by AJ Adams
"Okay, boss."
"Any questions?"
"No, boss!"
They were on their feet and out the door before it occurred to me that they'd not asked what I'd be doing. For the first time, I knew how the jefe felt. Nobody would dare ask him his business. I just hoped I'd be as good.
The pings from the fresa's phone alerted me to a raft of new messages. Expecting them to be messages from Kowalczyk, I looked. There was nothing from him, not a peep.
However, her Twitter account was active, as were her Instagram and Facebook. Checking in, I saw a stream of photos: Kowalczyk at a fancy dinner in a tux, greeting famous faces. She'd done it regularly over the months but instead of her usual plain captions, there was gushing about 'LOML Jacek". I'm not into social media, and so I took a minute to realise it stood for Love of My Life.
I called Chin, once again blasting him out of bed. "Oh, my God! Is there a problem, sir?"
"Not at all." I could hear his relief. "I'm sending you a bonus for work done so far. Also, I want to know who's posting from this account." I sent him the details. "I need it ASAP."
After half a minute of frantic tapping he was back. "It's a PR company, Gold Ticket. Their website says they will curate your online image by managing your social media."
"How long have they been posted to that account?"
"They got this password three days ago. It's part of a bigger account." More tapping. "I'm just looking into their contracts to see who's paying the bills."
I made a note to inform HQ about Terry Chin. We'd rated him a hobby hacker, but he was better than that.
"Got it!" His triumph was so obvious, that I didn't have the heart to tell him I already knew. "Jacek Kowalczyk!"
"Chin, you're an asset. I want you on my staff."
"Thank you. Sir, uhm, it's an honour but I already have my own company, and uhm, I don't like fixed hours."
He was pissing himself at the thought of working for the cartel. As a man that frightened is a weak link, I reconsidered. "Research only," I assured him. "You can contract with us. I'll pay you a retainer for ten hours a week. Anything extra, we work it out."
His relief was loud and clear. "Yes, sir!"
The second he disconnected, I re-examined my files. I focussed on the investment account, studying payments from Delicious, the family restaurant.
Persia York had invoiced for decorating, image management, social media influencing, and even personal appearances. The woman was damn inventive in figuring out ways to milk the business. If she hadn't hooked up with Kowalczyk, I would have asked her to become my socio.
The audited accounts looked great on the surface but I spotted all the signs of wholesale insurance fraud, tax evasion, and cooking of the books.
I sat back feeling vindicated. That restaurant was laundering more money than Supergirl on washday, and Persia York's name was all over the books. She'd signed off on receipts every month.
That last bit was crucial because numbers don't lie. No business owner pays ridiculous amounts of money for nonsense services. She had done a little work, but nothing that rated whacking payments. It stank to high heaven.
And while her private texts made it obvious she didn't like Kowalczyk, she'd gone to all of his parties, clamped to his side just as firmly as his flashy gold Rolex circled the pudgy wrist. She'd promoted him too. Persia York would do anything for cash, including working with the bling-pig; it was all there in black and white.
Looking back, I should have known better. If I'd thought about it, I would have seen the setup was suspect. But I didn't want to know. My team would have alerted me but I'd been a complete pendejo there too and so they couldn't save me.
So, there I was, forcing facts to fit my own story. I decided that Kowalczyk was missing his socio's support so much that he'd hacked into her account. But as he was too fucking lazy to do anything more than party, he'd handed the job of posting over to Gold Ticket.
It was all of a piece, I assured myself. A crime boss knows that disappearances are always bad news. If they're not worm food, there's a chance they've turned state's evidence. As Persia had vanished, he should have been pulling back from his connection with her. But as I'd kept him off balance by closing down his club, destroying his toys and attacking his business, Kowalczyk had dropped a loop.
Talk about monumental arrogance and pride, huh? If I'd had any brains at all, I would have stopped, called in my team and inspected my so-called facts.
But, I didn't. Convinced I was fucking over Kowalczyk and winning all the way, I dived into my work again, updating my plans with the information Chin had sourced, working out who could be bought, persuaded or coerced and who had to be eliminated.
At eight I got calls from the team, all announcing success. Kowalczyk's block was now part of the Zeta plaza. Even better, it had gone off without a hitch because Baros and his men were still kicking their heels at the airport.
"Well done. Call it a day," I told them. "Tomorrow we take the next step."
Amit reported all was quiet and with my own eyes crossing from fourteen hours of slaving at my desk, I quit too.
Deliberating between going out and going home, I decided against clubbing. The team would be in Bubbles but we weren't on terms yet and I wasn't sure of how to work it out. I went home, passing by the supermarket across the street first. Admittedly, I was less than happy but I told myself I would cheer up once in bed, enjoying Kowalczyk's woman.
When I walked in, she was bent over the bath, bruised butt high in the air as she brushed her teeth and spat into the drain. "Is that mine?"
She waved it about. "After having your cock in my mouth, I thought, what's a toothbrush between friends?"
"Zorra!" I dumped the food at her feet.
She didn't turn a hair. "Relax. This is a spare. I got it from the cupboard under the sink."
"Huh!" I took in the copper cloud of hair and lovely face. She smelled good too, of soap and flowers. The chain on her wrist rattled as I unlocked it. She was mine to enjoy. The mere thought had me hard. "Come on."
Her eyes widened. "Right here, right now?"
"Almost." I swept her up and had her on her back in my bed a moment later. I was ripping off my shirt, my need frustrated by buttons.
"You're in a rush." Incredibly, she was giggling and helping me with my belt. "Where are the condoms?"
She wanted me. The breath caught in my throat. As I pushed her down under me, running my hands over the soft curves, the sass vanished. Her eyes shimmered and half closed, mirroring the lust that drove me.
"Hmm, yum." One foot ran up over the back of my leg as her hands trailed over my shoulders. She giggled happily, teasing, "Do you work out?"
She was mine, and I took her. There are no words for it. Possession. Passion, perhaps. It was fierce, brutal, and she loved it.
"More!"
"Harder!"
"Never stop!"
She surrendered herself completely. I pounded into her, reigning in my own rising need, containing the fire inside until she trembled and arched. As she wailed in release, I came with her, shuddering with pulsing ecstasy.
When I finally collapsed on top of her, sucking in deep breaths, body trembling uncontrollably, she lay supine, eyes shut as she gasped in rhythm. Hot, sweaty and panting, she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever had.
When she tried to move away, I found myself holding her in place. "Stay."
She gulped in air, but there was a glint in the hazel eyes. "Told you." And smugly, "I'm good."
"And modest." I ran a hand up the elegant neck and smoothed the damp curls from her face. "Pretty too."
Her eyes widened and then she smiled. This wasn't the big beam. This was a sweet expression that transformed her into a warm, loving woman. Her arms came up, and she stroked my back. "You're not so bad, Jorge Santos."
That's typical English. They're so understated, it can be hard to figure out if they're insulting or complimenting you. This though, was the good stuff. I f
elt it too.
Of course, she took instant advantage. "Can I have that cuppa?"
The English and their damn tea.
"Pleeeeease?"
She was part witch because we were in the kitchen, with her messing about with a kettle. She was wearing my shirt too. I watched her while sipping my wine, knowing I was too soft on her, and not caring.
"Is my family okay?" She sat down at the breakfast bar, a steaming cup in hand.
"Yes." I was waiting for her to start her nonsense again, but she just nodded. To my surprise, she sat and drank in total silence. Finally, she was toeing the line. She'd realised there was no point in trying to pull the wool over my eyes. She was rolling over and accepting her position. Satisfaction washed over me. Yes, I'm a pendejo but that's how I am. I like to be in charge.
When she was done, she washed up the cup and looked over at me. "What's next?"
"Tell me about Kowalczyk."
"He's a wanker."
"He is, now I have you. How do I get to him?"
She was ready with her answer. "He lives for ego. He would hate it if you make him look a fool."
It wasn't news. "Okay." At least she'd given an honest opinion. "I'm already on the painting and the statue."
"Also, he really loves the limelight."
Again, nothing I didn't know.
"He hangs out with the rich and famous even though they don't like him," she confided. "They go to his parties because of the free booze, blow and bangs. The three Bs he calls them."
There might be something there. "Who's the biggest fish?"
"Mostly it's who is front page on the Rampage," she said straight off. "Women have to be pretty and rate some celebrity value. But for men, it's power and bank account. Titles are also good, but not third-rate Euro trash like Italian counts; it's got to be classy."
"Hmmm."
"He got into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot last year when his horse won a race and he still bores people about it."
Just like that, a plan popped into my head. "Right. He values those horses."
"Don't you even think it!" She was up on her feet, scarlet with fury. "Don't you dare harm them!"
So much for having her under my thumb. Tea aside, the Brits are famous for being animal lovers and the fresa was ready to do battle.
I enjoyed it because those tight breasts were bouncing about under my shirt with rage. "Think you can stop me?" I'm a bastard, I really am.
"I'll - I'll -"
Her eye fell on the wine bottle. It had come all the way from home and was impossible to get in London. I picked it up hastily and set her straight. "Chica, you misunderstand. I wouldn't hurt them. I'm going to be their owner."
She frowned, not understanding.
The horses will be in fine shape, promise. Sit, fresa."
It wasn't instant, but she stood down. I put the bottle back on the table.
"What are you up to?" she asked.
"You'll see." I was filled with glee. The plan was a beauty and it would drive Kowalczyk up the fucking wall.
"You're looking pleased with yourself." She was eyeing me up. "Revenge going well for you, is it?"
"Yes."
"Huh." Her disdainful expression spoke volumes. "Not so much Santos as Satan."
So much for respect. We were right back to mouthy. But I couldn't dislike her. Apart from being brave, she had a heart, the fresa, and she wasn't afraid of speaking up, even when it might cost her. She was way too classy to be working with a lowlife like Kowalczyk. "Want to watch a movie?"
"Yes!"
As I said it, I was considering whether I'd gone insane.
Instead of making her suffer in an eternity of hell, she was on my sofa, punching up movies and giggling, "Narcos seems too close to home. How about Orange Is The New Black?" Hearing my growl, she looked at me sideways. "Thinking you should beat me?"
"Yes." But I wasn't. I wouldn't raise a hand to her again. I'd known it the second I'd walked into the bathroom and seen her as she leaned over the bath, ass black and blue with welts, brushing her teeth. For some inexplicable reason, it had gotten to me.
She knew it because she relaxed. "Okay, so let's try some neutral territory. How about Jaws? It's a classic."
"Sounds good."
Watching the Amity cop run around after a giant shark, I finally figured out what bugged me. Taking Persia was fine because she was a player, but she hadn't deserved the belting. She'd turned me down, insulted me to my face, but she'd not waged a public campaign against me. That became clear when her account began posting again.
Then it hit me: what I felt was guilt. It astonished me. I'd taken my share of hostages, extorting their people for this, that and the other, and spilled plenty of blood, but it had never bothered me because it was never personal, just business.
I had not thought about it before but if I'd had to guess, I'd have said that with my father being cartel, and his papa before him, and our great grandfather too, guilt had been bred out of the Santos line. When you're in our profession, it is an emotion you can do without.
"Eek!" Persia buried her face in her hands, peeking at the TV through her fingers like a kid. "God, I'd forgotten how scary this bit is."
I put my arm around her, enjoying her shivers of happy terror before puzzling over my own issues again. Looking back, she had laughed at me in the mansion. But I'd been turned down by women before. What man hasn't? And women can be bitches. But with Kowalczyk riling me up, I'd lost it.
"This is all right, isn't it?" She was leaning up against me, sighing comfortably. "Much nicer than the bath."
Jesus, what the hell was I thinking? Guilt or not, this was no way to be handling the situation. She might not have done all the things I'd accused her of, but she was the enemy. And there I was, indulging her. For fuck's sake, I was even having second thoughts about sending that video to the Polish shit and his celebrity friends!
"Do you know, I can't remember when I last Netflix and chilled?" Persia mused. She beamed at me. "Never thought it would be with you."
Yes, I was definitely fucking up.
Chapter Ten
Persia
The shark chomping through boats and swimmers was nothing compared to the wave of temper coming from Jorge. He didn't say a word but I swear the temperature in the room dropped.
It wasn't exactly a mystery why. He'd mellowed because of the amazing sex but now he was regretting it. He was pissed off, thinking I should be chained up, preferably in the dark.
I teased without even thinking. "Do you know, I can't remember when I last Netflix and chilled? Never thought it would be with you." He actually growled at me, just like a Rottweiler, and the menace flowed, just as it had when I'd insulted him.
Remembering the explosive temper, and the knowledge he saw me as part of the enemy camp, I was sensible and shut up.
He drank his wine and his mood lightened. I kept quiet, and before long the arm around me loosened and he was running his hand over my shoulders in a friendly way. But when the shark was blown to bits, he had me up on my feet.
"Let me pee and brush my teeth?"
"You've got sixty seconds."
Actually, he didn't rush me but it was cuffs and lights out, exactly like before. I didn't mind. Given the circumstances, I was grateful. I had not sat next to Kowalczyk ever without him pinching, slapping or tormenting me - and that was in public. In private, he would have been shoving himself inside me - and in the nastiest way possible.
Jorge had been decent and the sex before had been fun. It was a million miles better than it might have been and so I was nice. "I enjoyed the film."
"Good." But he didn't mean it.
I didn't want him changing his mind about me. Having read the book, and knowing he persisted in believing Kowalczyk was a mate, I had a fantastic grasp of all the nasty ways Jorge might use me if he went off me. I curled up in his bed and decided to worm my way into his good graces. "Want to have some fun?"
"No."
&nbs
p; Shit. Not good. But I was sweet. "Goodnight, Jorge."
Another growl. I really had to stay in favour. I worried for a while and when I dropped off, I was plagued by bad dreams that featured Kowalczyk and Jorge's knife. That was bad enough but when I woke, the sight that greeted me had me hiding under the covers.
Jorge was dressing but there wasn't snappy suit in sight. Black jeans, rubber-soled shoes, and a tee, also black, gave off a sinister vibe. As I watched covertly, he strapped a knife to one ankle and a gun to the other. Another knife strapped to his forearm and then, a stiff vest that I just knew was bulletproof. Another gun in the small of his back, and a final one in a shoulder holster. Jorge Santos was going to war.
"Up."
I was on my feet, grabbing my book and pillow, quiet as a mouse. I was a fool to think he was all right; he was a killer.
"In."
I sat in the bath, looking as humble as he cuffed me.
He marched off and from the various sounds in the flat, he was drinking a coffee and checking the news. I didn't even think of calling out to ask for some; I wanted him to forget I was there.
"Here."
To my astonishment, he dropped a notepad and pencil into my lap. "Thank you!" But he was off and the outside door was slamming closed.
I couldn't figure him out. Touchy and absolutely lethal one moment, and yet perfectly nice the next. He was nuttier than Nutella pastry puff. There was no understanding him and I wasn't going to try anymore. I would do what he wanted and, hopefully, walk out in one piece once he was done with me.
Sleeping till mid-morning had me nice and rested but funnily enough, having lots to entertain me didn't work out. Reading up on winning hearts and minds palled and when I tried to draw a new design, my creative juices ran dry.
After sketching a generic dress that was utterly useless, I found myself drawing Jorge. It was difficult because the regular features made him look chocolate box handsome. Having tried and failed to capture that lethal vibe, I gave him horns and put a pitchfork in his hand.
Fed up, I ran a bath and soaked for an hour. When I got out, prune-like, I did my five hundred sit-ups. Finally, out of sheer habit, I put my feet on the bath's edge and heaved at the chain.
