Dirty Promises, Page 3

  I ended up nipping her clit, hard, between my teeth.

  She cried out in surprise, in pain, then in pleasure as I licked the hurt away and she relaxed back into me.

  Her breathing became shallow, her skin hotter. She was swelling beneath my touch. She was about to come. I pulled back, gasping for breath and quickly positioned myself. I hadn’t meant to go inside her. Being inside Luisa was something I thought of as too much of a risk. The feelings she would bring me.

  But at that moment I didn’t care.

  And when she called out my name, almost panting, “Javier, please,” then I really didn’t care.

  I thrust into her, holding her hips in place, relishing how she felt, tight fucking silk. I moaned, my eyes rolling back into my head, a torrent of emotion beginning to swirl in my chest, something more than anger this time.

  I swallowed it down and let out a hot breath as I slowly, agonizingly pulled back out of her.

  “Is that what you wanted?” I asked her.

  She nodded, breathless. “Yes, please.”

  “You’re being very polite, my dear. I have a feeling you’re not asking for what you really want. You’re not quite … full enough, are you?”

  Her head shook once.

  I bit my lip until I tasted blood, anticipating what I was about to do. Then I picked up the knife and turned it around. I held the blade with my hands, delicately at first, and slid the plastic handle into her ass. She tensed up, and as I pushed it in deeper, my grip on the blade tightened and blood began to seep from my hands. I barely felt the cut, I only felt her around my cock, that soft, wet sanctuary.

  I thrust into her, the knife handle and my equally hard dick, moving in unison as she welcomed it more and more. My movements became faster, I went deeper. I could barely hold on to her hips with one hand, too much blood was spilling from the other, making everything red and wet and hot. It looked like a massacre, and I felt I was losing much more than blood.

  I came inside her, hard and long, and I only needed to flick her clit to get her to do the same. She moaned loud, beautiful music to my ears, threatening to undo me. She quaked and shuddered as the orgasm rocked through her, and for a wonderful second I imagined my seed sinking into her, finding purchase. The chance at a child.

  But when desire and lust lost their footing and my heartbeat slowed and I was spent, my mind could think clearly again. I could dispose of those feelings that had the power to hurt me in the end.

  Family was everything.

  Family got you killed.

  There would be no child.

  There was barely a wife.

  I looked down at Luisa, my blood spilled all over her back and mixing with her own. I pulled the knife out of her and shook the remaining drops on her rising back as she caught her breath. I ran my hand down her spine, smooth, blending our blood together. It was the best that I could do, it was the most of me that I could give.

  I didn’t say anything to her as I got off the bed and went to the en suite bathroom. I washed my hands in the sink, the cut across my inner fingers not too deep, watching the water swirl down the drain, our blood together. Blood of family. Blood of marriage.

  Then I looked at myself in the mirror and was glad to see a man I didn’t recognize staring back at me. You couldn’t take anything from this man. He had dead eyes.

  When I emerged, she was standing naked, vulnerable, beautiful, the sheets and blankets piled at the foot of the bed, white splashed with feathering red. Our eyes met and I saw that need in them. She wanted me to come back to her. Maybe just to put her in the bathtub and wash the horror from her back, take care of her, like I always used to do.

  I could only stare back at her, wishing she could see that this was all I had. That we were lucky it hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. That her wounds on her back would heal.

  Even if the wounds in her heart would not.

  She nodded once, reading the futility of it all. She was so good at that, seeing the truth. It made me wonder what she’d seen in me all along.

  Did she hate herself for losing her heart to a monster?

  “I’ll get clean sheets,” she said, her voice small. She started for the door, seeming to forget that she was naked and bleeding.

  I quickly walked over to her and put my good hand on her shoulder. She looked at it in surprise, the generosity of my touch. “No, you go clean yourself up,” I told her. “I’ll deal with the bed.”

  She blinked, then gave me a timid, grateful look.

  “Thank you,” she said, then walked to the bathroom. I watched her go, her back bloodied, yet she wore it like a cape.

  And I knew she was thanking me for more than that. She was thanking me for being intimate with her. She was thanking me for waking up, even if just for a few minutes. Even if I brought her a lot of pain with some of the pleasure.

  I hoped I had the strength to never let it happen again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Javier

  I dreamed about Alana again.

  It’s always the same fucking dream.

  It was the last time I saw her. Wal-Mart of all damn places, just outside of Durango. Figures it would be in a fluorescent-lit hell. She’d met me and Luisa there, looking frightened and vulnerable. Lost. A cast on her leg. She thought her brother could save her. She’d survived an assassination attempt. Two, actually, if you counted her getting hit by a car. And the third attempt, the one that blew her and my boat up, that’s the one that got her in the end.

  I could have done more for her. Maybe that’s why the dream didn’t stop. Why I kept seeing her crumpled face, why I kept hearing myself say the last thing I said to her.

  “I will take care of you, you got that? The only way I know how.”

  I would hear those words of mine when I was awake, too. They mocked me.

  Because I failed. Because I didn’t take her seriously enough. But I never did, did I? The only person I ever took seriously was me.

  What I thought at the time was that Alana was a trail straight to me, my compound, my cartel. I assumed that the reason she “survived” so many attempts on her life was because they never meant to kill her, whoever they were. They just wanted to scare her, right into my arms.

  And it worked. I brushed her off. Of course I didn’t turn her out to the wolves, but I certainly didn’t trust the situation, nor her so-called Canadian boyfriend. I needed to get away from her, for my sake, for Luisa’s sake. And yes, for her sake, too. Because when I was caught, when I was killed, what would happen to her? As long as I was unattainable — safe — she, in a sense, would be too.

  But I was wrong. About everything.

  I hadn’t heard from her for a week. I thought she was going to call the number I gave her. I thought she would have trusted me to take care of her. But she didn’t. And now I couldn’t blame her.

  I got a phone call at five in the morning from the chief of police in Mazatlán, someone who was already on my payroll. He said there had been an explosion in the Sea of Cortez, and the crew who went out to investigate found wreckage of my mega-ketch, blown to smithereens. Ironically I had named the boat Beatriz, after one of my other deceased sisters.

  I had no idea what was happening, and it wasn’t until they reviewed security footage from the marina, which showed a group of men, presumably dressed like old sailors, pushing a few wheelbarrows down the docks. One of the men stopped and pulled back a blanket that was lying across the wheelbarrow.

  It was Alana’s face. She was curled inside, unconscious or already dead.

  The man kept his back to the camera, fuzzy grey hair sticking out of his sailor’s cap that could have been real, could have been fake, but Alana was kept in full view. The man wanted us to see her.

  He wanted me to see her.

  The next thing they found was footage of Beatriz sailing out to sea.

  Alana was on it.

  Two horrible days later, while Luisa and I had hunkered down in Mazatlán, I was approached by the coro
ner. He had bad news. Alana’s remains were found among the wreckage. They ran her through DNA testing and it was a match. They were one hundred percent certain that my sister was dead. And the police had no idea who was behind it. Even when they were paid handsomely by me, they still couldn’t come up with any leads, and the police down in Jalisco, where Alana had lived, were worthless as well.

  I didn’t feel anything at first.

  I remembered Luisa gripping my hand.

  The breath being knocked out of me.

  But it was all rather fitting. I recall thinking, this figures. Because it did. Violence, the cartel way of life, had taken my parents from me. My sister Beatriz. My sister Violetta, who I saw explode in a car bomb before my very eyes. Now Alana. The only Bernal left was her twin, Marguerite, who chose to stay as far away from me as possible, who wanted to forget that I was her brother. She lived in New York and had cut all ties with me, not only for her own safety, but because she wanted to pretend I didn’t exist. My only family left hated me.

  I hated me. Because this had all been my fault. Each death was on my head. From the years as the right-hand man to Travis Raines and his cartel, to overthrowing him, to starting my own, and then to overtaking Salvador Reyes, up, up, up to the top. They all died because I kept climbing.

  Family is everything. That is the creed in this country. But that creed gets others killed. And it slowly kills you. Your family is the first thing you’ll lose. Your soul will be the last.

  Luckily, I didn’t have much of either anymore.

  I had Luisa, of course. She had become my family, my confidante, my lover, my friend. She had become everything to me, in bed and outside of it. But she was a weakness, my weakness. She was what they would go after next, the last thing I could possibly lose.

  Unless I lost her first.

  I was keeping her safe, as safe as I could, as safe as anyone could. I had all of Sinaloa under my finger, which meant the police and the military. Guards were outside my door, my compound was patrolled, the hills were watched … I had eyes everywhere. Radios, cell phones, everything was monitored with what the local military had. If anyone was coming, we knew about it.

  In reality there were few to fear. America wouldn’t touch me, not after I had informed on Salvador to the DEA. I had the Juarez plaza and unity with Nuevo Laredo. After I seized Tijuana, which was still my plan, I would control everything except the Gulf. They were not true Sinaloans, not like me, not like the real narco royalty. They were who I had to watch, my only real threat in the end. And they had tried before, only to be thwarted in the process.

  But keeping Luisa safe from others also meant keeping her away from me. I couldn’t let what happened last night happen again. She couldn’t be my own victim. I knew I was hurting her by pushing her away, by keeping her at a distance. But it was for her own good, and mine.

  I didn’t feel like myself anymore. I knew I wasn’t myself. I woke up with this deep-seated need to maim and hurt. To fuck. To make others suffer, as I suffered.

  And I knew I had to use this anger, sharpen it like a knife. It would be greater than any weapon.

  The only way through was up. To the top. Until I had all of Mexico. Until I was unstoppable.

  Until there was nothing left to fear.

  ***

  There was a knock at my office door. I didn’t have to ask who it was. It was always Este. Luisa never bothered to knock anymore. She never bothered at all.

  “Come in,” I said, my voice sounding more tired than I’d like. I didn’t want Este to think I wasn’t on top of the game. He didn’t need to know about my dreams, the sleepless nights. It had been a long day, though, and I supposed I was allowed to look like I’d been working at my desk from dawn until dusk.

  The door opened and he stepped in. As usual he looked like a fucking moron in his board shorts and wife-beater. Flip-flops on his feet, like a damn Californian cartoon.

  “Lose a bet?” I asked as I briefly looked him over.

  “You used that line last week,” he said, sitting down across from me on the other side of the desk. He kicked off his flip-flops and crossed his legs at the ankles. My lip curled in disgust, the thought of his dirty feet on my sheepskin rug.

  “I’ll try to be more original next time,” I said dryly, putting my agenda away. I folded my hands in front of me and gave him a pointed look. “Have we found him yet?”

  A slow, crooked smile spread across his face. It told me everything I needed to know.

  I opened my desk drawer and took out a file folder. Call me old-fashioned but I needed to have most of my intel in my hands as well as on the computer. My brain handled it better that way.

  Flipping it open, I took out a picture of Evaristo Martinez Sanchez. He was young, twenty-four, a light-skinned, blue-eyed Mexican. Probably made the ladies go crazy. For a moment I realized he was about Luisa’s age and that they would make a good-looking couple. I’m not sure if I was relieved or not when I found my stomach curling with jealousy over the thought.

  It was a serious photo, like a mugshot, and in color, probably taken for his government ID. Evaristo was part of the task force for the Policía Federal Ministerial, or PFM, those lovely people our government hired to fight organized crime and people like me. This organization, unlike the AFI before them, were hard to bribe and did things by the book like many of the Americans liked to think themselves did. In other words, they were a pain in my ass and could do serious damage to any cartel, if given the chance. The federales, we called them.

  Evaristo was ranked up there on the team that watched Angel Hernandez and the Tijuana plaza. He wasn’t in charge of the unit — kidnapping the boss would be too risky for me and federale bosses would never talk. Stubborn little bastards. That stark loyalty and honor would be useful for my side, if only their morals weren’t so fucked up.

  But being second in command, Evaristo would know enough, and the more I read up about him, the more I liked him. He came from the barrios of Matamoros, dropping out of school when he was thirteen to become a petty criminal. He screwed up once and made enemies with the wrong people (are there any right people?) which put him in a precarious position at a very young age. Like most youth, he joined the Mexican army because there was nowhere else for him to go. He liked the discipline there and had the willingness to do jobs others wouldn’t. He was a quick learner and more than eager. As soon as he was out, the PFM swooped in and recruited him.

  The PFM wear masks when they do raids so that people like me don’t recognize them. But the internet is a funny thing, and Este knew how to get information. I felt like I knew Evaristo well. Already he reminded me of our Juanito, who was essentially Este’s guy Friday now, following him around like a puppy.

  I was looking forward to kidnapping him. Torturing him, just a bit, at first anyway. I’m not an animal. Just to see how he handled it. To see if he was as good as the reports from his supervisors said he was.

  Naturally, I wanted him to fail. When he failed, he would give me the information I needed to take Angel out. When I took Angel out, I’d take over the plaza. Evaristo would be spared because of my graciousness, and hopefully I wouldn’t have inflicted too much damage to his pretty boy face. Or maybe I’d be doing him a favor. Too much pussy can be tiring at times.

  I was surprised that Este came through with everything. He opposed my plan at first. Said it was too risky and that our cartel was too good for this. Too elegant. That we didn’t need to fall into stereotypical violence that besieged the country, that hiring sicarios to take out a lord was beneath us.

  I don’t think Este knew who I’d become.

  But Este leaned over and tapped Evaristo’s photo. “He’s a sitting duck. Two days. I set up the staged bust and they’ve got the message. They’re on it.”

  “Just as I asked,” I reminded him. He had a habit of trying to take over my ideas, even if he didn’t agree with them. Always trying to one up me when he should have known there was no one-upping the patron, not
when you were a barefoot fool.

  “Yes,” he said, rather reluctantly. “Should I go and make sure it all goes through?”

  What was in motion now was that Este had tipped off someone at the PFM about a safe house location and an impossible amount of cocaine and meth looking to make its way up on a big rig to San Diego. But the safe house was a ruse. We would be there waiting for them. And we’d take out Evaristo as soon as we had the chance. It’s hard to hide those blue eyes behind a mask, and at six foot two, he’d stand out among the men like a sore thumb. Of course with something like this, I wasn’t involved. Other people did my dirty work for me. I had a growing team of ex-soldiers and cops who could go into any situation and come out alive with the target.

  “No,” I told him. “Let them do it. You’d just get in the way, tripping over your own sandals, your hair in your eyes like a little girl.”

  My insults didn’t seem to work on Esteban anymore. He jerked his chin at my forehead. “Is your hair thinning a little bit? Must be the stress.”

  I raised my brow. “So is that all you came to tell me?”

  “Is that all?” he repeated incredulously. “I come here to tell you that I orchestrated your plan exactly as you wanted, the bait has been taken, and you wonder if that’s all?”

  “I’m sorry, did you need me to pat you on the back, maybe make you burp a little?”

  Este made a disgruntled noise and got out of his chair. “You know what, Javier? You may be the patron and this may be your cartel, and you may think that you earned it, but there is something other narcos do that you don’t, and that’s treat their brothers with respect.”

  I blinked at him, actually caught off-guard for once. “This isn’t a preschool, Este. I will give you respect if you deserve it.”