Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Alejandro
My second shadow’s following me again today.
She has been since I returned from Belize right before the charity gala.
It started right after Chicago and hasn’t stopped.
My men still haven’t identified her, even when they’ve sensed her.
Even when my cousins confronted her as she followed me toward the restroom, she didn’t miss a beat.
They warned me she had a weapon in her purse that looked an awful lot like a stun gun.
The yellow butt gave it away. It surprises me that: A. she’d have a weapon with any distinguishable color on it, and B. she thought she could follow me—even use the weapon on me—at such a large event.
She couldn’t have carried my ass anywhere once I was out.
She couldn’t just leave my body there. And there’s not a fucking chance in hell she could’ve interrogated me.
I wouldn’t have given up shit, and my family would’ve found me if I’d been gone another five minutes.
As is, my cousins were standing guard while I received payment from a council member who needs a few permits rushed through the city planner’s office.
She’s still good at being a ghost.
Except today’s different, chiquita.
I’ve known all along my shadow is the same woman I keep bumping into, but I wasn’t ready to spring a trap until today.
I’m in Jackson Heights, meeting with a timador, a gallo, and a cameleo.
An extortionist, a rooster, and a camel.
I don’t know why extortionists don’t have an animal name in cartels, but they live up to their name.
They intimidate for a living. A rooster leads a band of men who view laws as optional; they’re selectively obedient to the government. A camel is an OG cartel member; one who’s outlived most of their peers.
All three serve a purpose in neighborhoods like the Heights. They mean my cousins and I usually only come on Tax Day—protection money day—each month. They’re our eyes, ears, and mouths the rest of the time.
“Tiffani with an i” was already at a mom-and-pop pharmacy when I arrived in the neighborhood. I need to learn how she knew I’d be here today since I only scheduled the meeting this morning. When I came out of the flower shop, she didn’t expect me to turn left.
I watched a woman scurry away. I recognized her through the window of the cell phone store.
It’s the same place she ducked into the first time I sensed her following me in the Heights a couple weeks ago.
She thought it disguised her, but it didn’t.
I recognized her profile and her silhouette.
After all, I’ve been fantasizing about her for weeks now.
The hair—a wavy brown bob—is a nice touch, but I liked the wig from the yacht the best. Since I’ve seen her wearing ones as part of whatever disguise she’s in, I assume her hair wasn’t natural on the yacht, even though I would’ve said it was that night.
I’m tired of this cat and mouse game. It’s time for Tom to catch Jerry for once.
I approach the car she’s in from her passenger side blind spot.
She headed to it while I ducked into a bodega so I could observe her.
She’s scrolling on her phone as though she’s looking for something or killing time.
She’s caught completely unprepared when she hears the car doors unlock.
Then I’m slipping into the front passenger seat with a gun pointed at her.
“I didn’t take you for the stalker type, but I’ve been told I fuck well enough to tempt women.”
I shoot her a lazy smile. It doesn’t distract her from my gun. However, her bravado doesn’t waver. She responds with a shrug of her right shoulder.
“I didn’t know it could take so little to get your attention.”
“It’s either that, or someone sent you to kill me.”
I’m certain she’s considering whether she can survive me shooting her if she tries to make a break for it. My gun’s muzzle presses against her upper ribs. She remains quiet, looking straight ahead.
“What do you want? Who sent you?”
She doesn’t react to my questions, giving me the silent treatment.
“Are you wondering how I got into the car when you locked it?”
Not even a shrug this time or a frown. Her expression is impassive.
“You know, the data grabber on the yacht isn’t the only tool I have at my disposal. If I got into this car that easily, then you must know what else I can do. Yet, you’ve underestimated me twice. Seems rather foolish. Do you think you’ll live long enough to do that a third time?”
Now that I’ve encountered her more than once, I’m certain she knew what I was doing when I went below deck on the yacht. I don’t expect her to respond, and she doesn’t. I’ll do the talking then, and I’m fine with that.
“So, Tiffani with an i…”
She blinks at that. Not a flinch, but it was something of a reaction. Probably my tone because it’s so mocking.
“You’re a mercenary, and I can think of a few people who likely hired you.
You know your line of work makes you fair game.
Normally, I’d never intentionally hurt a woman, but it’s a gender-neutral occupation once a mercenary’s caught.
If I’m your mark, then you know the family I’m from.
That’s why you came to our club and watched us at the gala.
You know our reputation is earned, not given.
You know the role I play in my family and what I could do to you. ”
When she finally turns to look at me, it’s as though she can see straight into my soul and knows I’m bluffing about this. Not that I wouldn’t torture a woman, but I wouldn’t torture her.
“You shouldn’t assume, little one, that you know anything about me, even if you got a full dossier when you took the job. You wouldn’t be the first female mercenary I’ve killed without remorse.”
That’s the truth. There’s nothing I won’t do to protect my family. I’ll kill at any and all cost. If they’re a threat, then they deserve to die. It will always be us before anyone else. That doesn’t mean I’m eager to make that the truth with the woman who sits beside me.
“Tell me what’s going on, and perhaps I’ll spare you and make it a quick and easy death, maybe even painless.”
She turns away from me and stares out the windshield again.
“You know, even POWs give their name, rank, and serial number before they give their captors the silent treatment.”
Her nostrils flare, and she looks at me this time. “I didn’t realize cartels complied with the Geneva Conventions.”
“We don’t, so I’m not worried about being charged with war crimes for what I’ll do to you if you don’t cooperate.”
Silence yet again.
Tedious.
I sigh.
“So, it’s really your choice. How difficult do you want to make this? It doesn’t have to be that bad.”
“You won’t shoot me in here. Blood splattered across every window will be obvious to anyone looking in this direction.
You won’t get out of the car covered in my blood.
The real question is how difficult do you want to make this?
Call the police and get a restraining order against me for stalking.
I followed you to New York because I concocted a fantasy of us being together. ”
“Concocted a fantasy is right. You know I won’t be the one to die.
You know there isn’t a chance in hell I’m going to the police about anything.
Though you flatter me once again to suggest you’d stalk me for my pretty face or big dick.
Why would I take out a restraining order to keep you five hundred feet from me when I can keep you away permanently without a paper trail? ”
I’ve been told I give off BDE—big dick energy.
I was told I was BMOC—big man on campus during college.
I didn’t let my family association keep me from playing Division One sports, captaining the chess club—yes, I’m a nerdy jock—or being treasurer of my frat.
I would’ve run for student body president or president of my frat, but that was asking for too much attention.
Why anyone thought they should allow me to be in charge of the money is beyond me, but I never stole from my frat brothers.
I made them a shit ton of money instead.
“You’re not going to let me get out of this car, so what I want is irrelevant. I’d say I’m being pretty fucking compliant right now.”
“So, you’re easy?”
That makes her snarl and glower at me.
I wink.
I can see her hands, and I expect them to twitch.
Either with a desire to slap me or clench them into fists to keep from doing that.
She does nothing. My free hand reaches toward her hair, and she finally reacts.
She grabs my wrist and digs her nails into a pressure point.
It might make a weaker person stop, but I’ve been trained to overcome my body’s natural reaction to surrender. It’s not that she’s weak; I’m stronger.
I grasp the wig and tug. It doesn’t move.
“Ouch.” It’s said with no bite.
I pull harder this time, and it still doesn’t budge.
“Super glue?”
“Are you seven and in a school yard? Are you pulling my hair because you like me?”
“Like you? I wouldn’t go that far. Want to fuck you?”
I leave that unanswered.
We’re back to an impasse as we stare at each other.
I acted on impulse and got into the car.
I hadn’t decided what I would do to or with her.
I don’t have a strategy, which is beyond unusual for me.
I could’ve observed her observing me. I could’ve learned more by playing dumb. I’ll likely live to regret this.
“You and I are going to have a far lengthier conversation than either of us wants while sitting in a car. You’re going to take me to your hotel, and we’ll talk there. You do not want me to choose our location.”
If I do, it’ll be the bodega on Long Island where we handle our most unsavory work. If she goes there, she’ll never leave alive. I haven’t decided if I need to do anything that extreme. I’d prefer not to torture her or kill her, but I reserve the right to change my mind.