cry,” I croon in a comforting voice. But I don’t lower my gun. In my business, everyone is suspect until proven otherwise. I once knew a man whose maid carried a .22 in a thigh holster beneath her uniform. “We aren’t here to hurt you. We just want Mr. Aguilar. Where is he?”
The maid backs away as we advance, not bothering to put up a fight. She points down a hallway to her left with a trembling hand. “His office … third door on the right.”
“Gracias.” I flick the barrel of my gun in the other direction. “Get lost. Call the cops and I’ll shoot everyone in this house in the head.”
The maid’s orthopedic shoes slap against the tiles as she runs, muffling choked sobs. That she didn’t put up a fight is telling. It wouldn’t surprise me to know that Santiago is rude to his staff and stingy with their pay. He can hardly afford them as it is.
“Remind me later to find new positions for all of Santiago’s staff,” I tell Jovan. “Well-paying ones.”
“Got it, jefe.”
We don’t bother to muffle our footsteps or slow our pace to go undetected. This place isn’t guarded and no one who lives here poses a threat. Santiago’s children are adults living away from home. There should only be him, the staff, and maybe one of the bimbos he parades around town.
The office door is open a crack. Jovan goes ahead of me, peering inside before kicking the panel wide. The slumped form of Santiago Aguilar jolts upright at the slam of the door against the wall. The fucker had dozed off at his desk with a half-empty bottle of cheap booze and an empty glass at his elbow.
He blinks unfocused eyes, which widen when he looks at me. Pressing himself against the back of his chair, he shakes his head like a dog drying off.
“M-Mr. Pérez!” he exclaims, holding his hands up and out—as if it would be enough to stop a bullet. “I was just getting ready to call you.”
“Save it,” I snap, as Jovan strides to the desk and hauls him up by his shirt.
Santiago is a small man, rail thin and swarthy-skinned. His dark hair is slicked within an inch of its life, and gaudy Cuban link chains decorate the opening of his floral button-up shirt. The man is a walking stereotype; a tacky shit-stain no one will miss once he’s gone.
“Shut the fuck up!” Jovan roars as Santiago pleads and begs for his life.
He’s a pitiful sight as he’s pushed to his knees at my feet, snot and tears running down his face.
I cock my gun and aim it between his eyes. “Your time is up, Santiago. I didn’t want to have to do this … I really didn’t. But you forced my hand. Your loan is so overdue, it would take the rest of your life just to return the interest.”
“I-I have five thousand in the safe right now!” Santiago stammers, inclining his head toward an ugly landscape painting. He’s even unimaginative when it comes to hiding a goddamn safe.
“I’ll have the five thousand as compensation for the inconvenience of having to come all the way to High Pines to kill you,” I tell him, pushing the gun against his forehead. “It’s over, Santiago.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth. Girlish whimpers escape the back of his throat, and he trembles in Jovan’s hold.
I grind my jaw as I wrestle with Father Moya’s voice in my head. It’s annoying, when I’ve never hesitated to kill in the past. Not even at the age of eleven when a pistol was forced into my hand as my father knelt at my feet. Even knowing his sorrowful eyes would haunt my dreams for life, I pulled that trigger without flinching.
I’ve just made up my mind to stop dicking around, when a loud gasp and then a scream sounds from the doorway. Jovan and I whip around in time to get an eyeful of a half-naked woman.
A fucking gorgeous half-naked woman.
2
Elena
When Anita came running onto the back deck looking like she’d seen a ghost, I barely took the time to dry off after leaving the pool. I had no thought for the scrap of a bikini I was wearing, pausing just long enough to slip into my sandals and yank a cover-up over my shoulders. She didn’t have to say much for me to gather that my father has gotten himself into some kind of trouble. Again.