Chapter Forty-Two #3
Don’t let this ruin your mood. You’re seeing Angelito soon…
He’s yours. You have him, locked up and away from the world. Away from anyone and anything that could attempt to steal him from you.
You hold the only key. No one else can get to him.
Ever.
Back to work I go.
I consider calling Alexander, but decide against it for now. I’m really trying to hold off on bringing him into this until I feel it’s absolutely necessary, because he comes with his own demanding attitude that I’m not in the mood to deal with unless I have no other choice.
Heading down to the command center we’ve set up in the dining room, I meet with Equino and Pedroia, where we discuss plans and tactics for getting Jonathan to surrender. And how to do so without anymore of our men falling prey to the slasher-boy-assassin.
“It’s a slaughter every time we even try to push west,” Equino whines, and I have to fight not to roll my eyes.
“He’s just a kid,” Pedroia argues. “One little fucking puta with a knife! How is this even an issue we’re discussing right now??”
“Well, what do you suggest, genio?” Equino mutters.
“Drive-by?” Pedroia suggests. “Just spray-n-pray?”
“Yea, we tried that. He slashed all of our tires and we lost four men.”
Pedroia sighs. “Fine. What about grenades?”
“Tried it. He grabbed one and stuffed it into the exhaust pipe of the Humvee and the thing blew the hell up.”
I press my lips together.
“And the RPG??”
“Thought we had him… Turned out to be one of our own men he’d kidnapped and dressed up to look like him.”
A snort bursts out of me, and they all turn to stare.
“What? It’s funny.” Standing up, I rub my eyes, pacing to the front of the table, where the map of the island is laid out. “You see the problem, right? You’re fucking sloppy.”
“But we’ve—”
I throw my hand up. “Not your turn to speak. He’s a psycho, not a soldier.
You can’t come at him with your military tactics and heavy artillery, because he doesn’t care about rules, or combat, or fucking access points.
He has one objective, and that’s staying alive, so that he can get back here.
Offense clearly isn’t working, but our defense is tight.
We just need to get him to go on the offensive. ”
They all share a look, nodding subtly.
“You have a plan?” Pedroia asks, hopeful.
“There’s something I’m working on,” I tell them. “In the meantime, let’s focus on the prison. Get eyes on the crash site, hold steady at the main entrance, and cover that fucking armory.”
“They have it heavily guarded…” Equino mumbles.
“So then fucking watch it and wait for an opportunity to strike,” I growl.
“None of this would be a problem if you’d just let us nuke the damn place,” Hernandez chimes in. “We have enough TNT to blow them all to Hell! Let’s just—”
“We will not be blowing up the prison,” I snarl.
He goes silent, all of them gaping at me nervously.
“I am not authorizing that, entiendes?? Officer Chevelle will surrender. He will fucking kneel. That is the only outcome, are we fucking clear on that, soldados?”
“Si,” they all mutter. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” I grunt, barking at them on my way out of the room. “Get on your night shifts. I am not to be disturbed tonight, under any circumstances whatsoever. If you need anything, you see Kent or Yari.”
Out of the room, I’m stressed, sauntering back upstairs to get ready. I take a long shower, just standing under the stream of water. Head bowed, letting it wash over me while I consider this position…
I never wanted to be a fucking military captain. This isn’t what I signed up for when I accepted this island.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Dios… Jonathan.
What are we doing?
What’s the endgame here??
In the depths of my chest, I know it can only end one way… There’s no solution to this.
No peaceful surrender. No treaty signed in good faith.
One of us will have to die to end this war we’ve both started out of sheer stubbornness and a refusal to admit the truth.
The thing is, though… Power is the only thing I have left. Control is all I am. Without that…
I’m better off dead.
The way my heart is beating right now, you’d think it was trying to escape the prison of my chest. Banging on the bars, professing its innocence.
So I’ve seen many people over the years. Let’s not sugarcoat it… I fuck a lot.
Some might consider me a late-bloomer. I wasn’t all that interested in sex as a teen.
I was more just trying to deal with the deaths of my parents, and then enacting my plan for revenge.
Of course, I had a few experiences that all young people have, like losing my virginity, and dabbling in casual, sweaty hookups with miscellaneous girls.
And it was fine. But I always viewed it as something recreational.
Like exercise. A strictly physical activity—with the potential to release loads of dopamine, yes. But largely physical, nonetheless.
It wasn’t until I’d taken over the cartel and established myself in a role higher than the highest of lieutenants—El Presidente, ruler of multiple territories across the globe, and holder of the control in my sullied hands—that I finally felt comfortable branching out a bit with my sexual identity.
The thing is, on the inside, I always considered myself fluid. But I was already up against daily prejudices as the leader of a major criminal enterprise in my twenties, with no blood lineage that would make me a rightful heir to the throne I was sitting on.
The last thing I needed was for them to be judging me for being gay too.
And this wasn’t just speculation on my part.
I knew these men; how they thought and what they considered powerful.
That macho, hetero-normative bullshit you see in so much of society, in particular crime culture.
There’s very little room for even females, though I’ve certainly met women in this industry who could make any man their bitch without lifting a finger.
But a bi or pansexual cartel leader? Yea, it was unheard of.
I didn’t mind being the first—dare to be different and all—but I knew I needed to play the game.
I’ve always excelled in timing, considering it one of my strong suits.
So I made sure that by the time I revealed my sexuality, they were already sufficiently afraid of me, and less inclined to lean toward the incredibly offensive—not to mention inaccurate—notion that being anything other than heterosexual makes you less capable of running an empire built on Machiavellian power.
Side-note: these close-minded old-school vatos should really do their homework, because the most powerful and nefarious empires of history all had some level of queer to them.
The point is that, while I’ve never hidden my sexuality from anyone, I’ve also never made it a point to broadcast it. And it’s while I’m wandering through the atrium and into the conservatory that I’m wondering why that is.
I know it has nothing to do with shame. I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about me, and I’d gladly decapitate anyone who had anything to say about what gender I prefer to stick my dick in.
If anything, I think I’ve just never had a reason, or an opportunity, to showcase it…
I’ve never had a relationship. Never not once. I’ve never actually dated someone, brought them home for dinners and movies. Walked around holding hands and doing all of that corny shit that makes me a bit nauseated to even consider doing.
So far, the closest I’ve come to any of it is… well, Jonathan. But that is a very different animal.
Then there’s Angel Alvarez. The first person in recorded history I’ve had the desire to spend an extended amount of time with in any romantic sense…
And he’s locked in a cage, hidden away from society and any prying eyes.
But I’m not hiding him because I’m ashamed. I’m certain that’s not it.
The cage is strictly to keep him here and keep him safe, because I will not lose him again. And I will not run the risk of ever even thinking he’s been harmed again.
Over my goddamn dead body.
Approaching the cage, I’m instantly on alert because I don’t see them—Angel or Arianna. There’s no little bird, at least not visibly, and my heart is thumping even more aggressively as I stalk up to the bars, gripping them and peering inside.
The door to the en suite is open. He must be in there… getting ready.
The thought brings a gentle curve to my lips as I stand and stow my extreme eagerness to see how he’s dressed tonight.
The kid is sincerely a wonder to me. His fashion sense is astounding, Arianna resembling the models you see on catwalks in Paris or Milan.
I’ve yet to see how this has evolved his Angel look, though I’m sure it’s equally dazzling.
This could be attributed to the fact that the dresser is stocked mostly with female attire, which was nothing more than a happy accident, I suppose.
Patience is fizzling away with every second I stand out here, but I don’t want to barge in and interrupt. I know nothing of dating, but something tells me coming across as a roguish captor with no boundaries right out the gate might put a damper on the evening…
And he’s likely going to be starting out pretty angry with me in that regard. Best not to make it worse.
Nerves are getting the better of me when three whole minutes pass without him showing himself, and I’m becoming increasingly concerned. I don’t like not being able to see him, just to know he’s here.
But then I hear the water turn on, then off. He’s using the sink…
“Pajarito?” I call out softly, biting my lip.
He pops his head out, green eyes wide. “Um, hi.”
“Está bien?” I run my finger along the lock in the gate while marveling at how pretty he is, even just his face.
“Uh-huh. I just wasn’t sure… what to wear,” he stammers.
My fingers are twitching. “Are you naked in there?”
“No.” He scowls, and I chuckle. “I didn’t want to be underdressed. You’re always in a three-piece suit. Do you even own normal clothes?”