Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Alejandro
I know the third time won’t be the charm. I wish it were.
Mercy isn’t an emotion I indulge in. It’s pointless in my life.
At least, most of the time it is. I didn’t exaggerate when I said I could’ve killed Vita a couple dozen ways since meeting her.
I could’ve made a show of it or done it so covertly, she wouldn’t even know she was dying.
But I can’t bring myself to even plot a single way.
I don’t want her dead.
Just the opposite. I’ve never wanted to ensure a mercenary remained alive. I don’t know what drove her to this life. I can’t think of many people who grow up wanting to be one.
A vigilante, yes.
A mercenary, no.
I want to know everything about her. The driving curiosity is as foreign as the mercy. She intrigues me in a way no one—man, woman, or child—ever has. I want to discover her past and am eager to hear and see what she’ll do next.
These emotions signal imminent death. My death.
It’s dangerous to entertain any of them, yet I don’t stop myself.
But I’m equally disappointed that she won’t accept my help, even if I’m not surprised.
Her mission’ll fail. There’s a good chance her employer will put a hit on her to silence her. I don’t know what her success rate or body count are, but I know they must be high. She’s too experienced to think otherwise. But I’m her last target unless she accepts my help.
My protection.
And that’s the last thing she’ll admit she needs.
“Your silence in your answer, chiquita. ‘Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.’”
“You paid attention in Sunday School.”
“And Catholic elementary school. My sins started early. My first crush was on a nun.”
She stares at me, uncertain whether I’m joking.
The woman was only a postulant—a nun-in-training.
“‘Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help.’ I paid attention too, Alejandro.”
“You assume I’m lying. That I’ll play you for a fool.”
“You most likely will.”
“Why bother? Like I said, you could already be dead if I wanted. Do you think I’m toying with you?”
“You said this was all a game.”
“The striptease, not your life.”
She shrugs a shoulder. I get nothing more.
Since she’s nearly in the center of the bed, I pull back the covers.
She lifts her hips, staring at me in confusion.
I pull them back over her, tucking them beneath her arms. Such a shame to hide such magnificent tits that tasted like the jasmine she mentioned earlier.
“You’ll get cold. Since I won’t untie you to put a shirt on, this is the best you’re getting.”
“You could let me put on a pair of pants if you’re not going to make me come.”
“You’re just using me for my body.” I waggle my eyebrows.
“Not all of it. Just your fingers and your dick.” Her expression appears so innocent despite the dirty things she says.
“A mind is such a terrible thing to waste.”
“We can go tit-for-tat with scripture and slogans. I’m bored. Turn on the TV.”
If she genuinely meant her dismissiveness, it would hurt. I like our sparring.
“Frustrated that you’re losing, princesa? Or should I say principessa?”
“Your accent’s nearly passable.”
I only have a smattering of Italian. Pablo’s the one who speaks it.
He also speaks Russian. Tío Enrique and Jorge have French and German covered.
Javier speaks Japanese and Korean. Joaquin speaks Mandarin, Vietnamese, and Cambodian.
Tío Luis and I speak Brazilian and European Portuguese.
We have all our major trade partners and rivals covered.
The only one we haven’t bothered with is Irish. Those pissant O’Rourkes aren’t worth understanding. We run our own guns, and no one in my family likes whiskey. We prefer our Colombian aguardiente—fire water. It’s a lower proof than whiskey, but at least the anise-flavor doesn’t taste like ass.
As I watch Vita, I know I wouldn’t mind licking hers. That’s usually not my thing, but if she enjoyed it, I would.
“You’re just annoyed that you aren’t winning, chiquita. Not our war of words or the race to see me dead.”
I walk around to the other side of the bed as I slip off my already unbuttoned shirt.
I haven’t bothered fastening my pants. Seems rather pointless since the woman I’m with is completely naked.
Vita watches my every move, and she’s not unaffected when she sees all of my permanently sun-kissed torso covered in tats.
My physique is the result of necessity. I work out twice a day most days because I often lift heavy crates or my relatives and run for my life.
It doesn’t hurt when I want to get laid.
I’m not indiscriminate with my partners.
Just the opposite. I don’t date, and I don’t do random hookups.
I like my sex rough and kinky. That’s not for everyone, so I satisfy myself at my BDSM club.
All the men in the Four Families have the same proclivities.
I suppose it allows us to exert the control we crave—also out of necessity—while doing it constructively.
Compared to our usual need for control, it’s a far healthier outlet.
There’s a finite number of clubs in the tri-state area, so our memberships overlap.
So does our silent ownership. Now that most of my generation is married, we’re far more careful about not overlapping our visits.
We used to maintain neutrality and pretend like we didn’t know each other when we ran into each other.
For the sake of the wives, through mutual silent agreement, we do our best to uphold their privacy with preferred days of the week.
Some couples have their own playrooms at their homes and don’t frequent the clubs often.
“What’re you doing?”
Vita’s brow furrows as I recline on the bed.
I glance at her before shifting to reach over her for the remote on her bedside table.
She knows I could’ve picked it up before moving to my side of the bed.
I take the opportunity to kiss her, nipping at her bottom lip as my fingers wrap around the controller.
I kiss along her jaw until I reach her ear.
My voice’s a whisper after tugging her earlobe between my teeth.
“You wanted to watch TV.”
I shift back to my side, shoving a pillow behind me. I didn’t give Vita that comfort. I turn on the TV and flip through the channels unsure of what’s even on these days. I settle for a telenovela my abuela would watch when she visited. I don’t care if Vita understands. It’s oddly comforting to me.
Vita. Life in Italian.
Why do I call her that?
Because she could hold my life in her hands?
Because thoughts of her monopolize my life now?
Because she could be the love of my life?
That last thought is disturbing enough to make me want to jump off the bed like it’s ablaze.
Be real. You knew you wanted her from the night you met. You wouldn’t have called her chiquita if you didn’t. Your instinct could’ve been wrong, but you haven’t stopped calling her that. You know what it means to the men in our family.
No man in my family calls a woman that unless she’s “the one.”
I’ve had weeks to consider how irrational that is. Hell. I spent the entire flight to and from Belize weighing my options. She’s determined to refuse me, and I’m determined to make her mine—without keeping her tied up to do it.
Days in syndicate life are like years in a normal person’s life. When you have to decide whether to live or die in a matter of seconds—when how fast you can draw a gun or knife determines the rest of your life—the luxury of days and weeks is a rare gem.
“Lost in thought?” Her voice surprises me because I was.
“No. Getting caught up on my favorite show.”
She chuckles. “You are drawn to melodramatics.”
I shoot her a wry smile. “Hardly.”
She raises her hands and looks over at the bedside table.
“That was practicality.”
“Mhmm.”
I place my hands behind my head much like I did when I sat in the chair. I contract my abs as I cross one ankle over the other. I’m the picture of overindulged ennui. The playboy I’m often accused of.
“When will you let me go, Alejandro?”
“When I get bored. Shh. My show’s on.”
Five minutes pass before she raises her hands and points to a man on TV. “He’s going to get slapped before the end of the scene.”
“You understand Spanish?”
“I don’t have to, to know it’s nearing the end of the episode, and no one else has been.”
“Ouch, chica. Such stereotypes.”
I haven’t even finished the last word when an actress hauls back and lands a ringing slap against the guy’s face.
“Hmph.”
It’s not like it was unexpected. Novelas usually have at least one physical confrontation. It’s also no surprise when the couple falls into each other’s arms for a passionate kiss. Vita and I turn to look at each other at the same moment. Art reflects life.
When did you become a man of so many clichés?
When my life turned into one.
We watch three more shows before Vita’s lids droop.
I don’t believe for a moment that she’s sleepy.
Even if she were, she wouldn’t lower her guard enough to fall asleep with me here.
But I’ll play along. I slide down the bed when she does.
I roll onto my stomach and watch her as I drape my heavy arm over her belly.
“What’re you—”
“Why not take a nap? I usually don’t have so much free time.”
“You’re not going to shackle me again?”
“And I’m the melodramatic one. Shh, chiquita. Rest. If you behave, I’ll keep you up all night.”
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“Just because I haven’t made you come yet doesn’t mean I lied. We have plenty of time ahead of us.”
I pull her closer and shift the pillow to share it with her.
She tries to roll onto her side, but I don’t let her.
Being on her side would make it far easier for her to back away from me.
I watch as she closes her eyes. I told her earlier to take out the contacts and take off the wig, but I didn’t make her.