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His face reddens, hands clenching at his sides. “What do you think all this will achieve? You’re no one’s hero, asshole. Instead, you’re putting marks on innocent people.”
“And you care about these people?” We both know he doesn’t, and I snort, waving at an older man that I consider to be family sitting on the embankment’s edge. He’s my mermaid’s uncle and one of the many eyes and ears here. “My, General, you’re as corrupt as he is.”
“And you’re not?” I’m not blind to the way his right hand slowly reaches his hip—to the tight grip he now has on a small pistol. “The De Leon family has more blood on its hands than I do. A criminal should never point fingers, kid. That’s something your family should’ve taught you by now.”
“Is that so?” Turning my head, I meet his beady eyes and smile. Fucking idiot has fallen right into my hands. “Do tell me how to run my business. How should I bow to you?”
Two of my men give me a nod from over his shoulder, coming a little closer while those watching do the opposite. They make more noise, celebrating, while Junior brings out a syringe from his pocket and stands at the ready.
There’s enough sedative in the small dose to knock him out and transport him without issue.
“Scum like you always ends up on his knees with a mouth full of steel, tears rolling down your cheeks. President Rodriguez won’t be gentle either; he wants to see you choke and beg for mercy.”
“What else?” His vitriol is unimaginative at best. Pathetic. “Will I be forced to kiss his feet?”
“No, but your puta will.”
“You’re wasting my time, Ortega. Say your piece,” I say, and while on the outside I’m calm—my smirk in place—the ire within is barely contained. This is something every man in my position deals with at one point or another: the threat to a loved one.
My girl. My mermaid.
It’s a test. Not my first either.
It also gives me a sick sense of pleasure to watch his composure slip a little at my nonchalance. He’s expecting yelling and curses, for me to react with violence while I’m sure his men are nearby. Another mistake, and at this point, I’m going to tally them up and deliver my reprimand before I snap his neck.
“You’re egotistical now, Ivan,” he spits out through clenched teeth, voice low as to not attract attention. Ortega’s not entirely stupid; he knows I have people here, but he just doesn’t know who is who.
Is it the old man clapping?
The mom holding a rum bottle tightly in her grasp?
Or the young man kissing his girlfriend?
Any one of them is a possibility, but not the case this time.
“Will you ever finish explaining yourself?”
“I’m going to personally shove my gun against Amberlyn Ibarra’s head, cabron. I know her schedule, where she sleeps, and who her family is here on the island. Working in that bail bonds office near the police station won’t protect her from us.” With two fingers, he taps his temple and smirks. “Our reach is just as deep as yours.”
“So that means your wife and son in Curacao are fair game? What about the whore you keep here…Barbara, is it?” Tilting my face a bit, I give him an innocent shrug. “I’ll bleed them both dry and then make you drink it, Ortega. Don’t get cocky with me. That mouth of yours is already going to cost you dearly.”
“Listen here, hijo de puta—”
“No one calls my mother a whore.”
“Fuck you and your...” A snap of my finger and Junior stabs the needle into his neck before he can finish, injecting the concoction into the great general’s system and then stepping back. “What the hell was that?” He brings a hand up to the pricked area, cupping it while frantically looking around. Eyes wide, he stumbles within a few seconds and mumbles something. It’s unintelligible, but I’m sure a few curses were insinuated.
His hands dig at his side, but they’re more than likely asleep and just keep dusting his sides.
I take his gun and phone, dropping the latter and stomping on it. The screen shatters, and he tries to say something but fails. Words come out, but they’re garbled and my men shrug, not understanding the idiot either.
I’m sure it’s some insult either way.
“What was that? Did you say something?” I grab Ortega’s arm when he stumbles again, while my other guard, Israel, takes the opposite side to steady him. “Inebriated and while on duty. So irresponsible, General. Such a grave mistake, too.”
There’s anger in his eyes, so much hate, but both roll back and he slumps completely against Israel. The entire ordeal lasts but three minutes at the most. Those around us clap when he loses consciousness, still pretending, and I tilt my head toward the newly restored Ford Fairlane parked a few feet from us. The driver is my personal one while on the island and has his orders:
No stops until on the family compound.
