4. Santiago
Chapter four
Santiago
R ico's been thinking about Hannah.
He's not talking about her, he hasn't made a move, but I can tell. We've been together almost daily for ten years.
He's staring off into space more, checking his phone more, taking extra long showers.
This is bad. Really bad.
I've never seen him caught up on anything that isn't business.
He tosses the keys at me and I pluck them out of the air with a raised brow. I didn't know we had plans to go anywhere today.
He walks right past me to the garage without comment.
Alrighty then.
I get into the driver's side of our bulletproof SUV while Rico climbs into the passenger side and plugs an address into the onboard GPS. I raise my brow at him again, and again I'm met with silence.
The address isn't one I recognize. I look closer at the map.
Fuck, we're going to visit Hannah.
I roll my eyes.
Whatever. If the boss needs to get laid and he's got a suburban housewife kink, so be it.
Surprisingly, Little Miss Soccer Mom only lives about ten minutes away, on the other side of Arlington from our condo. I hop on 29, drive a few miles, and exit into the wealthiest neighborhood I think I've ever seen. Coming from poverty, Rico's wealth is obnoxious, but at least I know it 's not important to him. He wields it like a weapon. This neighborhood, though? Screams entitlement and materialism.
Matty's at work today, but I bet he grew up in a place like this. Rich prick.
I pull into the driveway because fuck it, put the SUV in park and turn it off.
Sure, our blacked-out, tinted, bullet-proof windows SUV stands out in suburbia but who gives a shit? Let the Stepford wives call the cops. We're untouchable.
Rico gets out and walks right up to the front door as if he owns the place. Fuck, what am I going to do? Sit here while he fucks the soccer mom?
Fuck that, if he wants to get laid he doesn't need me to chauffeur him. Not to this side of town.
I get out, too, and follow him to the door.
This fucker has the audacity to grin smugly. I roll my eyes, trying not to show how annoyed I am.
"Eager to meet our little miss housewife?"
I glare in return.
"Can't blame ya," he says. "She's a sweet little thing." If he weren't the head Jefe, I'd have punched the shit out of him for that remark. Instead, I do what mutes do best and hold my tongue, shoving my hands in my front pockets so they're not tempted to fly.
I had listened as he told Matty all about their heart-to-heart that night. I'm not sure if he notices or not, but his voice takes on a different quality when he's talking about her, almost soft and far away.
He's interested.
I don't like it.
Rico, like the cocky shit he is, doesn' t even knock or ring the doorbell, he simply walks into her house like he owns the place.
She's in the kitchen, her back to us, doing the dishes. She's got big black chunky headphones on so she doesn't hear us enter, and she's swaying to the music.
"You see the hood's been good to me ever since I was a lowercase G, but now I'm a big G, the girls see I got the money, hundred dollar bills, y'all."
I look at Rico who's simply smiling, his eyes on her lush ass. Who the hell is this woman singing 1990s hip hop?
"If you were from where I'm from, then you would know. That I gotta get mine in a big black truck. You can get yours in a '64."
Finally, she turns and gasps, dropping a plastic cup that sends water droplets and soap suds all over. One hand covers her chest, which is heaving now with adrenaline, and the other rips her headphones off.
"Fuck Rico! You scared the shit out of me."
He simply laughs. "Sorry." He doesn't look sorry. He looks like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Montel Jordan?" He asks, walking into the kitchen and picking up her cup for her.
"I'm in my 90s R&B era. So sue me."
The smile she gives Rico is bright and airy, and I suddenly can't breathe. A pang of jealousy shoots through me and it's foreign.
She'll never look at me like that. Maybe coming wasn't a good idea. In fact, her smile falters as she sees me over Rico's shoulder.
She may not want me, but why the fuck does Rico get to indulge in a little playing house and I don't?
"Morning, Princess. This is Santiago, my enforcer."
Fuck, he's even got a pet name for her?
She looks wary, her eyes ping-ponging between Rico and me, at least until her posh upbringing kicks in.
She hurries forward to shake my hand. I've never shaken a woman's hand before, so I hold it gently, awkwardly, and scowl at her.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm Hannah." She pulls her hand from mine when recognition crosses her face.
I nod and glare at her, challenging her to be freaked out, to hate me, to fear me.
She takes a step back, and looks to Rico again. She trusts him, so she trusts me.
"He doesn't speak." Rico offers.
"Oh." She says simply, before her hands fly in all sorts of shapes and she mouths something to me. But I'm not deaf, so I never learned how to read mouths. I shake my head 'no'. I'm about to pull out my phone, but Rico knows the drill.
"He had his throat slit at sixteen and his vocal cords were damaged."
She gasps, and her eyes shoot to my neck, looking for the scar. But she can't see it. She steps closer toward me. Close enough I can feel her body heat, and smell her lilac shampoo. If I could have, I would have groaned. We're almost chest to chest, and she has to crane her neck back to see my neck closer. I turn my head away, not wanting her to see the grotesque scar .
I expect her to be appalled. Disgusted. But instead, she does the most curious thing. She licks her thumb and drags it down the side of my neck, effectively removing the concealer I put there hastily at a stop light. I don't always hide it, but when I'm trying to avoid attention in public, or not wanting to scare a suburban housewife, I'll cover it. I suppress a shiver at the intimate contact. No one touches me. I'm the ruthless enforcer. The one who Rico sends to interrogate prisoners. The scary fucker that puts people in their place with just a glare.
She turns and walks back towards the sink, wetting a towel. I sneak a peak at Rico who's grinning like the Cheshire cat. Like he's just won his favorite game.
He knows I'm uncomfortable and he's loving it.
I jump a little when she reappears in front of me. She begins wiping off the concealer from my scar with the wet cloth. I snatch her wrist to stop her.
"I'm sorry." She whispers, licking her lips nervously.
I just shake my head at her.
"Are you embarrassed of it?"
I shake my head 'no'. In fact, I’ve covered my body in tattoos, all the way up the back of my neck and skull, but left the front of my neck naked skin, so that all of our enemies can see it. It’s a good intimidation feature.
"Think it's ugly?"
I nod my head 'yes'.
She raises her shirt to show off her thick c-section scar. It looks like it was painful.
I release her hand and type into my phone. 'It's different.'
"How so? Maybe you didn' t push a baby out of your throat, but my scars have made me who I am. I'm stronger for them. Your scar shows you're strong, a fighter, someone who survived."
I open my mouth, close it, open it, and close it again like a damn fish out of water. Out of all of the things she could have said, that was the last thing I expected. My scars make me a monster. They're ugly, jagged, horrible to look at.
Before I can respond, she tentatively brings the cloth back to my throat and I release her wrist. She continues wiping away the concealer. "I refuse to let my children grow up in a world where our scars are hidden. A photoshopped world of what life is really like. Life is hard, ugly, and painful sometimes, but these scars make us who we are today. My emergency c-section was terrifying. I almost lost Vivian. I almost died. Did you know Native Americans would give a warrior's burial to any woman who died in childbirth?"
I simply stare at her in thinly veiled wonder, my eyes taking in every inch of her perfect skin.
"But I survived. We survived. And because of it, we're stronger. Viv began this life grateful for every day because it almost didn't happen." She gives me a soft smile. Her message is clear. I should be grateful for every day I've lived after that night because these days almost didn't happen.
"I assume the man that did that to you is dead?" She asks.
I give Rico a look, pleading with him to explain. He simply shakes his head at me and nods towards Hannah. This is my conversation to have. I go back to my phone. "My mother. And yes."
The mechanical voice speaks and I watch as her entire body reacts to my words. She stares up at me, fear and pity in her eyes. Now it's her turn to be stunned. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, processing what to think.
"How could a mother..." she whispers to herself. Her eyes find mine again. "I'm so sorry." She looks at me with an intensity I'm not used to. Her breath shakes and her lower lip wavers. Oh God, please don't tell me she's about to cry.
I simply nod in thanks.
"Why..." She whispers, but stops herself, looking up at me with large, unsure eyes. My hand itches to reach out and touch the soft skin of her cheek. "No. Doesn't matter. You didn't deserve it."
I drop my hands to my phone instead.
"She was sick. Schizophrenia I think. (Fuck that took some creative spell check. I'd never finished High School). She was paranoid and convinced people were coming to get us. That it was better to die by our own hands. She slit my throat and then her own wrists." I pause. There is so much more to the story, but this version will have to do. "I survived. She didn't."
Her mouth opens and closes a few more times. She shifts her weight towards me and away from me a few times. She's processing. Caught between the things she wants to do and the things she knows she shouldn't do. Her body leans towards me and her fingers twitch as if she wants to hug me.
So I misdirect her.
I type again. It’s annoying how long it takes to type out complicated stories. That’s why I stick to only the essentials with Rico and Matty.
"I managed to hang on and get out into the street. That's where Rico found me and had his driver take me to the nearest hospital. A few hours of surgery and I survived."
I look at Rico. The look in his eye tells me he's remembering that day. He wasn't much older than me, twenty while I was sixteen, but he leaped into action without question. He'd whipped off his shirt and tied it gently around my neck, screaming at his driver to get us to the nearest ER. I was losing consciousness when they wheeled me in but I remember hearing him threaten the nurses, the doctors, and the surgeons that if I didn't make it he was going to ruin entire families.
It turns out, he was next in line for the Colombian mafia in DC but was back in Bogota visiting family when I just happened to stumble into the road, right in front of his car.
I owed him my life.
Coming back to the present, I look down on the beautiful woman in front of me. She takes a deep breath in and out as I watch a thousand thoughts filter through her face.
Finally, she tosses the dirty rag in the sink before I can see her deciding that mom mode is the safest option. "You've been mute since you were sixteen and never learned American Sign Language?" I can't help myself but smile. I've murdered hundreds of men, I make babies cry when they look at me, and she's chastising me for a lack of education.
It's been ten years since I've spoken. And honestly, I haven't minded. I find that I have little if anything important to say. And because I never talk, people tend to ignore me. Which suits me just fine. I've never liked attention, never wanted to be noticed. I get to observe, react, and follow orders.
So, I never missed my voice until I saw her that night.
Her tiny gasp, plush lips parted, eyes wide-look when Rico pulled the trigger on that piece of shit was a masterpiece.
I wanted to hold her, to shield her from what she'd just seen. Her fair skin, her leggings, her curves are too innocent for the dark parts of our city. To tell her it would all be alright, and that she didn't need to fear me. I'd never hurt her. But I couldn't. So I just watched Rico walk away with her and prayed he understood the look I gave him.
I type on my phone. "I've never needed it." She reads it before rolling her eyes.
"You deserve to be understood, Santiago. You deserve communication. What if you don't have your phone on you?"
She.Rolls.Her.Eyes. I've killed men for less.
But with Hannah? It makes me want to toss her over my knee and spank her ass raw. Fuck, I bet she'd look amazing with my red handprint on her fair skin. My cock jumps at the thought of her wet pussy, bared for me, while her body lies prone over my lap.
Fuck, I need to reel it in.
My smile widens because when does anyone not have their phone on them? Instead, I type out. "How do you know ASL?"
"Aiden didn't really have a speech delay, but he was slow to talk. Learning baby ASL was a thing of survival, really. He'd get so frustrated if he wanted something but couldn't ask for it he'd have epic meltdowns. It started with learning some basic signs for 'milk', 'water', 'all done', 'more'. Things like that. Then as the kids got older, we'd watch ASL YouTube videos in the mornings while we were eating breakfast. It was educational, and a way to keep them occupied early in the morning while I main-lined coffee. And we just kept it up. Even though we're hearing, it has come in useful if we need to talk long-distance or in a loud room."
I watch her hips sway as she moves around her kitchen with the elegance of a dancer. My hands twitch again, but this time with an urge to wrap them around her hips and drag her against me, bury my face in her hair, breathe her in.
She leaves us alone in the attached living room, staring at each other. Rico can read me like an open book. We've never needed ASL to communicate. I avoid looking at him, lest I give too much away.
I get it now, his fascination with her. She's not at all what I expected. She's gorgeous. I knew that about her when I saw her in that alley. Even in the dark I could make out the shape of her curves, her auburn hair, her plush pink lips.
But meeting her in person? She's nothing like what I expected. Even our new recruits can't stand the sight of my scar, but she insists I show them.
She's fearless, brave, and compassionate to a literal stranger. She's an open book. She talks openly, freely, without pride or agenda.
I've been with Rico for ten years, and Matty for six, and never once did they ask, no, demand I learn to communicate with them. I've never met someone who cares about how I feel - that I'm grateful for my life, for my scar, for ability to communicate. My chest aches and my heart expands, moved by her words.
Hannah returns a moment later, slamming a book into my chest. I read the title and snort.
"ASL for dummies."
Her eyes take in my mouth, my smile, my relaxed shoulders, and she beams up at me as if I hung the moon.
My smile feels foreign, as if the muscles have forgotten how to make it, but she doesn't seem to mind.
Fuck it.
I wrap my hand around the back of her head, and drag her to my chest. She stumbles and let's out a cute little 'oof' at the contact, but her tiny arms wrap themselves around my waist as she pulls me against her. My hard muscles against her soft body. Her floral scent to my spice. Her heat to my cold.
I kiss the top of her head before releasing her. I know Rico is interested, but this woman has just turned my world on its head. And words, signed or typed, won't convey what I feel.
In the matter of an afternoon, this housewife, this stay-at-home-mom has inserted herself into my inner circle, and I'd protect her with my life.
She pulls away slightly, but also lingers, and that fact isn't missed by Rico.
He clears his throat, and she finally pulls back.
"Can I offer you guys something to drink?" Her formal upper class training kicking in.
"I'd love whatever you have available." Rico says, being way more civil than I've ever seen him.
"You?" She asks me.
No one ever asks me.
I nod. I don't care what she gives me, I'm just happy she asked.
She pours three glasses of sweet tea and hands them out.
"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" She asks.
Rico sits uncomfortably on the dining room chair, before pulling out his gun and dismantling it. Hannah's blood pressure increases at the sight of it and I want to kick him for his indelicacy, but he's the boss. I can't do that.
"I needed a change of scenery and figured I'd check on our little suburban Barbie to see if she's gotten her drug-seeking days out of her system."
Hannah blushes and grabs a notebook and pen from the small office nook in the corner of her kitchen and joins Rico at the table.
"Yes, I think I've gotten it out of my system. Getting high isn't going to change anything."
They sit together in comfortable silence while Rico continues his ministrations on his pistol.
"Do you clean it every time?" She asks in a whisper.
Rico shakes his head. "No, something about cleaning it, though, is calming...lets me think."
"What, exactly, does the head of the mafia do? What do mafias do?"
Hannah keeps her head down, scribbling in what looks like a planner. The juxtaposition of the sweet and innocent housewife organizing the logistics of domestic life and the hardened criminal cleaning his weapon makes my chest feel tight. Hannah's dressed in pastel leggings and a sweatshirt while Rico's in his typical black on black again. Her soft curves next to his hard muscles.
Something about it just seems so right.
"Everything the government does but makes illegal for everyone else."
Hannah's gaze snaps to Rico in shock. He sets his weapon down and meets her gaze.
"We print and launder money, just like the Fed prints money and buys bonds. We move and sell drugs, just like pharmaceutical companies. We move and sell weapons just like the military. We provide private protection to businesses that are at risk, just like the police or the National Guard. We also have a handful of legitimate businesses we run that give us a cover for these operations."
Hannah simply stares at him, slack-jawed. I can't help but smile at her shock. I bet no one's explained it like that to her.
She swallows and nods, her attention going back to her planner.
"Did he deserve it?" She asks quietly.
"He sold weed laced with fentanyl in my territory that ended up killing a kid."
Hannah's entire body winces.
"Your weed doesn't have fentanyl?"
Now I wince.
Rico, however, just shakes his head. "No. My sister died from buying laced shit. I make sure all of our supplies are clean."
Hannah places her hand on top of his, stalling his motion. "I'm so sorry to hear about your sister."
Rico's face softens at her, and he twists his hand so he can lace his fingers through hers, giving her a squeeze. His Adam's apple bobs with suppressed emotion.
They fall into easy conversation after that, like two best friends catching up after some time apart. Hannah makes sure to always include me in the conversations as well, asking me questions about my role in our organization, how long we've been together, and where I live. I appreciate her consideration and kindness, but it's the unlikely friendship developing that sticks with me the rest of the week.