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Then it hits me. Tiena wasn’t all ass and tits. In between shopping excursions, she did at least one job for Braulio that made her useful enough to keep around for as long as he did.
She knew numbers like the back of her hand. She could do them in her head like a calculator, but her real trick was finding logical ways to fudge them. A missed decimal point here. A stray zero there. Even the most complex accounts could be given the appearance of legitimacy by her.
The strange part is that few people know that. Just Braulio and his most-trusted goons. And, of course, her dead sister Lupita. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit her skill, and it all seems like a foreign language to me.
Either Jaguar’s decided to test if I really am Tiena, or he has another aim in mind. Perhaps he wants to see if I’ll be as forthright with him as she was with her other lover?
Damn.
Damn.
Damn.
“You can take your time,” the accountant says, reaching for another file that must be unconnected to whatever Jaguar wants me to see.
Sweat drips down my neck as I scan the desk and spy a picture of a beautiful family posing before a large house. They even have the customary white-picket fence and matching dog. Jealousy seeps through me. I would give anything to live so blissfully unaware of the hell the world contains.
But I am not so lucky. Resigned to my fate, I thumb through the first pile of documents, but I don’t see anything strange in the calculations I can decipher. So, I reach for another page. Then another.
In theory, perhaps all is fine and well, and Jaguar merely wanted to rub in my face how much he owns. Various properties and assets—more than I could have ever imagined one man possessing. He could just want to show off. Reinforce how dangerous and powerful he is.
But as I begin to flip through the third stack of documents, I note something that has nothing to do with the numbers printed on the page.
The accountant gets antsy. Despite his efforts to appear calm, I can see the anxiety bubbling beneath. Every time I turn a page, he shifts in his seat, and gradually my focus shifts to him. Tiena had her numbers, but my skill was far more nuanced. I was always good at seeing through bullshit. I wasn’t born with that talent, of course—I earned it the hard way through trial and error. In other words, Diego beat that intuition into me piece by piece. I have him to thank for finally understanding why Jaguar really sent me here.
Time doesn’t even allow for second-guessing. After closing the latest file, I face the accountant and decide to make a bold guess, consequences be damned.
“How long have you been skimming from him?” I ask.
“What?” he sputters, his face reddening. Shock alone isn’t the reason—I know utter terror when I see it. “I don’t know what—”
“But the thievery isn’t why you’re sweating in a room with the air conditioning on full blast,” I add, cutting him off. “You’re afraid of something else.”
And if there is one emotion I know inside and out, it’s fear. He reeks of it, and I wonder if this is what Jaguar feels when he sees through enemies and cuts them down to the quick. Exhilarating is an understatement.
“You ratted him out, didn’t you?” I ask to twist the knife.
“I’m sorry.” He rushes to his feet, swiping his documents into a haphazard pile. “You should go.”
I don’t move. “How long have you been feeding the feds his books?”
The man holds my stare for a long time. “I have a family,” he says finally. “A family he will kill if he even thinks I’ve done anything wrong. Turn around. Leave my office, and I will have one hundred grand wired to a foreign bank account with your name on it. Please. You have no idea what kind of man he is.”
Escape is tempting, I can’t deny it—but men like Jaguar value loyalty far more than any amount of money could ever buy. Neither would the word of some new sex toy be enough leverage against his personal accountant. I would need proof. But how to get it?
Pedro has his contacts. Maybe he could help.
“I think I’ll take my chances. Have a good day,” I tell the man before leaving his office with a file in my grasp.
The poor bastard doesn’t even have the heart to stop me. I risk taking a detour into a bathroom where I call Pedro. Thank God, he answers on the first ring.
“I’m sending you pictures of some documents,” I say, aware that I’m rapidly running out of time. “See if you can verify the numbers for me and find anything suspicious. Oh, and if I don’t get around to it, I know where Franco is. Somewhere in California. I’ll send you the pictures when I can.”
“Wait, Pita—”
I hang up, too rattled to explain any further. My fingers shake like hell as I snap pics of each document in the folder I stole and send them to Pedro. When I return to the car, I pause to shove the file into my purse before greeting the driver with a nod.
“Anything out of the ordinary to report?” he asks.
