Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Flora
One of these days, my mouth is going to get me killed. Telling El Tigre to fuck off certainly wasn’t my wisest choice. What the fuck was I thinking?
He may be smoking hot—like I’d strip to my skin right here if I thought he’d fuck me—but he’s looking at me like I’m a bullet ant that he wants to crush. A wonderful little Colombian creature whose bite feels like you’ve been shot.
Pablo Diaz—“The Tiger”—is the second most powerful Latino in the world.
He’s heir to the Diaz empire. He’s second-in-command to his uncle, but he’s in charge of more than just what happens in New York City.
His father is the most terrifying man in Colombia.
Luis Diaz is known as el Espíritu Santo—the Holy Spirit—because you know you’re about to meet your maker if he comes to visit.
Luis’s older brother, the jefe de jefes, sends him to remind people that what Enrique giveth, he can taketh away.
Enrique Diaz may not be God, but you’ll be praying to him for divine intervention if Luis shows up.
Right now, Pablo appears like the second coming of el Espíritu Santo because he’s a mirror image of his father. His glower threatens to send me up in smoke. I’d rather be anywhere but here. I definitely didn’t set the tone for an amicable chat.
“Hello to you too, Senorita—Aguilar.”
He stresses my last name like he might choke on it. Like he’s spitting out the most disgusting thing he’s ever tasted. Like he hates hearing it, let alone saying it.
I’m not frozen in place, but I don’t move more muscles than I need to breathe. I don’t look away as he approaches the counter. This pharmacy carries narcotic medications that more than one person’s tried to steal, so I have a gun beneath the counter. I doubt I could get it fast enough.
“How can I help you?”
Remembering my customer service does me little good when it sounds mocking after that greeting.
“You can tell me how long you’ve been fucking that pedazo de mierda.” Piece of shit.
My chin jerks back as I fight not to curl my nose in disgust.
“Don’t enjoy being spoken to like that? You must not have been working for my tío abuelo long. He’ll say far worse.”
He’s not wrong. There’s no HR department to report sexual harassment to.
Humberto says whatever fucked-up thing he wants.
He does it to get a rise out of me. I know his cock gets a rise out of it.
But I refuse to respond to him, and I refuse to respond to Pablo.
I merely stare at him. He grins. His parents clearly got him braces, and he probably spends a fortune on teeth whitening.
He could be on a toothpaste commercial. His white teeth contrast against his tanned cheeks, making them practically dazzle.
Fucking hell, Florencia. Fucking think about something other than those teeth biting your nipples.
“Ah, he already has. Quelle surprise.” His mocking “what a surprise” makes me want to grind my teeth.
“Can I help you find anything? Perhaps something for constipation? Or is it diarrhea?”
He chuckles, but it’s not filled with humor like it was when he laughed at the little boy who made faces at him.
“People say my eyes must be brown because I’m so full of shit. Or did you think I had diarrhea of the mouth when I warned Humberto what I would do?”
He’s laughing at me, not with me.
I’m fighting not to be the one who’s insulted.
“You can help me understand why you’re working for Humberto. You clearly already have a job selling pharmaceuticals.”
Legal drugs is what he means, but he’s silently reminding me of what he and Humberto sell.
I shrug as I answer. “I needed a second job to help pay off my American student loans.”
That’s a benefit but not the reason.
“Working for a narco-trafficker is the best second job you could find?”
Still mocking me.
If it weren’t at my expense, and if his words were genuine, he could appear charming. His handsome face and what I’m certain is an exquisite body beneath his custom-tailored suit are distracting. I can’t ignore the simmering anger, though.
I didn’t bat an eye at the violence I witnessed earlier. It was tame compared to shit I’ve seen before. But he wasn’t looming over me then. Even with the counter between us and a step up to get behind it, he still towers over me. He’s even broader than he appeared in the chair.
“It pays well.”
“What’s the going rate for being a mistress these days?”
“Leave.”
“It’s an honest question. Why not give an honest answer?”
“You’re insulting me and trying to humiliate me. I have nothing to say to you.”
“That’s fine because I have plenty to say to you. You can listen while I talk.”
I shift and reach beneath the counter, but he’s faster than I am. He reaches across and wraps his fingers around my wrist. He doesn’t manhandle me like he did Humberto. His hold is gentle as though he’s mindful of not crushing my bones, which I’m certain he could.
“Senorita, we’re just talking whether or not you like what I say. You really don’t want to pull that gun on me. You won’t get a shot off, but you are likely to get hurt while you try.”
He allows my arm enough movement for me to bring my hand back up to the counter. I place both on the surface. He immediately lets go. This wasn’t how I’d hoped he’d restrain my wrists. Kinky sex is likely the furthest thing from his mind right now.
“Senorita, you are more than just his assistant.” He sweeps his gaze over the prescriptions behind me before he meets my gaze again. “If you aren’t his mistress, then you’re even more foolish than I thought.”
“So now you’re only insulting me. Leave, Pablo.”
He leans farther across the counter and practically purrs in my ear. “Say that again. The last bit.”
“You need to leave.”
“Say my name, chiquita.”
“You might think I’m fucking your uncle, but I’m not a whore. You obviously know who I’m related to. This is the last time I’ll say this. Leave.”
He doesn’t move away from me, but his expression becomes deadly serious. His voice is just as low as it was a moment ago, but there’s an edge to it.
“I never thought you were, and I’d kill anyone who called you that, chiquita.”
Our gazes lock, and a shiver vibrates up and down my spine. I struggle not to shift and let him see how he affects me. His intensity is wholly attractive, but I remind myself he’s already tried to embarrass me.
“Remember that the next time you regret having anything to do with Humberto.”
My brow furrows. Is he offering his protection?
“Have a good day, senorita.”
He steps back and turns around. He’s so confident I won’t shoot him in the back that he walks straight down the aisle in front of me. He’s a clear target for the gun he knows I have hidden. All I do is stare.
“Mamá, you can’t avoid telling me forever. I’m not a child anymore.”
But Pablo did call me little girl earlier. It was the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. The way it rolled off his tongue. It did things to me. It did things to my pussy.
“Your father was a good man, and they murdered him for it.”
That doesn’t match the rumors I’ve heard my entire life.
“If he was so good, then why would los Diaz want him dead?”
“They want anyone who isn’t one of them dead. They’re murderers. All of them. Even their women. His mother’s killed more than once.”
I’ve heard that story. It’s the stuff of legends.
Apparently, Pablo was like two, and his younger brother was a baby.
Some men tried to stop the convoy of cars headed to the family’s estate on San Andrés.
She was going to meet Luis and his mother.
Roadside bombs blew up the lead and last cars.
Not realizing her family customized her vehicle in NYC and smuggled it here, men opened fire.
It was a tank. Completely bulletproof with metal plates to protect the undercarriage.
Despite the tires being shot, it kept moving.
From what I’ve heard, in the chaos that ensued, she put her sons on the floor—Juan wasn’t old enough to go anywhere, and I guess Pablo obeyed his mother—then she climbed into the trunk while the SUV continued moving.
She opened a small window over the rear quarter panel.
There was an arsenal back there, and she took out the men who flooded onto the street behind her SUV. Picked them off one by one.
She got out and tossed the rifle that had no bullets left on the ground. When the man in charge approached her, he assumed she gave in because she realized her attackers outnumbered her entourage. He thought she’d beg for mercy for her sons, for herself.
Instead, she drew a knife and stuck it in the guy’s aorta and dragged it across his throat before stabbing him in the eye. It covered her in blood. Like the fucking chick in the movie Carrie.
She challenged any man to come near her children and see if they could best her.
No one did. People now whisper the name she earned.
Huitaca. She was the Muisca goddess who represented art, music, and dance—and witchcraft and sexual liberation.
The one who rebelled against the patriarchal god Bochica.
She’s not exactly revered, but no one wants to test whether she has mythical powers.
“Mamá, we’re not discussing Margherita. Deflecting and distracting might have worked when I was little, but it won’t work now.
You need to tell me the truth that no one else will.
Abuela refuses to talk about Papá. She always bursts into tears if anyone says his name.
Abuelo just starts swearing. I didn’t ask to work for Humberto, and now whatever Papá did before I was even born is likely to get me killed too. ”
I don’t think for a moment Pablo will kill me. After how light his touch was this morning, I don’t think he’d hurt me either. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t get caught in the crossfire.
“Stop stirring up trouble where none exists, Florencia.”