“Is that so?”
Marin’s head snaps in the direction of my voice and his face drains of color, but it’s his eyes that amuse me. The expression in them—the fear and awe as he flicks between my face and the large tattoo of a hydra that takes up the majority of my upper body from pecs to the waistband of my pants.
The large creature, a mixture of dragon and snake with seven heads, is intimidating—bold, with each separate body curling around a long staff while baring their teeth. All accept one. Their master. He’s wise and untouchable, and this is the perfect representation of my fearlessness and the danger I pose to others.
That while many work for me…
They dirty their hands for me…
I’ll always remain on top. Their boss.
“Parce, please continue with your assessment.” He swallows hard, beads of sweat now across his brow, and I smile. I’m amused by how quickly he lost the false bravado in my presence. “It’s always good to know how the public perceives me.”
“Alejandro, it’s good to see...fuck!”
“Answer only what the patron asks,” Chiquito hisses, hand wrapped around Marin’s neck from behind. He’s squeezing tight. Tight enough that his face becomes red and his lips a noticeably light shade of blue.
I wait for a beat or two before nodding at my right-hand. “Release him.”
“As you wish, sir.” Salazar steps back but doesn’t move from position. A man is covering each of the idiot’s sides and all avenues of escape while I sit directly across. A small rattan center table is all that separates us.
“It’s a lovely day out, isn’t it?” There are varying responses from my men. Some say yes, some say it looks like it might rain, and the one to my guest’s right shrugs indifferently with it’s okay. They all answer, but Marin. Another one with mierda for manners. “Do I need to repeat my question, Santiago?”
“No.”
Nothing else, and I let out a rough exhale. “Put him on his knees.”
“Wait! I’ll—” The gun at his temple shuts him up.
“You want a second chance?”
“Please.”
“Then stand up and come kneel at my feet.” Ten seconds pass and Marin remains frozen, looking at me with panic in his eyes. Long gone is the hotshot bullshit. The kingpin mentality.
Now, I see the man—the child he is.
I give Chiquito permission to strike; a single blow to the back of his skull and Santiago falls forward, landing on his hands and knees. His forehead grazes the edge of the rattan table, saving him from slamming head first into the floor while forcing the furniture to move up a few inches. It doesn’t cut him but hurts, and a pathetic whimper slips past his lips.
It’s unacceptable. The sound pitiful. Disgusting.
“Enough,” I hiss out, lips curling over my gritted teeth. “Crawl.”
His head snaps up at my command, eyes wide and limbs shaking. “Alejandro, there has to be...hijueputa!” A kick to his midsection from the guard on the left stops his moronic train of thought. Once. Twice. Six times my soldier strikes and only pauses when I hold a hand up. “Por favor.”
“Please what, Patron,” I say, tone mocking now. Taunting. “How can this poor farmer’s son be of any assistance to your excellency?”
“I’ve done nothing to deserve this.” It’s low and full of pain and almost comical. But then again, this is what happens when confronting an imposter.
They have no backbone. No balls.
People seem to forget that the dog with the loudest bark doesn’t equate to the most damaging bite. Be afraid of those who move in silence and not the flashy or attention-seeking, because a killer doesn’t announce himself before lining the streets with cadavers.
“Are you sure that’s the route you’d like to go? Choose wisely.”
“I swear, Mr. Lucas...” he swallows hard, eyes widening in horror as I lean forward, picking up the knife I brought with me “...please don’t.”
I flick it open, sliding my thumb down the sharp end. “Don’t what?”
“This is a mistake!” He tries to sit on his haunches but makes the better choice to stay as is when my eyes narrow. Pussy. “Whatever it is, I’ll pay it off.”
A sardonic chuckle escapes me. “How would you know it’s a mistake if I haven’t accused you of anything?”
“Why am I here?”
“Tell me, what will you be paying without being charged?” I ask instead of answering his redundant question. “Are you confessing sins?”
“I thought the invitation was for—”
“Crawl.” I’m holding the tip of my knife’s blade between two fingers. “You have exactly five seconds to do so.”
8
“WHY ARE YOU—”
“One.” At the first number, he does as I asked and begins to drag himself toward me. His movements are slow. His dread is palpable. “Two.” The most miserable sound leaves him as I say three and I smile, patting my leg for the pathetic man not good enough to shine my shoes. “Four.”
He pauses for a second and his hands clench on the ground because of the emasculating gesture. Marin is at the most three steps from me and breathing hard. “I’m not a dog,” he says lowly, the tone meant to be threatening but in reality, is weak. However, I do admire the fact his spirit isn’t completely gone...yet.
I’m going to enjoy breaking him down piece by piece, starting with his mental stability.
“You’re whatever the fuck I say you are.”
“Listen, Lucas—”
“Five.”
His head snaps up as the blade leaves my fingers, slicing through the air faster than he can react. One blink and the pointed edge embeds itself into his shoulder about two inches deep.
“Fuck,” he howls, arching up, which only stresses the wound and forces the blade to dig deeper.
“Crawl, Marin.” I sit forward, snapping my fingers once. It does the job and his focus returns to my face, gritting his teeth from the pain. He has no idea what agony is. “Bring me my knife.”
“Please, don’t kill me.”
“That’s completely up to you.” Tilting my head a bit, I give him a pointed look. “Do as you’re told, Marin. Last chance.”
“Yes, sir.” His head goes down and shoulders drop. It reminds me of an animal when submitting, and slowly, he crawls toward me as his reality sets in.
My invitation wasn’t based on a unification of businesses. It’s not because I like him or think he’s useful or whatever other bullshit he sold himself.
This is a trial.
I am the judge.
It’ll be his execution.
Once he stops beside my right foot, I reach a hand out and ruffle his hair. “You made some costly mistakes, Santiago.” His response to my words is whimpers. The low mumble of what I recognize as a prayer. “Explain yourself.”
“I didn’t—”
Marin stops, eyes widening as I grasp the knife’s handle and push it in and out a few times. “Don’t feed me the mierda you sell your clients. The truth this time.”
“I stole from you.”
“And how would you categorize that move?” Releasing the blade’s handle for the moment, I pat his cheek, the slap loud in the quiet backyard where the only sounds you hear are those coming from the pool’s water and my dogs nearby. “Successful or idiotic?”
“Not my brightest idea.”
“I’ll agree with you there.” My eyes snap to Chiquito and I nod toward the exterior dining area not too far from us. At once he walks in that direction, disappearing a bit from view as he picks up a nondescript box and brings it over. “And what, pray tell, did you take from me? What’s it worth?”
“Street value is high in the US via Mexican traffickers. I met with—”
“A hired transporter, Santiago. He wasn’t a capo, nor was he important.” That knowledge is like adding salt to an open wound, the proof of his stupidity slamming into his processors. “The man you met is here to deliver a payment wh
ile exchanging merchandise. He’s someone I know, and immediately came to see me after you interrupted a meeting.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his head down now. It’s a cop-out. It pisses me off. “Had I known...”
“You wouldn’t have?” I finish for him, gripping the knife once again and tapping the carved wooden handle. With each second that ticks on the clock, my drumming becomes rougher. Less patient. “Is that the bullshit you’re trying to feed me?”
“Señor Lucas, I did what any man in my position would.” And yet as he says this, the man in question still won’t look me in the eye. Doesn’t have the cojones to.
“Look at me.” My grip tightens. “At the very least have some fucking dignity while spewing that weak explanation.”
“It’s the only truth that I have.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Marin.” One tug and I pull the bloodied blade out, slicing down his flesh with the motion—the gash from shoulder to elbow is quickly bathed in red. His blood is pooling on the floor below as a pain-filled fuck leaves him. “You did what stupid men do. What all ignorant culicagados do.” Chiquito brings forth the box and places it on the floor beside him. At his proximity, Santiago tries to pull back, but my knife at his temple puts a pause to that. “You underestimated the law.”
“No more. I get it.”
“You underestimated me.”
“I’ll never do it again.” He’s sweating profusely, fighting the instinct to bolt. “I swear.”
Oh, I know he won’t and just smirk. My head tilts toward the box. “Open it.”
“Please don’t make me.” His hands are trembling, knees shifting on the terra-cotta floor, but he doesn’t make a move to follow my instructions. That won’t do. From temple to just below his chin, I dig in the jagged edge, slicing down his face. It’s deep enough that the skin flaps a bit at his chin as I move it across to the other side. “Son of a bitch...fuck!”
“What was that? You’ll open it now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“God boy, Santiago. I’m proud of you for using your words.” And to show him that I mean it, I sit back with a now-closed blade in hand. “Go on. It’s my gift to you.”
He’s trembling so hard his teeth chatter, pulling the strip of tape off and then opening it one flap at a time. His entire body goes rigid, eyes horror-stricken as he takes in the contents inside.
Two heads. His idiot accomplices.
“No...NO!”
“This is the result of stealing a shipment of poppy extract meant for the Mexican Cartel near the US border.” Standing, I tower over him and fist his hair, pushing his face closer to the proof of my appreciation. The rivulets of red dripping from his facial lesions fall over their shocked expression, mixing with the dried splashes already there. “You fucked up, Marin. You decided to play God and killed the driver—my employee—delivering my merchandise, and then tried to sell it as your own with the backing of a secret investor.” Placing the blade at his cheek, I push it in and come out on the opposite side of his face, twisting the handle. He’s skewered. He’s also pissed himself. Nasty. “You ended a good, hardworking man’s life and left a two-year-old without a father and a poor woman without her husband.”
“I didn’t—”
“Think I’d catch you, asshole.” From the corner of my eye, I see Chiquito pull out his gun and empty the magazine before replacing it with the single bullet atop the table. “It’s what you told your girlfriend, Maria…no? That I was a dumb fuck too busy playing with my dick to notice the stolen underground connections or goods? That you were protected because of who you’ve recently allied with.”
“How do you…” a sob catches in his chest, head shaking from side to side. “Is she?”
“Very much alive and enjoying the reward for turning you in.”
“She sold me out?”
“Yes.”
Marin nods, and with shaky limbs brings his hands up and closes his eyes. His lips part and hushed whispers follow as he begins to recite the Padre Nuestro prayer. And it’s as Santiago begins to say the third line that Salazar hands me his gun.
I let him finish.
I let him ask God to save his soul and forgive all offenses made while in this world.
“Will you go after my family?” he says after finishing, head bowed and posture defeated.
“They will not be harmed. You have my word.” I’m pointing the barrel at his head, finger on the trigger.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” That one bullet is all I need, and with a few quick pulls of the trigger, it lodges itself into his head, ending his life. Santiago Marin slumps forward as small fragments of skull and brain fly through the air, staining the furniture close to us and my pants. No one moves until I lower my arm and hand the gun back to its owner. “Clean it up and return him to his family along with a severance check. Tell them he died while out on delivery, a horrific robbery gone wrong.”
“Consider it done, Lucas.” Chiquito stays behind as I turn and head back into my office, already barking out orders as the men outside begin to scrub the outside terrace. He’ll take care of the mess and replace what needs exchanging; I have a more important matter to attend to.
My cell phone is right where I left it, and I press number four immediately.
It rings once.
“Patron?”
“Deliver it now.”
9
“I SHOULDN’T BE doing this.” I’ve whispered those same words to myself three times in the past hour. They’ve become my mantra. My attempt at keeping my sanity while still making idiotic decisions. To prove to myself that I’m in full use of my faculties because as of late, it’s been one unwise choice after another.
Going to the club.
Letting him corner me in the bathroom.
Accepting this invitation for dinner at his condo a week after we met.
“What are we doing tonight? You feel up to—”
“No, Laura. Just no.” We’re walking down the hall after class and heading toward the exit. People around us look, a few try to garner my attention, but I ignore them and let my security further deter any attempts.
It never changes no matter where I am.
No matter where or who I’m with; all my life I’ve been a circus attraction without my consent. I play a role. I never set a foot out of line.
“But you didn’t even let me ask!” Her expression is one of annoyance until my eyes narrow. Pushing me right now is the worst thing she can do, especially after the fiasco Codicia turned out to be. Between her infatuation and lack of decorum—meeting Alejandro—my night was a jumpy, fearful mess. Laura sighs after a minute, seeing how I’m not backing down. “Just dinner?”
“Where?” Exiting the building, I squint while reaching into my bag and pulling out a pair of sunglasses. “I’ve got a dance class all afternoon and will be exhausted after.”
“Is that a yes? I swear, nothing fancy.”
I pause, looking over at the guards just slightly away from us. “Carlos?”
“Yes, Miss Quintero?”
“Can you give us a minute? Girl talk, and all that jazz.” Those are the magical words. At any mention of girly things, he fights back a shudder. Probably remembering the time he drove us around the city for two hours straight as we whined in the back of the car about the unfairness of being a woman. Periods, cravings, and tears because we were both miserable and cranky.
“Of course, Miss Quintero.” Walking over to the black SUV I use as transportation; he turns and leans back against the vehicle and assesses the perimeter. The other two men with us also give us some privacy while preventing anyone from getting close. Funny enough, they don’t see the man holding a medium-sized box crossing the street.
He’s familiar. I know I’ve seen him before.
“...are you even listening to me?”
“What?” I don’t take my eyes off him as he stops beside Carlos and hands him the box along with an envelo
pe he pulls from inside his jacket. His eyes meet mine after and he tips his head in my direction. “Repeat that?”
“I said, Signio invited us out for dinner.”
“Okay.”
“Really?” At my barely perceptible nod, she squeals and begins to recount once again why she loves him. Needs him. In reality, I could care less because a second later it hits me. I know where I remember him from.
He was with Alejandro Lucas the night we met.
But more terrifying is the fact that I don’t regret accepting the box later that evening outside my bedroom without asking questions. Not when I opened it and found a beautiful champagne-colored lace dress that fell just below mid-thigh and a pair of strappy heels to complement the delicate garment. Both were expensive—sexy—and I was bubbling with excitement when a simple note beneath both items caught my eye. His handwriting demanded I accept this lunch invitation. His words told me he wouldn’t take a no for an answer.
And even now, as his driver pulls into the private underground parking of the luxury building where he has an apartment, there’s no repentance. I feel butterflies taking flight—somersaulting in my stomach when I see his handsome face.
This man is the definition of tall, dark, and delicious. I’m screwed.
Alejandro is dressed in a perfectly tailored pair of black pants and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone. It gives me an unobstructed view of his throat and top of his chest—the sexy way in which his throat bobs as he swallows. There’s also a hint of a tattoo that’s peeking from the opening and my mouth waters.
I’m also drawn to the bold ink on his arm. I’m mesmerized by the sight of them.
Watching every flex of his hand and then flicking my eyes to his throat—to that biteable grin. There’s curiosity brewing within me. A thirst to see what markings adorn his flesh. This is a bad idea.
The car stops, and my door is directly in front of him. Thirty seconds pass, and I count down each excruciating moment before he reaches for my handle.
And I feel it when he does, as if his fingers gripped my flesh. A hard shiver runs through me and I bite down on my bottom lip, fighting back the shocked gasp fighting to break free. This unnerves me. Scares me.
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