Emiliano
BEAUTIFUL, SAD EYES
I’m saner than this.
Except apparently I’m not.
I can’t show up on this woman’s doorstep every day. Not unless I want the neighbors to call the cops, especially with her dad being a congressman.
So I opt for a safer way to coax her into giving me a chance.
She seems to like the gym. I’ve seen her in workout clothes twice now, and she appears to be in pretty good shape.
With that in mind, I decide smoothies are the way to go. Lots of protein to get her day started. I chose the blend of fruit that I like—banana, apple, and mango—because I figure it’s foolproof.
I don’t know this woman’s name, although I could easily find out. To be honest, I’m avoiding finding out at this point, because I’d like the first time I hear it to be from her pretty lips.
I don’t know if she’s allergic to anything, I don’t even know if she likes smoothies.
Nevertheless, there’s one on the same steps I met her on yesterday around this time. I even made sure to smile for the front door camera when I set it down.
I’m sitting in my car, parked in the parking garage of my office building, when I hear the ping of an incoming message.
I’m doing abnormal shit .
But I’m too invested now, even though one could argue I haven’t invested much at all.
I click the video and watch as she steps out, wearing navy-blue workout gear, this time wearing a bulky sweater over her leggings. Her hair is curly again, and I love the way it’s piled on top of her head.
She stops short when she notices the drink sitting there, reaches down, and picks it up.
Her eyes rove over the side as I watch her read the sticky note I left on it.
Enjoy your workout, beautiful.
Her head snaps up, and she peers around, like she knows I’m watching. Paranoid, are we? From the angle of the video, I assume my driver, who I rarely use, is parked right in front of their house, and when her gaze snags on him, I smile as if she can see me.
Like a hawk, she zeroes in on him recording her and narrows her eyes. With a lifted brow, she holds up the smoothie, keeping her stare on him the entire time.
I watch as she lifts the lid to her trash bin and chucks the cup inside before flipping him off. She gets in her car, backs out of the driveway, and as she passes him, holds her middle finger up again.
I think I’m in love.
Okay, that’s intense. But I know I’m infatuated with what I’ve seen so far.
I have to figure her out.
She threw me off when she mentioned getting weed at the dispensary. It may not be something the average person knows and perhaps I’d be aware of it because of my attorney status. But I know for sure that I learned it because of the family business.
You have to have some sort of medical condition to qualify for medicinal marijuana. In the state of Texas, the shit is still illegal. So much so that the weed we sell on the streets brings in three times as much as the money we make supplying dispensaries.
Which is how I recognized the weed she was smoking; a pre-rolled joint that came directly from our warehouse.
The dispensary business was something my father started, making sure we had more legal income coming in, despite having police and politicians on our payroll.
Politicians including Congressman de la Matta.
So how did his daughter end up with a prescription for medicinal marijuana?
I have no idea.
I exit the video and read the text that follows.
Want me to follow her, boss?
My response is swift.
No.
Because even in my infatuation, I know she isn’t mine to do something like that to.
No, that would be crossing the line from courting to stalking.
I’m not that man.
But no other woman has brought this behavior out of me. I can’t even help myself. I want to bring her to her knees and wrap her hair in my fist just to make her look up at me with those beautiful, sad eyes .
Even when she’s rolling them at me , I think as I smile at the thought of it.
From the corner of my eye, I watch someone walking toward the bank of elevators inside and realize I need to get my ass inside and get to work.
I’m about to put my phone away when another chime sounds, followed by a text from Ignacio in our group chat with Carlos.
Another body found last night. Un jefe de sicario this time. Eduardo.
“ Que chingadas ,” I mutter as I thumb out my response.
The Russians?
Carlos sends a question mark, and I’m surprised Ignacio didn’t fill him in.
We paid the Russians a visit and took a couple bodies with us.
That night, Nas dropped the shell-shocked woman Rurik tried to “gift” us at Papo’s, telling him to make sure she’s safe. It wasn’t ideal, but he insisted she’d be fine and he’d keep us posted.
When no one responds for a moment, I step out of my car and head toward the elevator, pressing my car key’s lock button until it chirps.
There are a few others parked, but when it’s this early, the garage can be pretty empty.
The elevator doors are about to close when I slap my hand between them to stop them. I look up before I step onto the elevator and notice there’s only one person inside. The same person I saw walking in the parking garage .
I’d never seen him before that, and I’m unsure where he’s headed this early. We typically don’t start seeing clients until about 9:15, but he could be going to another establishment in this building.
There’s plenty of reasons that this man with his knuckle tattoos and firearm that he’s done a shit job of concealing would be on this elevator.
And none of those reasons involve me.
I don’t press a floor button, and when the elevator door slide closed, the car ascends. He’d already pressed the button to the eighteenth floor—where you’d find my office—and I’ll have to thank Ignacio and my infatuation for this strange woman for keeping me from getting shot at my desk.
I hear him move before I see him, and when I turn to see his gun in my face, I stare down the barrel before meeting his gaze.
“You think this is gonna end well for you?” I ask, adrenaline already rising, and I remind myself that the calm person is always logical. And being logical is how you survive dangerous situations.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he spits out, his accent placing him. “I would rather die because I killed you than let the men who killed my uncle go unpunished.”
“Unpunished? My body won’t even be cold by the time they eradicate you heinous motherfuckers?—”
“That’s rich. You come here with your drugs and your criminals, and you think you’re better than we are?” I notice how his hand shakes and he brings the other one up to steady his aim. He’s never done this before.
And he won’t ever get a chance to try again.
“We don’t steal women and drug them and force them to fuck strangers for money they never get to see.” Even as I say it with an even tone, the thought angers me.
He adjusts his grip on the gun, and that’s my cue to snatch it out of his hands. It’s a smooth technique I mastered with Carlos. He’d be so proud.
“Your uncle was a piece of shit. And you thinking you could take me out, here of all places? Even you must know how stupid of an idea that is.” I may be the easiest brother to find, due to my routines, but I’m my mother’s son. It’s gonna take more than this to off me.
“It won’t end with me,” he sneers, his upper lip sweaty. “I’m merely the first of many.”
“Then I guess you’ve all lined up to die.”
I press the gun into his gut and watch his eyes as I pull the trigger, slide the barrel toward his heart, and squeeze the trigger again.
It’s interesting, watching the life leave someone’s body. The last gargled breath escapes his mouth, and blood seeps from his parted lips. Before he can slump onto the floor, I hoist him onto my shoulder, pissed that I’m ruining my designer suit with his blood.
He likely planned to walk in, catch me at my desk while the office is mostly empty, and shoot me.
Which means the Russians have been watching us. Not surprising.
The elevator dings on my floor, and thankfully, no one is there to see us. I press the button back toward the garage, praying no one has to get on.
It’s smooth sailing down to the parking garage, and I rush to my car, clicking the trunk button on my key as I approach. I shove him inside, smirking as I remember offering my trunk for dead bodies yesterday.
It was just a joke to her, but it’s real life to me.
I toss the gun in with him and shut the trunk with a thud.
“Mr. Pineros?”
I glance over my shoulder, knowing there’s likely a large dark stain on my charcoal suit. One of the partners, Mr. Jacobs is staring at me with wide eyes, and when I don’t offer an explanation, he glances around before leaning in.
“You go. I’ll handle security.”
He nods, his hand in the air like he was going to pat my shoulder and thought better of it. When he ambles away, I peel off my jacket, sucking my teeth and releasing my breath in a hiss as I take stock of the stain.
And now his stupid ass is bleeding out in my trunk.
I make a mental not to ask a halcon to detail my car.
Once I get in the car, I pull my phone from my pocket and send a text to the group chat.
The Russians tried to kill me.
Nas will have their heads for this, and Mami may not want to leave on her trip now. But this is the life we chose for ourselves.