Vita’s backed herself against the wall on the far side of the dresser and armoire. She can watch both Pablo and me, and neither of us can sneak up behind her. Not that it matters. I’m certain she can defend herself. She might even be a match for Pablo or me.
But the two of us?
Not a chance in hell or heaven.
“What’re you going to do to me?”
Before I can answer—Pablo will defer to me, especially now that he’s seen Vita and me together—the window shatters. I’m across the room and yanking Vita against me as I drop to the floor. I glance up at Pablo and see blood blossoming on his shirt as more glass breaks from at least two other shots.
“Puta madre! That burns like a mother no matter how many times it happens.” Motherfucker!
“Primo!”
“I’m not dying. It’s in my clavipectoral triangle.”
“Okay, Dr. Science. Did it go straight through your pec groove?”
My cousin’s a highly trained biologist and chemist. Like Harvard, then Cambridge, then MIT. He’s into scientific accuracy.
“Yeah.”
“Then grab a shirt and put pressure on it while you look for the bullet.”
“Me? For fuck’s sake,Primo. I just got shot.”
I glance down at Vita, whose gaze is darting between Pablo and me. She’s probably wondering what the fuck is wrong with us. Nobody likes getting shot. But you get used to it.
“El Tigre? Patrón?”
One of our guys hammers on the door, calling out to Pablo, then me. The Tiger is one of Pablo’s titles. In the Cartel, the Tiger is thejefe’stop general. Since we’re not on a mission, our man doesn’t call me brigadier—as in the lowest rank of a general—or the lesser rank ofcapo—captain. Since I run Bogotá, even from a distance, I’ve earned the titlepatrón. Because my cousins and I have so many roles, the titles can get confusing. When in doubt, the men choose the highest ranking one for the situation.
“Le dispararon al Tigre. Tenemos que irnos.” The Tiger’s been shot. We need to go.
I rise enough to crouch before guiding Vita toward the door. We both draw our guns. Me from my lower back holster, and her from her purse. I push her forward as I reach out for Pablo. He hunches over as he squats. I apply pressure over the shirt he found in a drawer.
“The bullet.”
Vita points toward the wall behind where Pablo stood. We see an indentation, but nothing’s protruding. She hurries over as she reaches inside her purse. She pulls out a cosmetic bag and unzips it. From it, she produces a pair of tweezers. Another rummage in her purse leads to a tiny bag. The kind you’d put powder or pills in. It must be clean since she drops the bullet in without touching it. She presses the bag closed and sticks out her arm, offering the evidence to me.
I grab it as I pass her. I open the door and practically shove Pablo through it before turning back to Vita. My hand clasps her wrist as I nearly drag her from the room. I want them both safe before I consider what to do next. Once I know they’ll both live, I’ll light this motherfucking city up to find out who shot at myprimoand mychiquita.
Chapter Ten
Vita
Being shot at through a fifth-floor window wasn’t on my bingo card for today.
What the ever-loving fuck?
That shocked me.
I was doubly shocked at how fast Alejandro dove toward me and shielded me.
I was triply shocked that he teased his cousin, who was practically spurting blood from his chest. Neither man was alarmed by the injury.
What kinda pincushions have they been? It didn’t faze either of them.
Or they’re that well trained they can’t show fear or pain.
