Joseph
I sink back down to the bed with a groan.
“Great moment to grow a fucking conscience, Dante. Maybe next time wait until after I’ve had another morphine hit, or twenty.”
“Make that a double,” he muses, dragging his chair over to my bedside. “That woman shoots like a professional and hits like a boxer. How are you feeling?”
I watch him flex his jaw a couple of times. I can hear the clicking of bone from here, and a swell of pride surges up inside of me. She gave enough of a shit to call him. That’s got to count for something.
“Like someone stuck a lightning bolt through my shoulder. Where the hell are we?” I glance around the cavernous bedroom. “This place stinks of naphthalene and money.”
“Emilio’s old estate in Leticia.” My head snaps back to him in surprise. “Evidently her new friend has an inbuilt homing device.”
“Does Martinez know you’re here?”
“Not yet, but she soon will.” He leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out. “Who shot you? Was it one of Fernandez’s?”
I let out a bark of laughter until the pain muffles it again. “No, Martinez.”
“Let’s start calling her by her real name, shall we?” Dante flashes me that dangerous smile of his. Whoever the fuck she is, she better be praying hard to God right now because that smile is a precursor to murder. “Well, well, well,” he adds, pondering my revelation. “It’s going to be even more of a pleasure to end her bloodline.”
I watch his fingers start straying toward his gun without him even realizing it. He’s been itching to kill her for days, and after this morning’s events I have no fucking inclination to stop him.
“Just do it quick, and don't let Anna see,” I say, gritting my teeth. “Give me an update on where we are with the cartels.”
“Usual anarchy.” He stops toying with fate and crosses his arms instead. “Fernandez is being a trigger-happy cunt, Gomez is being a weak cunt, and the rest of Los Cinco Grandes are putting up the pretense that they’re all blameless cunts, while executing twice as many and siphoning off a shit load of coke on the sly.” He shoots his eyes to the ceiling in disgust. There’s a good reason we walked away from this life, but Colombia will always have her claws in him. He can fight it all he wants to, but it’s pumping through his veins. Split him open and he’ll bleed red, blue and yellow. “We need to restore order before Rick’s distribution channels go up in smoke.”
“Take Fernandez out?” I suggest, shifting position and wincing.
“And replace him with who? Let’s see what the bastard has to say for himself first. He knows I’m here with an army. He knows I’m pissed. If he doesn't turn up for the round table discussions on Friday, he’s a dead man.”
“So, you’re sticking around? Is Eve okay with it?”
“Do I have a choice? Fuck, I hate this house.” He looks around with a sneer on his face. “It makes me want to put a bullet in my past, all over again.”
“That’s because it pricks at your non-existent conscience again.”
He grunts, but doesn’t comment, sliding his hand through his black hair in irritation. “Gabriela’s still here. Tending to her flock of broken whores.”
“Now you’re the one acting like a cunt. You did good giving this place to her. Has Anna guessed she’s Manuel’s mother yet?”
“Why would she care?” he says, looking unimpressed. “They fucked once, right? A long fucking time ago… A dead man is not a rival.”
“Maybe she won't see it like that,” I say, gritting my teeth again.
“You think too much.”
“One of us has to.” My head sinks down into the pillowcase, but I force myself to stay awake. Now isn't the time for rest. Not when all the newly healed cracks in Anna have fractured again. “Listen, Dante—”
“What?” He’s distracted. He’s sensing blood.
“I need two things from you before you go and commit your fucking version of familicide.” I shift position again, feeling my chain slither across my bare chest. Did she see them? Does she remember? “I need you to take that morphine drip and turn it up to the max. Afterward, when the good stuff is kicking in, you’re going to help me out of this bed.”
“What are you, a machine?” He lifts his eyebrows in disapproval.
“That’s why you hired me in the first place, right?” I shoot him a weak grin. “Just do it, Dante… I’ve got a lot of shit I need to put right today.”
Some places stamp their blueprints into your brain. I haven't set foot in this house for years, but I can still remember where every hallway and staircase leads. Gabriela hasn't changed the décor since Dante bequeathed her the house. It’s still as pretentious as you’d expect from a former cartel kingpin with too much money to burn. Emilio Santiago’s obsession with gold means you still need a pair of fucking sunglasses to walk around.
Emilio was insane. No one disputed it, least of all Dante. The guy’s madness spilled out into every aspect of his life, from his interior design choices to his business decisions, but it was his pathological jealousy toward his brother that proved his undoing. He should have remembered that Dante inherited the higher IQ in the family, even if they shared the same vicious disposition. These days, Eve tempers the worst of her husband, but she’ll never tame the beast completely.
Where are you, Luna?
By a quick process of elimination, I exit the house via the back patio doors and make my way across a courtyard that’s sheltered by a dripping green pergola toward the outdoor swimming pool area. It’s still the same palm tree oasis I remembered, encircling an Olympic-sized pool that’s lined with the finest Sicilian gray marble.
I find her sitting cross-legged by the edge of the water, chewing on her nails and staring up at a melting pot of color that’s sinking slow and steady into the rainforest in the distance. She looks like a child who lost an argument with a bottle of red sauce. Her white T-shirt and denim skirt are stained dark and ugly with my blood, and her wild golden hair has been dulled with dirt and tangles.
She still burns brighter than any sunset.
But it’s the moon she really outshines.
She looks over when she hears me approach and scrambles to her feet. Her delicate face is a mask of shock. Her river-deep blue eyes are unsure and fearful.
“How are you even walking?” she whispers. “Ten hours ago you were dying in my arms.”
“It’s called morphine and a good doctor, sweetheart.” I come to an awkward stop in front of her, breathing shallowly to keep the peaks of pain to a foothill, not a mountain.
“Do they amputate hurtful revelations as well?”
She looks away, but I still see the glass in her eyes.
“Hey.” When she doesn't respond, I catch her chin between my fingers and jerk her back to me. “Do I still make you feel?” I demand, ignoring the pull across my freshly stitched wound; needing the hurt of her confirmation more. “Like that time in the motel room. Tell me, Luna.”