Emmanuel’s phone rings. He picks it up, holds it to his ear, and listens. He says something in Spanish before setting the device down. I really do need to learn this language. “I have to go deal with something. Make yourself at home. Maria is here. Anything you want, just ask her.”
“Maria is here? Did you clone her or something?”
“No, I had her flown out. I thought you could use a friendly face, and she wanted to visit family,” he explains.
“Thank you.” I lean forward, straddle Emmanuel’s hips, and press my lips to his. “I’m goingto do some work, start ordering things for the store. I’ll need the Wi-Fi password.”
“Your devices are already connected. I won’t be long,” E says, rolling us over so he’s on top of me. “There are shirts in the closet. You should put one on and cover these.” His lips then latch on to one of my nipples.
“Okay. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him.
Five minutes later, Emmanuel is walking out of the bedroom, fully dressed in a custom suit. How does he look so good in such a short amount of time? It’s really not fair. It takes me hours.
I decide to get up and put on some clothes. Then I’ll find the kitchen and make a coffee before settling in and ordering things to fill a new store. It’s a big project, but I’m glad I have something to keep me busy. I can’t make Emmanuel feel like he needs to babysit me 24/7. That’s not me. I’m not clingy. At least I wasn’t until I met him.
I walk into his closet and pause. What the actual hell? Spinning around in a circle, I feel like I just stepped into a department store. Everything is so neat, organized. And this closet is the size of some people’s entire homes. Who lives like this?
Emmanuel apparently.
I don’t even know where to start, but my fingerstrail along the fabric of jackets, then shirts. I open a drawer and find neatly-laid socks. Another drawer houses ties in a range of colors. All folded to perfection. I pull down a white dress shirt and throw it on. I swim in it.
Once I have it buttoned up, I fold the sleeves up to my elbows. I’m about to walk out when something catches my eye. A drawer that’s not fully closed. It’s on the opposite side of the room. I walk over with the intention of closing it, but then I see a picture frame. I slide the drawer open and find many more pictures. My hands shake as I pick up the first one, then the next.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, dropping the photos to the floor.
I keep digging through the drawer. These images are of all the same person. Me. They start from when I was a teenager, and go all the way through to this year. Why does Emmanuel have these?
Chapter Forty-Eight
The thing about torturing members of the cartel? They know the deal. They know they’re not getting out of here, no matter what they say. Which is why Enrique is staying silent. He’s accepted his fate.
“I just want to know why?” I ask him. “You, of all people… I wouldn’t have thought you would turn rat.”
“You were going to kill me anyway. Itouched her, and I knew in that moment that it didn’t matter what I said,” he grunts.
“So you went to the feds?”
“They came to me. They were already following her,” he says.
I nod to Paz. He sticks a needle into Enrique’s arm. The drug will paralyze him, keep him still as I do what I have to do.
“You know this could have been avoided. The punishment for touching her would have been far less than that of total betrayal.” It’s a lie. I wouldn’t have gone any fucking easier on him.
Even if he was trying to protect her by stopping her from rushing into a burning building, he should have found another way to do it. He didn’t have to touch her. He also didn’t have to run to the fucking cops.
I walk over to the wall and pick up a pair of coveralls. This job is messy. I don’t need to go back into the house covered in blood and bodily fluids. Evie does not need to see that. Once I step into the coveralls, I pick up two filleting knifes, handing one to Paz. We stand on each side of the table. Enrique’s completely naked and strapped down in front of us. He knows what’s about to happen. Hell, he’s delivered this punishment to more than enough people himself.
“My family…” he says.
“You should have thought of them before you became a rat.” I glide the knife just under the skin of his shoulder. It takes time, finesse, to remove someone’s flesh from their body. But when you do it enough, it becomes like muscle memory. The knife slides from side to side, almost as if I were filleting a fish.
Once we are done with his arms, we move onto his chest. Enrique hasn’t said a word. He can feel it, but he’s not going to show us that it’s bothering him. The drug keeps his body still, but it doesn’t erase all the pain.
An hour later and we have one skinned rat.
“I want him hung in the middle of fucking town,” I tell Paz, dropping the knife and shaking the cramp out of my hand. “Make sure it’s known that I’m back in town and this is what will happen to anyone else that steps out of line.”
“Will do.” Paz nods.
