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RAFAEL
“Hijo de puta,” I swear through gritted teeth.. Taking a step closer, I spit in Juan’s face, and he jerks backward in disgust as my spittle splatters across his cheeks. He attempts futilely to pull his hand to his face to wipe away the remnants of my revulsion. I take great pleasure in watching my saliva drip down his face as he struggles against his current bindings.
“Did you think we wouldn’t find out?” I push the blade of the boxcutter open. His eyes widen with fear, and his nostrils flare as he unsuccessfully tries to contain his ragged breathing. Stepping to him, I roughly fist the front of his shirt to pull it from his body before plunging the blade through the fabric. It slides with ease, allowing me to tear the shirt from his bound body as a drop of blood falls from the shallow cut.
Gripping the waistband of his jeans, I begin cutting him free from his pants. “I’d be still pendejo, or I might slip and cut off that tiny cock of yours.” I drag the thin blade along the now bare skin of his upper thigh and listen to his breaths becoming increasingly erratic. Without warning, I slice the razor through his skin and his face scrunches in pain.
Still, not a word from him.
I continue to cut the clothes from his body, until he sits naked before me, with his feet and hands still bound to the metal barstool beneath him. The smell of his perspiration and fear fills the confines of the small concrete garage beside his home.
I lazily draw the blade through the skin of his chest, and I take in the contents of the shelf beside us.
Sixteen kilos. Four handguns. One rifle. Stacks of cash—easily three hundred thousand pesos.
“Tell me, Juan,” I drag the dull edge of the bloody blade along his jaw, “your pretty, little wife next door, does she know what you’ve been doing?” He violently shakes his head to vehemently deny my accusation. “Since you aren’t going to talk, maybe we should bring herthrough the door.” Juan begins thrashing on his stool as he violently tries to free himself from the ropes securing him.
Diego opens the door and shoves Juan’s wife inside, causing her to stumble into the room. Yelling out his name, she runs to him. She drops to her knees at his feet and throws her arms around his neck. She screams when I fist her hair, pulling her to her feet and away from her husband. Her back hits my chest with a thud, and I snake my arm tightly around her throat to keep her against me.
“Are you guilty like your husband?” I ask as I slide the boxcutter through the threads of each button on her dress, ensuring to not mar her skin. I don’t stop until the fabric has parted and her generous tits have spilled out for everyone to garner a look. “Do you need to be punished for your betrayal? Or just for his?”
Juan stares up at her. His body is trembling, and his eyes are filled with remorse and fear. And is that…a tear?
Fucking pathetic.
“How many of us would need to fuck her as you watched, before you started talking?” I pull the dress from her body, leaving her wearing nothing but a thin pair of white panties. “One? Two?”
“Please, she knew nothing,” he finally cries out before turning his attention to the shaking woman in my hold. “I’m so sorry, mi amor.”
“I know you aren’t fucking smart enough to be distributing this volume on your own. Tell me who you’re working with,” I pause to wipe the blood from the boxcutter across the front of her panties, “and maybe she won’t suffer.”
“The Saltillos!” He wastes no time spitting out the words I need to hear.
As if he knew my next move, Diego begins rolling a tire from the back wall as Juan spills every last pathetic detail about how he betrayed his family.
No one fucks with the Diaz Cartel.
No one betrays Alejandro Marcano.
For the better part of twenty-five years, it has been my job to protect both. I’ve been with Alejandro since he retook his father’s empire, and I vowed to him that no one would ever cross him. I would never allow the men beneath him to try to overthrow him like they did his father.
It's a job I take very seriously. Even more seriously since he started to grow a family—they are now as much my family as they are his. I probably enjoy the things I do for him a bit more than I should.
Actually, a lot more than I should.
Diego lifts the tire and slides it over Juan’s head and around his chest. Cowardly tears pool in the corner of his eyes when the distinct aroma of gasolina begins to overwhelm our confined space.
“Please let her go,” he pleads as tears and gasoline trickle in tandem down his face.
“You’ve been with us long enough, Juan.” I squeeze against his wife’s throat with my forearm, lifting her chin and forcing her onto her toes. “There is only one punishment for crossing me or my family.”
Lifting the boxcutter, I drag it across her throat. The cut is fast and deep, severing her artery and airway. Blood courses down her near-naked body and pools around both our feet.
“Death.” I drop her lifeless body at his feet. “For you and everyone you love.”
Diego rounds the stool, lights a match, and tosses it to Juan’s lap. Flames immediately engulf him, and we are surrounded by his shrill screams and the scent of his burning flesh. Writhing violently, his screams are short-lived as the fire consumes both him and his dead amor at his feet.
