Lazaro follows me outside. Serafina handled herself like a pro—that’s why I gave her a chance to win my trust. Normal women don’t throwfuck yous around when there’s a loaded gun pointed at their heads. But as I open the door to the cabana, suddenly part of me doesn’t expect to find her in the chair.
Why would she stay?
We search the room just in case she’s hiding. The only evidence she left behind is her pair of gold-tipped stilettos. I stare at them, clenching my hands at my sides.
“Take me to Tito,” Lazaro growls.
When we enter the guest house, it goes dead silent. Tito glares at me, then his boss.
Lazaro stalks forward, all rage and cool confidence. That’s a warning sign for people who know him. Something big is going to happen.
“There’s a time for celebration,” Lazaro starts. “Always a reason for violence. And always a purpose for elimination.”
Tito is shaking. Lazaro is in full character now—not the friend I grew up with, but the man who runs a cartel.
“Those girls are my guests,” Lazaro says. “What does that mean,Tito?”
“They’re under your protection.”
Lazaro nods. “The moment I turn my back and you get a little whiskey and coke in your fucking system, you let your dick do the thinking. What happened to you, Tito? A year ago you were nothing, begging me for a chance to prove yourself. And now, because you’ve tasted a little power, you abuse your position? Threaten a woman with a gun? Take advantage of my hospitality?”
“I wasn’t going to hurt her.”
“No?” Lazaro asks, then eyeballs me.
One scene plays out in my head over and over again—the gun aimed at Serafina. Lazaro and I live by different rules, grew up in very different families. He’s Mexicano and I’m white. My father is a popular state senator and his papa is a federal fugitive living in Mexico. But some beliefs are universal. Innocent women are off limits.
Tito knows he’s in trouble. “I’m sorry Mr. Mendoza, it won’t happen again.”
“Get up,” Lazaro barks.
Tito staggers to his feet.
“Give me yourpistol.”
Tito lifts the hem of his button-up shirt, revealing his weapon tucked carelessly inside the front of his pants. He surrenders it.
“Who do you trust most?” Lazaro asks.
“Juan,” Tito answers without hesitation.
“Juan Flores,” Lazaro calls. “Come here.”
Juan is a twenty-year-old with a scruffy beard and a shaven head. A winged Satan is tattooed on his skull. Lazaro hands Juan the handgun, whispers in his ear, then signals for me to follow him outside. Before we clear the doorway, a shot goes off. I turn. Tito screams. He’s holding his mangled hand against his chest.
I grin. Lazaro is getting soft—in the old days, he would’ve ordered Tito’s execution. But tonight is his bachelor party, so maybe he’s more inclined to exercise restraint.
“Where’s the girl?” Lazaro asks me again.
“Gone.”
“Do youwantto find her?”
“I’d like to get my hands on her escort first.”
Lazaro knows what I’m thinking. “I’ll take care of Tony.” He digs in his front pocket. “Here.” He dangles the key to his Mercedes in front of me. “Your car is blocked.Go.”
Serafina
