk. “Come on, let’s pub-crawl to Soho. I want every man in London to see you and know you’re mine.”
“Very possessive,” Solitaire remarked. “I can see you’re gearing up for our game tonight.”
“Which reminds me: I want to take in a sex shop. A good one.”
“Soho’s sex central. They’ll have everything from kink to perv.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Kinky is about feathers. Pervy is using the whole chicken.”
I’d heard it before, but I had to laugh.
Solitaire stood up and took my hand. “You know what, Arturo? I’m having fun.”
And that was it. I had a new girl.
Chapter Six: Solitaire
That night on the town with Arturo changed my life. When we went out, I was terrified of putting a foot wrong, thinking that Arturo would do me in and believing that my only option was to be his whore.
At first that decision helped settle my nerves. The amnesia meant I didn’t have a foundation, but now I had a plan, complete with a goal and strategy, I felt I had something to hold onto, and that gave me courage. I could also see that Arturo had a protective streak, and I was hoping that as his girl, that would extend to me.
I was determined to do the job right, and when Arturo said I’d be more girlfriend than slut, I was even happier. Sluts are replaceable, but girlfriends who make sure dinner’s on the table when you want it are a comfort not easily dispensed with. Don’t ask me how I know this: I just do.
As he had servants, it sounded like there wouldn’t be much scutwork. That was great, because I didn’t like the idea of being a cleaner, and it also meant I’d have plenty of time to be pretty. Seeing as Arturo was rich and powerful, he’d be used to having beautiful girls, so I’d have to measure up to high standards.
Thinking about it, I knew I would also have plenty of competition looking to take over my spot. I’d have to see that off, at least until I was sure Arturo was happy to let me make my own way again. There probably wasn’t a statutory limit on participating in mass murder, but once he trusted I would keep my mouth shut, I’d be okay. By then he’d be ready for a change, and I’d walk off, disappearing into the sunset and living happily ever after.
So there I was, talking myself into believing I could be this fantasy creature: the perfect blend of slut, spouse and slave. What a load of bollocks, right? But as I said, it steadied me. As we walked about the old part of the city, followed by the five blokes and two girls who made up the new team of minders, I watched Arturo, trying to figure out what sort of person he was. I figured that the more I understood him, the better I could work to please him.
It wasn’t easy. You’d think a cartel boss would be loud, aggressive and weighed down with bling, but Arturo was so understated that he was practically invisible. He wore black trousers and a dark blue cotton shirt just like every other city bloke making straight for the pub after work. Okay, the trousers were Issey Miyake, and the shirt was Balmain, but that just meant he looked like a successful banker or stockbroker rather than an office clone. Even the watch was discrete: a wafer-thin gold Patek Philippe.
I was expecting trouble when that drunk pitched up out of nowhere, but Arturo dealt with it so quietly that the pub bouncers didn’t even notice what was going on until it was over. I still don’t have a clue who that bloke was, and I was expecting a tonne of questions, but Arturo didn’t care. He just told me I was a h
eartbreaker, and then he took me to the London Eye.
Yeah, I know. Not exactly what you’d expect, right? But the second he saw me looking up at the cabs whizzing up in the air, he was grinning. “Want to go for a ride?”
“Yes!”
He waved to one of the minders, and ten minutes later we were taking our seats in a private capsule, loaded with champagne and chocolates. It was a Cupid ride, and that’s when I realised I was kidding myself.
I was sitting next to him, sipping at my iced wine as we swung into the air. Arturo put his arm around me, and I looked into those brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, and I saw they were shining with the fun of it all. Before I knew what I was doing, I leaned into him and kissed him.
His lips were soft, warm and gentle, but when I put my arms around him, he gathered me close, and then he was kissing me fiercely. As the caress deepened, warmth turned into passion. I found myself sitting on his lap, running my hands over his back, feeling those hard muscles flex under my fingers, and getting totally turned on.
I was rubbing my tits against his chest and was well on my way to melting into a puddle when he began laughing.
“Sirena, there’s a group of school kids in the next pod, and I have the feeling private shows are not welcome.”
He sat back, brushed the hair off my face with a gentle finger and grinned. And that’s when I realised that all that stuff I’d told myself was utter cobblers. I wasn’t feeling better because I had a plan, and I wasn’t playing along because I needed to – I wanted to be with him.
I knew why, too. Arturo could have done anything he liked, and he’d chosen to spoil me rotten – in bed and out of it. I know, he’d killed Escamilla in a spectacularly gruesome way, but that scumbag had threatened my mum, a helpless woman on a ventilator for chrissake, and he’d raped me mercilessly. I thought it all over and decided his suffering on the way out was only justice.
That file and the slideshow of flickering memories also told me that this was the first time in ages I’d had some fun, and it was all due to Arturo. So I looked at those dark eyes sparkling with laughter, felt the warmth and comfort of that hunky, chunky body and remembered how, after that first time in the four-poster, I’d felt I’d come home.
