Gunshot
ESTELLE
I have ten missed calls and thirteen messages.
The elevator groans all the way to my floor, and I wonder for the hundredth time if today will be the day it gets stuck—with me in it. The doors open not so smoothly, and I hit the call back button.
Elsa answers on the third ring.
“Where have you been?” she yells into my ears.
I sigh.
“I told you three times yesterday that I have a job interview today.”
“And you couldn’t message me back?”
I pull out the set of keys from my trouser pocket and go to unlock my door.
“My phone was literally confiscated. It was a confidentiality thing.”
She scoffs. Actually scoffs at me.
“Micah’s already in your apartment. He used the spare key.”
That would explain why my key isn’t working. I grab the doorknob and twist. My nephew is sitting at the kitchen table, probably drawing, with earphones on.
“Yeah, I see him,” I say. “But you need to figure something out from now on. I got the job and start tomorrow. I won’t be back at my apartment until after six.”
“You’re fucking kidding me!” she yells again.
My teeth grind together. “You knew this wasn’t permanent. You should have been finding a solution these last three months. Did you?”
“I can’t afford a babysitter, Estelle.”
The nerve. “Figure it out. I’m going to take my spare key with me tomorrow, so don’t send your ten-year-old son to spend the afternoon in my apartment all alone.”
She curses. “Can’t you take him to your workplace?”
Now I’m the one who scoffs. The audacity for her to even ask. “No, Elsa. Figure it out.”
I end the call and lock the door.
“Hey Micah,” I say, running a hand over his cornrow braids.
“I hate when you do that,” he whines.
I smile. “I know. How was school?”
“Okay, I guess. Was that Mom?”
“Yup.” I stare at the meager contents inside the refrigerator and grab the orange juice. “Juice?”
He shakes his head and carries on drawing. “Had some earlier.”
“Guess what?”
“What?” he asks without looking up.
“Remember the job interview I had today? I got the job. High five?”
He beams up at me and raises his hand, giggling when I meander my hand through the air like a rocket before meeting his.
“Does that mean I won’t come over after school anymore?”
“Yeah, buddy. But we’ll still see each other, just less often.” He doesn’t hide his sadness, and I steady my heart, reminding myself that I’m taking this job for him, too. “We’re still counting down until Kite Flying Day, right?”
Micah smiles wide again. “Yes. Can’t wait.”
I leave him to his drawing and head to my bedroom to change, also for some much-needed alone time to process everything that happened with Carlos Fuentes.
The last thing I need—or want—is to be attracted to my boss. And worse, for the attraction to be mutual.
Nothing good can come from this.
I would write down the many, many reasons why I cannot, under any circumstances, give in to him, but why even waste ink?
One word: Mafia.
Two words: Bad man.
Do not have sex with the bad mafia boss, Estelle.
As if on cue, the encrypted phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with trepidation, knowing there’s only one person it could be.
“Hello?”
“Estelle,” comes his deep voice. I feel the vibrations in my entire body. “I need you tonight. Too short notice?”
I frown. “You mean for dinner?”
“Yes, I have a last-minute meeting with seven people, including myself. A simple dinner. How good are you with Italian cuisine?”
The best. “I’ve got it. How soon do you want me there?”
A short pause. “I wish you never left,” he says in a low voice full of dark promises.
My heart slams into my chest.
“Mr. Fuentes, I—”
“Will six work?”
I nod dazedly, trying to ignore how good his voice sounds in that tone, then realize he can’t see me.
“Yes.”
“Good. Ross will pick you up.”
The line clicks and goes dead.
I wish you never left.
No, definitely nothing good can come from this.
----
Ross doesn’t give me the sunglasses or earplugs this time, and I see everything.
Carlos Fuentes’ residence is in one of the more affluent and secluded parts of Calabasas, which is saying something since Calabasas is itself one of the more affluent and suburban areas of LA.
By the time the car drives through the imposing gate, past the extensive security detail, and down the long driveway heading for the massive property, I know I’m a far cry from South Los Angeles.
It’s a good thing I have worked exclusively with rich clients who live in luxurious properties these last few years, so I don’t feel like a fish out of water.
I find the black apron I had refolded earlier and slip it on before going through the ingredients list for my famous beef and mushroom risotto.
I’m an hour or so into cooking when Ross walks in and takes his position by the door, casual and professional. He watches me with a bored expression that I find amusing.
I try to hide my smile while I start plating the food.
Poor guy got assigned to babysit the new chef.
He isn’t intimidating or leering at me, so I carry on with my work, quite comfortable with his presence. I have no idea when I decided that being watched by one of the grim reaper’s muscle was comfortable, but here I am.
The sudden bang is deafening and unmistakable.
My whole body tenses and flinches at the sound of the gunshot. The ladle slips out of my hand and falls noisily to the floor.
Ross hurries from the kitchen, body tense, gun in hand, leaving me alone.
I have made a number of bad decisions in my life, and one thing I know about bad decisions is that most of the time you already know you’re going to regret it.
I should stay put.
So why are my feet carrying me to the door, even if it’s clear the gunshot—which normal, sane, human beings associate with danger—came from behind it?
There’s nothing but trouble on the other side.
Why can’t I stop myself from pushing open the door?
Carlos Fuentes stands at the head of the long dining table, a gun in one hand hanging at his side.
Darkness shrouds his face. There’s no other way to describe the calm rage in his eyes as he stares coldly to his right.
I follow his gaze.
The bald man is still seated, his head hanging over the back of his chair, wide open and unblinking eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Unmoving.
A singular hole is in the center of his forehead; a crimson line of blood runs down the side.
Dead.
When I look back at Carlos Fuentes, he’s looking right at me.
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