When Lies Unfold

Chapter 62

“Sure you wanna do this?”Gordo mutters this as he pulls the SUV to a stop.

I check my weapon, my hand flexin’ around its grip. “Tryin’ to talk me out of it?”

“No. Just wanna make sure you’re not gonna do somethin’ you’ll regret.”

My scowl deepens as I peer at him with narrowed eyes. “You think I’m gonna regret killin’ somebody who put my daughter in the hands of a fuckin’ trafficker?”

Gordo holds my stare silently, and I know why he’s askin’. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be the good friend he is.

“My only regret is not doin’ it sooner to prevent all this from happenin’ in the first place.”

He nods, and we exit the vehicle quietly. The rest of my men follow me as we fan out behind the house where Andro’s currently hostin’ a party.

My nephew’s enjoyin’ himself, if the sounds of music and female squeals driftin’ our way are any indication.

I don’t have it in me to drag out his death. He’s not worth more than a single bullet between the eyes.

As far as his asshole groupies who accompanied him, I want these fuckers gone, too. The security footage was clear enough for me to pinpoint exactly which of these bastards played even the smallest role in the ambush.

While I sure as hell don’t take pleasure in killin’ family, Andro brought this on himself.

Play stupid fuckin’ games, win stupid fuckin’ prizes.

Nobody’s expectin’ us—that much is evident by the lack of security here. We walk right inside, ignorin’ the barely clad, dancin’ women and the white powder linin’ various surfaces. Everybody’s outta their fuckin’ minds.

I walk up to where Andro’s got some easy lay grindin’ on his lap. His eyes are glazed from whatever combo of shit he’s taken.

I shove her off his lap, ignorin’ her protest as she lands in the corner of the large leather sofa. Without givin’ him a chance to even blink, I pull the trigger, and his brains and blood decorate the leather cushions.

All conversation ceases while the music continues blarin’. My men take out the other shitheads before they can even draw their weapons. Everybody else stays deathly quiet, showin’ they at least have some sense.

Turnin’ from Andro’s dead body, I signal for one of my men to kill the music. Once the place has descended into tense silence, I survey the crowd of survivors.

None of ’em dare to look me in the eyes. Terrified whimpers come from the women as they cower, shyin’ away from the mess we’ve made.

Accompanied by the subtle plop, plop, plop of blood drippin’ from the bodies on the smooth tile floor, my voice booms through the otherwise silent house.

“Let this be a warnin’ to any motherfucker who dares to test me. Don’t fuck with me, my family, or my business. ’Causethis”—I gesture with my gun toward a dead Andro and cohorts—“is what’ll happen. Understood?”

A timid-soundin’ chorus of Understood follows.

I stride out, eager as fuck to get the hell away from this shit and plan how to get my daughter back safe and sound.

It’s time to send a clear message to Hidalgo Carrera once and for all: Don’t fuck with Santiago Hernández.