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“It would be a shame if the police received a tip about a teenage girl stabbing a man.”
I bristled at his words. There it was, the cruelty whispered about when people brought up the young cartel heir. The reality of my situation sank in. Everyone in Tucson’s underbelly knew Mario Jimenez, son of Sergio Jimenez, cartel kingpin of Los Muertos. And here he stood in front of me, putting me in a position that left me no choice but to exchange a life debt for a hot meal, a shower, and his silence.
Mario held out his hand for me, a look of triumph plastered on his face as I moved toward him. The moment our fingertips touched, I remembered my promise.
“Hold on. I need to grab his boots and my knife.”
Ryan
10 Years Later
There wasn’t enough iced coffee in the world to fix my foul fucking mood this morning. What would fix it would be if ungrateful assholes could do their jobs correctly instead of thinking they could pull one over on me.
“Dios mío, Anthony, it’s three in the morning. I’d prefer not to take a shower this late due to your blood spatter getting all over me.” I released the bridge of my nose, looking across the room to where he was strapped to a chair. The color drained from his face at the statement, the reality of his fuck-up setting in.
“Ryan, I…I didn’t know they would show at the drop.” His panicked voice grated on my nerves; I wanted to shoot him just for annoying me.
My eyebrow quirked at his response, but I continued to stare him down. Interrogation participants hated when their excuses were met with silence. It made them squirm and spout out more shit. Sometimes they gave me helpful information. Other times, like with Anthony, they sputtered out more bullshit.
Unfortunately for him, my patience had hit its limit.
Nothing useful had come out of his ugly mug in the last fifteen minutes. Clearly, he either didn’t have any more information or wouldn’t give it up. My money was on the first. Men like Anthony had no loyalty. It’s why he’d taken the lousy five hundred dollars to spill our gun drop location in the first place.
“Please, Ryan.” His voice reached an octave I didn’t realize was possible. “I can get you information. I’ll give you my contact. You…you can find out who’s trying to pay off people to rat.” His head nodded so aggressively I thought he might give himself a concussion.
An irritated sigh left my lips. He was too dumb to realize I knew the truth.
He still thought some street thugs showed up and took the load before it made it to the intended destination—my club. In Anthony’s defense, that’s what he’d been told would happen. But the man should check his source before squealing because it was never thugs paying. It was me, flushing out the rats before they carried the plague of betrayal into my portion of this operation.
I pushed off the tiled wall, cold indifference settled over me like a second skin, a tangible change in my demeanor. Panicked, Anthony looked over toward the door at Sergio. As if Sergio would help him.
Doesn’t Anthony realize who’s in charge here?
Apparently not, or he wouldn’t have tried to double-cross me and then proceed to waste my fucking time spitting excuses.
I strode across the blood-stained concrete, pausing in front of the drain his chair sat above. “Anthony, Anthony, Anthony…” My patronizing tone sounded cold to my ears.
He recoiled the moment we made eye contact, as if I’d physically slapped him. The reaction pulled a cruel smile from my lips. I’d been told more than once that my stare was unnerving; my guess was it was because people could see my stained soul through my coffee-colored eyes, witnessing the curse given to me by a dying man’s final words.
Eyes are the windows to the soul and all that shit.
Jimmy may have been my first kill, but he certainly was not my last. And my next kill was staring down the one who’d take his life. Dumb motherfucker stole from the wrong person.
“Mira, Anthony, everyone knows I live by the fuck-around-and-find-out policy. You fucked around on me, and now you’re about to find out the consequences of your actions.” A smirk crept up my face at the sight of the wild pulse in his throat.
His eyes widened at my words, his body shaking while sweat dripped from his face. When I peeked down, another sigh left my lips.
They always pissed themselves.
Thank Santa Muerte I didn’t handle the cleanup. I had men for that. But this was not what I wanted to be dealing with at the end of my night, so he was about to receive a small blessing.
“Ryan, I can help you find the load. I swear, just—just let me go, and I’ll contact my guy,” he cried.
Fat tears rolled down his dirty face. The desperation in his voice might have broken others, but it didn’t do a damn thing to make me reconsider.
“Ah, Ah.” I wagged my finger. “You had your chance to make smart decisions, Anthony. Now it’s my turn to make decisions.”
We locked eyes for another second before I looked over my shoulder at Sergio, who gave me the slightest of nods. I didn’t need Sergio’s approval, not really, but he was the kingpin of Los Muertos, and old habits died hard. I respected him too much not to seek his approval when he was in the room for cartel business. Even if his showing up tonight had been unexpected. Another reason I was ready to wrap this meeting with Anthony up. I wanted to know why the fuck Sergio was here.
