Chapter 17 Selene
Chapter seventeen
Selene
Two days. I have two days left to provide information on my father’s pipeline.
But I don’t have anything yet. No leads.
No hope. How can I when all I think about is the last time we had sex?
How he told me to put on my clothes and leave shortly after.
My chest clenches at the memory. But of course, he’s just a sex partner. That’s all he should be.
I hold my head in my hand, squeezing my temples before shaking my head. I don’t know if the strain I feel in my forehead is a result of constantly pulling at my hair. Or because I stayed up all night trying to come up with something.
If only I could get more time. But believing that would be a fallacy. I can’t. Cortez’s silence is enough of a reminder that I must provide answers.
My fingers fly to my head again, attempting to ease the headache that has now consumed it. When I see it’s of no use, I get up from my bed and head to the closet. I always have an aspirin in my bag.
Luckily for me, it’s the first thing I see when I look at the bottom half of the closet, and I waste no time grabbing it.
Nostalgia hits me as I open the bag, fiddling inside it for an aspirin.
I sigh in satisfaction and move to bring it out when my fingers brush something else.
It’s rough, metallic, and slightly cool to the touch.
Curiosity wrinkles my brows together as I fist it, bringing it out.
It’s a rusted key. One that looks straight out of a pirate movie. Like a secret key for unlocking a chest or something. Where did I even get this? And what the hell is it for?
I’m about to throw it back inside the bag when something catches my eye. Etched on the top of the key is a pattern. No, it’s…a logo. An oddly familiar logo.
My memory is hazy. Nothing’s coming up. But the urge to toss it back has now been replaced with curiosity. I need a phone.
Just as I have the thought, Maria walks in.
“Maria, your phone.” She looks surprised, worried even.
“No, ma’am. Boss wi—”
In two strides, I’m in front of her, yanking her phone out of her hands. Boss this. Boss that. Can’t they all just let me fucking breathe?
“He’s not here now, is he?”
She doesn’t respond. Her hand is still on her chest, her mouth slightly agape.
Shaking my head, I take a picture of the logo and input it into Google. The screen loads blank for a minute longer than I like, then a page pops up.
My heart rate rises with each word I scan.
A popular bar for the locals located on the outskirts of Manhattan.
El Callejón.
I hold my breath, the name checking my memory as I narrow my eyes at the rest of the search results. Then it hits me.
El Callejón is a bar, but it isn’t just any bar. Dad used to launder money through the bar. I now clearly remember peeping through the keyhole of his office and listening to conversations around the subject.
He used to launder money through there…but they had a falling-out, though I don’t know why. I doubt that when I go there, they’ll welcome me with arms wide open, especially knowing I’m a Vasquez.
But I’m definitely going there…alone. Telling Cortez would do nothing. He probably wouldn’t believe me and would chalk it up to another one of my shenanigans. Even if he did, I’d go there under the strict protection of his guards. I can’t earn his trust that way.
I can’t prove loyalty in my comfort zone. This is my chance.
A breath follows my thought, but it isn’t one of defeat; it’s one of strategy. I only have two options now. Fake an asthma attack and request to be taken outside the mansion for fresh air. Or try to sneak out from any room in the east wing.
I choose the latter.
Maria is still watching me with wide eyes, but her hand is now by her side. I walk to her and place the phone in her palms.
“Thank you, Maria.”
She nods. I clear my throat, grab a black scarf that I left on the bed, and wrap it around my neck.
“I uh…I need fresh air. I’ll be back.” I go to the closet, make sure there’s cash and a pocket knife in my pocket, smile at Maria, then open the door. The two familiar guards grace my vision, and I shoot them a smile. They don’t return it as usual.
Once I get to the music room, I head to the window, hoping to the heavens that the windows aren’t locked. Luck is on my side, and I smile when I find it open. Good.
I’m going to climb out. Hopefully, by the time the guard notices my disappearance, I’ll be long gone. Acrophobia thickens my throat when I glance down from the window, and my breath shakes. Shit. This is a really tall mansion.
But I’m not a damn coward. Light as a feather, stiff as a board.
I repeat the same mantra I used to whenever I decided to sneak out of the Vasquez mansion and briefly wait to watch the guards’ movement.
Two guards are patrolling the backside of the mansion, but they’re moving.
I study their movement, counting the seconds in my head, and realize they spend fifty-one seconds patrolling and returning.
My breath hitches as the coldness of the window graces my palm. I swing one leg out and then the other, hanging onto the sill like a stray cat, and then carefully balance on a thin ledge that runs horizontally along the mansion that obviously isn’t meant to be stood on.
I steady my breath, peering down to find the guards completing one cycle of rotation. When they patrol away, I take advantage of the next fifty-one seconds. My heart is in my throat, I won’t lie. One wrong move and I’m dead. But I used to do this all the time.
Soft night breeze whooshes around me as I climb ledge after ledge until I spot the drain pipe that runs along the edge of the mansion. I jump on it and pause, listening to check on the guards. They complete the second cycle and start another rotation.
Like a breeze, I gently slide down until I plop to the ground. There’s a garden just at the perimeter of the mansion, so I fall into it, crouching and waiting for the next rotation.
Okay, Selene, what now?
I’m elated when I hear the roar of a van.
Perfect. I peek around the corner and see a man, probably the driver, talking to two guards, all their backs turned away from me.
With my heart in my throat, I make a run for the van, the cool metal door creaking softly as I tug it open, then enter and jam it back in place.
I’m met with boxes of different sizes and don’t bother to check the contents when I hear the driver slam the door; and the van starts to move. I make sure to stay still and hidden behind the boxes.
A few minutes pass, and when the van slows down at a bump, I push it open and take cover inside a nearby bush.
“Just like old times,” I mutter to myself, releasing a sigh of relief. Now, how do I get to the outskirts of this damn city?
I don’t wait long as I hail a taxi and enter. “El Callejón,” I mutter, my breath coming out heavy as my head lolls back in exhaustion.
The drive is silent as the afternoon sun slowly warms up the city, but I don’t get to enjoy the view. My mind races as I try to think of a strategy. If they recognize me, what happens next?
About half an hour later, we arrive at my destination. I wrap the scarf around my head, covering my nose, then I pay him before stepping out.
The smell of beer and sweat is strong from where I stand outside the old, brown door of the bar.
My heart hammers wildly in my ribcage as I struggle to muster all the confidence I can get.
Even without entering, I can tell what I’ll find in there.
The silence…stares…and maybe recognition. Then violence.
I’m entering the lion’s den…with just a pocket knife. God save me!
With a tentative push, I open the door, which creaks under my fingers, melding with the barbaric chatter coming from inside. All eyes instantly turn to me as I step in, chin tall and shoulders held high. I’m dying inside, but being intimidated is something they can prey on.
A slow Spanish tune whines from a speaker I can’t see. Swallowing thickly, I walk through the unnerving stares and whispers that start to rise, towards the bartender.
The bartender, dark-skinned and an extremely scrawny man, pauses mid-pour and narrows his eyes at me. He watches me as I walk towards him.
“I’d like a beer,” I whisper sultrily, running a finger along the counter.
He watches me like he can’t believe his eyes. I fear he can see through my facade when he smirks, “Hello, beautiful. We don’t get many people like you here.”
Ugh…Men!
I make sure my laugh comes out soft and charming as I lean over the counter. Biting my lips, I gesture him forward with my index finger, arching my chest in a sexy manner. My heart hammers wildly as I reach for my knife.
Then someone yells.
“Vasquez!”
Shit.
“She’s Vasquez’s daughter! So she faked her own death!”
Loud grunts fill the air as all the men in the bar rise, drawing their weapons. Panic buckles my knees, but adrenaline fires me up.
Recognition flashes in the bartender’s eyes, and his hand moves behind the bar, but I’m faster.
I grab the glass on the counter and throw the contents into his eyes.
With both hands on the counter as extra momentum, I fly over, quickly yanking the gun out of his grip.
He’s still grunting and rubbing his eyes when I push him against the counter.
My hands are shaky as I aim the gun at him.
“Anybody move and I’ll shoot!” I yell, making sure my voice comes out hard and strong. If they call my bluff, I’m dead. The bartender slowly raises his hands in surrender.
Someone scoffs and cocks his gun. “You’re a girl surrounded by ten strong men. You can’t fight us all.”
My chest tightens, and I almost regret my decision. I should really think things through before I act on them.
“I’m not here to fight. I don’t want trouble.” The words are barely out when they all erupt into laughter, cackling for a beat too long. Ouch?
“In the mafia world, the sins of the father are passed on to the children. You should know that,” someone says.
Another one laughs. “There’s a bounty on ya head, ya know. The Los Hierros Mafia are looking for you. Being married to that Donatelli guy is greatly restricting them but now that you’re here, what’s stopping us from handing you over?”
I try to decipher if the man is lying, but he’s not. He has no reason to lie. Fuck.
One man stalks towards me, cocking his gun at me. “Drop the gun, girl.” His growl is deadly.
Swallowing thickly, I cock mine. “Trust me, before you take me down, cuatro hombres en este cuarto estarían muertos (four men in this room would be dead).”
He pauses and looks like he wants to say something when someone speaks.
“Your mother, may her soul rest in peace, was a good woman.” I follow the low, chilling voice of a man. Brown hair, sturdy figure. He’s the only one who sits. Something about him gives off boss vibes.
He stands and walks slowly towards me, his index finger pushing against the other man’s weapon to lower it. “?Qué quieres? (What do you want?)”
I almost exhale in relief. “I need information on my dad’s pipelines.”
The arch of his brow is the only response I get for a long time until he says, “What about it?”
I’m grateful that he doesn’t ask unrelated questions. “What docks he used, facilities, shipments, methods, anything.”
“You’re lucky I owe your mother. Your dad was a greedy bastard. He turned on our agreement and even captured my daughter. That’s why we—this bar—fell off with him. But your mother found a way to sneak my daughter back to me.” He clenches his fist.
The vein in his neck bulges. I can tell it’s a painful memory for him.
“Gracias (Thank you),” I mutter, holding his gaze.
“I know just a few,” he continues, eyes glancing from the bartender’s to mine. “La más fuerte de todas es la White Dove (The strongest of all is White Dove).”
“White Dove?” I echo, still not relenting my hold on the bartender.
“Your father was a really smart man. He used to bribe a coroner to fake death certificates. Fill caskets with armory, drugs, weapons…and ship them here to New York.”
“What dock does the White Dove come through?”
He’s about to respond when we hear chaos outside. Someone peeps and says, “Fuck. The Los Hierros Mafia is here.”
The boss man, who was talking to me, turns to the rest of them. “Who alerted them?!” he booms.
A man responds. “I called them! The bounty on her head can fucking make us rich!”
My heart beats in my ear. Sweat rolls down my back, and I grit my teeth. The boss man looks at me and quickly nods his head.
“Back exit,” he says just as the door bursts open with a sickening thud. “Last I knew, the ship came through dock 39 of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Now go!” he rushes out.
I bolt through the door, hearing the sound of rapid gunfire as I exit the bar and jump out into the woods. My lungs burn, my eyes water, and I feel heavy footsteps behind me, but I don’t stop.