He jerks his chin and gives a quick whistle, and footsteps stomp toward us.
“Can you see this guy, El Duque?” he goes on. “Turn your head so you can look at him.”
My breath is even more shallow, and I can’t so much as move, let alone turn my head. But then the guy steps into my line of sight, and I recognize him, too.
The other guy from the photo.
And all I can do is grit my teeth and mumble, “Fuck… you.”
“Ahhh…” The ringleader chuckles again. “I think you mean, fuck her, ‘cuz he already did once. And you know that, don’t you? You’re looking really pale, El Duque, but I can still see that you know this guy from the sexy photo they sent you. Right?” He leans down toward me again. “Did you like that picture? Did you look at it while you were beatin’ your meat and crying over how she cheated on you with two guys at once?” Another sardonic laugh as he pulls his face away from me. “Well. I’m thinking the perfect send off for you is to let you watch him do it again, right here in this beautiful living room.”
He whistles again, jerking Isla’s hair tighter, causing her to yelp, and I can’t even move aside from my thumb that’s still stroking her temple.
“Isla.” Her name spills from my dry mouth, and the other piece of shit is chuckling while licking his lips, and I grip the Desert Eagle on the rug at my side, my finger inside the trigger guard, and all I have to do is lift my arm.
The ringleader right fucking there, and all I have to do is lift my arm.
I drag in a breath in the ultimate test of stamina, holding the grip with trembling fingers, and it feels like hefting the weight of the earth.
A wall-rattling POP echoes through the room, and the ringleader’s head flies backward, blood and gore spraying the air behind him. He teeters for a second, and then slumps and falls to the floor.
My finger is on the trigger, but my arm is still on the ground, and I didn’t make that shot.
From somewhere behind me, a bolt-action rifle chambers a round, and another POP ricochets in the silence of the room, and the remaining piece of shit who raped Isla drops to the floor.
I definitely didn’t make that shot.
A third POP. Another heavy thump of a body hitting the floor.
Still not me.
My vision is blackening faster, and my extremities are starting to go numb, and I don’t know who made those shots, but all six men are down now, and Isla’s no longer in immediate danger, so I focus all my energy on blocking everything out but her.
My hand drags down her face and rests on the side of her neck. I’m looking at her, but she’s not looking at me. Her teary eyes are wide and focused on something behind me, and though I know this woman’s face better than anything in the world, her expression is suddenly unreadable.
I don’t know who or what is back there, and now I don’t know if she’s actually in the clear.
“Isla.” I drag in another excruciating breath, and there’s nothing I can do now. “I failed you. I’m sorry.”
INTERIM
JOAQUIN
Present
WHAT-WHAT!
Hey, Reader! I know what you’re thinking.
Why the fuck am I here right now, right?
Yeah?
Well, I’m gonna friggin’ tell you.
Lemme tell you first about the fuckin’ traffic coming back to Southampton from JFK. Dude, it is fucking whack. It’s almost as whack as Papá not letting me use one of the company jets to spend the week in Ibiza, but I digress.
Since I had to fly friggin’ commercial—ugh—my flight got delayed, and then I got caught up in a fuckin’ rat race of people leaving the city. That doubled my drive time, and now I’m not getting back to the house until way the hell into the night.
Fuck me, I need friggin’ drink.
Ugh.
At least by the time I’m passing the golf club, everything has cleared up, and I get to my street at a little after nine. And once I get inside, it is gonna be whiskey o’clock.
Pausing next to the keypad, I punch in the code and wait for the iron gates to pull open, drumming my fingers on the wheel and thinking about my scrumptious morning with a hot little number I met last night in one of the clubs. She didn’t speak a lick of English or Spanish. It was all French, and ooh-la-la, indeed.
I smirk to myself, practically still feeling her skin under my fingers, and pull forward—only to stomp the brakes when something on the drive comes into view. I can sort of make it out in the distance, so I flip on the high beams, and—
Holy fuck.
That is definitely one of Mal’s security guys that have been stationed at our place since Isla came back, and he is definitely dead.
Just past him are more of Mal’s guys, and they are definitely dead, too.
I don’t know what the fuck is going on at my house right now, but shit has clearly gone down. And about a million instances from my entire life practically scream that our California primos have finally made good on all the threats they’ve spewed to Papá over the years.
And that means it’s fucking go time.
Flipping off the headlights, I pull the car around the friggin’ bodies—fuck. Poor fuckin’ bastards.
The guest cottage is my destination because there’s a closet in there with all those beautiful hunting rifles that we previously only broke out for boujee autumn deer hunts with all the snooty friggin’ society bros in Southampton. And deer hunting was never really my thing, but Papá insisted that we kept up with the Joneses around here, so I fuckin’ learned. I learned enough that I know I can take down whoever is all up in my house threatening my family right now.
The first bead of fear-fueled sweat trickles down my back as I shift into park behind the guest cottage and step out of the car.
At least, I hope they’re still just threatening my family right now, and seriously, fuck traffic. God damn.
I should’ve been here sooner, and if my whole fucking family isn’t dead before the night is over, I’m gonna tell Papá this is why he needs to let me use the friggin’ company jets. Shit.
Anyway, the guest cottage is dark and empty the way it always is when we’re not hosting people, so that means these fuckin’ cholos are all in the main house. Good. I know every discreet service entrance to the house, all the hidden hallways intended for staff to slip into parties and slip out unnoticed, and the vatos won’t know what hit them.
A Remington thirty-aught-six seems like the best option for this particular hunt, but it only holds five rounds, and I don’t know how many men are in there. So, I load up the pockets of my blazer with extra ammo and hope for the friggin’ best.
I fill the magazine to capacity, slide the bolt to chamber the first round, and brace it against my shoulder as I slip out of the guest cottage. Sneaking around to the back of the main house, I make my way to a door that leads to the butler’s pantry flanking the prep kitchen. The quick, quiet squeak of the hinges causes me to cringe, and I freeze, holding my breath and checking my surroundings.
Still good, and I slip inside, silently easing the door closed behind me.
The prep kitchen, the main kitchen, and the dining room down the adjoining narrow hall are all dark and empty, but I can hear conversation coming from the great room, echoing through the cavernous center of the house, and I knew it.