Chapter 9 #2
I wonder what her real hair looks like. I wonder about its length, its color, its texture.
I wonder what color her eyes really are.
They’ve been a different hue each time I’ve seen her.
She might’ve changed the most recognizable features, but she didn’t disguise her pert nose or cupid’s bow lips. I’d recognize those anywhere.
I noticed the tiny dark freckle on the top and toward the end of her left shoulder the night we were on the yacht. I see it now. I’d recognize that too. I know what’s beneath the covers. I’ve touched her and etched her into my memory. Blindfold me, and I’d still know it was her just by touch.
I close my eyes and slow my breathing. It’s at least an hour before she moves more than to breathe.
It’s subtle, but I can tell she brings her hands up to her mouth.
I’m certain she’s using her teeth to release the tie.
Her movements are slow so as not to disturb me.
It would work if I were asleep. But I’m not.
I was foolish to be so impetuous today, but I’m not foolish enough to sleep anywhere near my enemy.
It takes her several minutes, but I know when she gets loose.
She remains still for at least another twenty minutes.
She’s patient. I’ll give her that. Like a tortoise escaping a fox, she’s slow but purposeful with each movement until she’s free of my arm.
Once I know she can’t see my face, I open my eyes a crack.
She’s silent as she moves, but I sense where she is.
She gathers her discarded clothes and rushes to put them on.
I watch as she scans the room for the things she most needs.
She can’t get the gun or the knife she hid beneath the pillows because they’re too close to me.
That wasn’t an accident. She evaluates what she’s willing to leave behind, knowing she must abandon this hotel.
She hurries into the bathroom, and I’m certain it’s to get the syringes and vials of insulin.
I didn’t force her to share the room safe’s code.
I knew she’d open it eventually, whether I insisted or she did it while trying to escape.
I close my eyes almost entirely, but I see her from beneath my lashes.
I knew she’d check over her shoulder while pressing the buttons, fearing it would beep when it unlocked.
I pretend not to notice. She withdraws a gun, money, and passports that she shoves in her purse.
The last thing she does is grab the keycard from the top of the dresser.
I hear her swing the latch away from the door, and the bolt turns as she presses down on the handle. I know what awaits her on the other side.
“Going somewhere, senorita?”
My eyes snap open, and I laugh. She knew I was awake but gambled on my overconfidence, thinking I’d still get her, while she planned to reach the door before I could move. Vita stumbles backward, and Pablo follows her into the room. His gaze darts to me, and I laugh again when he rolls his eyes.
“Vuelve a ponerte la camisa, pituso.” Put your shirt back on, pretty boy.
I’ve been hearing the colloquialism since I was a tween. It’s my turn to roll my eyes as I sit up. Vita whirls around as I reach for my shirt. I pull it on, then fasten my pants as I stand. I don’t bother with the belt.
“What the fuck?”
“Pleased to meet you too, senorita.”
Pablo, followed closely by Javier, is the least charming member of my family.
His wife adores him and thinks his brooding is his most redeeming quality.
She’s the only one. Tres J’s saw the most fucked-up shit growing up in Bogotá without a dad for several years.
It scarred them and jaded them. I’ve done fucked-up shit working mostly alone in Latin America.
But Pablo—he was a sweet kid who had any gentleness exorcised from him as my generation’s chief enforcer.
He doles out the worst punishments because of his role as heir to Latin America’s wealthiest and deadliest cartel.
He’s been building his reputation since he was a teen in preparation for when he becomes jefe de jefes.
Tío Enrique had to do the same thing when he was younger.
Except Pablo’s already in his thirties, and our mutual tío will likely live at least another twenty years.
Our mutual abuelo—grandfather—died when our tío was in his early twenties.
Our tío’s ruled most of the Western Hemisphere’s underworld for more than three decades.
Fuck Salvatore Mancinelli and his claim of dominance. They’re close in age and ruled for nearly the same amount of time. I’ll give Salvatore his due for controlling all the Mafia branches in the US, and his word is law in most of Sicily. But he doesn’t have the clout my tío does. Nobody does.
“What’re you doing here?” Venom drips from Vita’s words, and she practically snarls when I answer for my cousin.
“I invited him. I had plenty of time while snooping through your toiletries. Primo, sorry for making you wait so long.” Cousin.
“I heard the novela in here, so I watched it on my phone. I love how you can skip watching for a few years, then pick up right where you left off. Reminds you of Abuela, doesn’t it?”
“Sí.”
Despite the situation, Pablo and I exchange a glance.
We both miss our abuela. She was a wonderful woman who spoiled us as much as she threatened us.
If anyone could’ve wielded a chancla like a machete, it was that woman.
But she never needed to. She had the look.
It conjured more guilt than any priest or nun could and made you obey faster than thumb screws would.
Vita’s backed herself against the wall on the far side of the dresser and armoire. She can watch both Pablo and me, and neither of us can sneak up behind her. Not that it matters. I’m certain she can defend herself. She might even be a match for Pablo or me.
But the two of us?
Not a chance in hell or heaven.
“What’re you going to do to me?”
Before I can answer—Pablo will defer to me, especially now that he’s seen Vita and me together—the window shatters. I’m across the room and yanking Vita against me as I drop to the floor. I glance up at Pablo and see blood blossoming on his shirt as more glass breaks from at least two other shots.
“Puta madre! That burns like a mother no matter how many times it happens.” Motherfucker!
“Primo!”
“I’m not dying. It’s in my clavipectoral triangle.”
“Okay, Dr. Science. Did it go straight through your pec groove?”
My cousin’s a highly trained biologist and chemist. Like Harvard, then Cambridge, then MIT. He’s into scientific accuracy.
“Yeah.”
“Then grab a shirt and put pressure on it while you look for the bullet.”
“Me? For fuck’s sake, Primo. I just got shot.”
I glance down at Vita, whose gaze is darting between Pablo and me. She’s probably wondering what the fuck is wrong with us. Nobody likes getting shot. But you get used to it.
“El Tigre? Patrón?”
One of our guys hammers on the door, calling out to Pablo, then me.
The Tiger is one of Pablo’s titles. In the Cartel, the Tiger is the jefe’s top general.
Since we’re not on a mission, our man doesn’t call me brigadier—as in the lowest rank of a general—or the lesser rank of capo—captain.
Since I run Bogotá, even from a distance, I’ve earned the title patrón.
Because my cousins and I have so many roles, the titles can get confusing.
When in doubt, the men choose the highest ranking one for the situation.
“Le dispararon al Tigre. Tenemos que irnos.” The Tiger’s been shot. We need to go.
I rise enough to crouch before guiding Vita toward the door. We both draw our guns. Me from my lower back holster, and her from her purse. I push her forward as I reach out for Pablo. He hunches over as he squats. I apply pressure over the shirt he found in a drawer.
“The bullet.”
Vita points toward the wall behind where Pablo stood.
We see an indentation, but nothing’s protruding.
She hurries over as she reaches inside her purse.
She pulls out a cosmetic bag and unzips it.
From it, she produces a pair of tweezers.
Another rummage in her purse leads to a tiny bag.
The kind you’d put powder or pills in. It must be clean since she drops the bullet in without touching it.
She presses the bag closed and sticks out her arm, offering the evidence to me.
I grab it as I pass her. I open the door and practically shove Pablo through it before turning back to Vita.
My hand clasps her wrist as I nearly drag her from the room.
I want them both safe before I consider what to do next.
Once I know they’ll both live, I’ll light this motherfucking city up to find out who shot at my primo and my chiquita.