I cock an eyebrow as I wait for her to respond. I watch her jaw set before our gazes meet, and her defiance is a challenge I’d accept if I thought it was an offer.
“Florencia Aguilar Bautista.”
My gaze flies to my uncle.
What the ever-loving fuck?!
I stand and lean over the coffee table that separates us.
“Forget tonight. You have two hours to fix this before I put a bullet between your eyes. We willneverforgive you.”
I’m around the end of the table in a flash as I flick open the knife I keep in my right pocket whenever I’m down here. It’s a larger blade than the ones I carry in NYC. I’ve carried at least one every day of my life since I was twelve.
Fucked-up tradition. All of us boys in the Four Families—los Diaz, the Mancinellis, the O’Rourkes, and the Kutsenkos—plus their Andreyev cousins—got them for our twelfth birthdays. It’s a rite of passage.
This one has a blade thick enough to do the job. I stand to the side and grab Humberto’s right wrist and yank his hand off his thigh and pin it against the armrest. I bring the knife down and sever the pinky with one slice. He howls, and I grin. He tugs at his hand, but I refuse to let go. Instead, I put pressure on it, making his finger stump geyser.
“You lost the other one forty years ago when you betrayed your brother.TíoEnrique warned you it was a reminder of what you did to myabuelo. He could’ve done far more. He could’ve killed you. Instead, he made you his bitch. Now you can remember you’re my bitch. Two hours.”
I don’t look at the woman because she can’t help who her family is. But I’m not sticking around to find out whether she knows what a tremendous error she made working for Humberto. If she knows, I’ll destroy her.
I left Humberto’s house before I lost all my shit. I’m still seething, but at least I’m doing it in private. I switched cars with one of my guards. Instead of being in a luxury vehicle with adriver, I’m in a subcompact that blends in. It’s allowed me to watch Humberto’s estate with no one noticing.
TíoEnrique’s allowed him to exist in a mansion that makes Pablo Escobar’s house look like a shack. But for all its grandeur, it’s been his cell for forty years. He hasn’t stepped foot outside his front door since the day mytíointerred him there. There are armed guards who patrol the grounds. Unlike our homes in New York and New Jersey, they’re there to keep him inside rather than keep anyone outside. Sure, they’ve shot men who’ve attempted to breach the estate, but Humberto knows he’s dead the moment he passes through the door. He can go in the backyard, but that’s it.
Now I’m turning on the car and pulling out of the spot I’ve been waiting in for the last hour. Florencia just left, and I want to know where the fuck she’s headed. I want to know who the fuck she speaks to next. I want to know what the fuck is going on.
We navigate through the city until we get to a decent neighborhood that’s safer than most but hardly wealthy. She parks in front of a pharmacy and gets out. I have parking karma and find a spot half a block before hers. I reverse and parallel park like a pro. I observe her go inside and count to twenty before I get out of the car.
I glance back at my guard, who’s prepared to follow me. I shake my head, and he falls back. He’ll be unobtrusive but at the ready. I sweep my gaze over my surroundings again before I walk to the door. As I open it, I peek over my shoulder before scanning the interior. There are six customers—a woman and her toddler son, an old man with a cane who’s with his equally elderly wife, a man in his forties, and a woman in her twenties by the counter.
He’s the only one who could present a problem since he appears reasonably in shape. He turns toward me, and his eyes widen. He puts the box of antacids back on the shelf and looksaround for a way out that doesn’t require him to pass me. I’m certain I don’t know him, but he clearly knows me. I step aside, and he practically bolts.
The others notice his hasty retreat and discover me still near the door. The couple look at the woman as she scoops up her child. I’d never attack any of them, but my reputation isn’t one of benevolence, and I’m sure as shit not Santa. I can’t blame them for not trusting I won’t hurt them. The little boy waves to me as he and his mother approach. I waggle my eyebrows at him and return his wave. He giggles, and his mother reaches for his hand until she looks at me. She’s unprepared for me to make funny faces at her son. She’s rushing, but no longer practically running to get out of the shop.
I turn toward the pharmacy counter, wondering where Florencia went. I’m tall enough that I can see she isn’t in any of the aisles, and there are only six of them. It surprises me to find her in a white lab coat. It looks crisp and starched.
A perfectionist?
If she is, it must chap her ass that something’s gone wrong with the shipment, or that Humberto would indirectly blame her if he’s at fault.
I observe her as she speaks to the last customer in the store. She hasn’t looked in my direction, but I sense she’s aware something’s changed. It’s not until the woman turns away, medicine in hand, that Florencia glowers at me. I nod to the customer as I walk past. Before I can open my mouth, she greets me.
“You can fuck all the way off.”
Chapter Two
Flora
One of these days, my mouth is going to get me killed. TellingEl Tigreto fuck off certainly wasn’t my wisest choice. What the fuck was I thinking?
He may be smoking hot—like I’d strip to my skin right here if I thought he’d fuck me—but he’s looking at me like I’m a bullet ant that he wants to crush. A wonderful little Colombian creature whose bite feels like you’ve been shot.
Pablo Diaz—“The Tiger”—is the second most powerful Latino in the world. He’s heir to the Diaz empire. He’s second-in-command to his uncle, but he’s in charge of more than just what happens in New York City. His father is the most terrifying man in Colombia. Luis Diaz is known asel Espíritu Santo—the Holy Spirit—because you know you’re about to meet your maker if he comes to visit. Luis’s older brother, thejefe de jefes, sends him to remind people that what Enrique giveth, he can taketh away. Enrique Diaz may not be God, but you’ll be praying to him for divine intervention if Luis shows up.
Right now, Pablo appears like the second coming ofel Espíritu Santobecause he’s a mirror image of his father. Hisglower threatens to send me up in smoke. I’d rather be anywhere but here. I definitely didn’t set the tone for an amicable chat.
“Hello to you too,Señorita—Aguilar.”
