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I lose myself to my thoughts, not paying attention as Christos drives with Esteban in the backseat. Pulling into a gated community, Christos navigates through the cookie-cutter streets with identical condos. I had expected him to take us back to Malibu, but we’re somewhere else.
“What’s going on?” I ask, straightening in the seat. “I thought we were going back to Malibu.”
Esteban peeks his head between the front seats. “No, mamacita. It’s too dangerous. I finally got a contact for the drugs, and we need to take care of that first.”
“You can wait in the car, astéri mou,” Christos says, parking in front of a stone pathway leading to a wrought iron gate, surrounding a patio.
Hydrangeas bloom in pink and blue colors, and a mermaid waterfall fountain trickles off to the side. I spot a sunflower flag hanging by the door and wonder what the fuck kind of drug lord lives here.
I start to grab the handle, ignoring Christos’s suggestion. “I need to move. I can’t just act like nothing is happening.”
He touches my knee. “Please, Stacia. Just wait here,” he says with such desperation that I decide not to argue and slouch back down in my seat. I don’t need to prove that I can handle everything all the time. Not with Christos. Not with Esteban either. It’s just hard to get it out of my head. It’s hard to allow others to take care of me when I’ve had to take care of myself for so long.
“Bueno, mamacita. We’ll hurry.” Esteban exits the vehicle.
Christos joins him, glancing at me over his shoulder as they walk up the strangely quaint entry to the condo. I huddle down in the seat, wishing I had chosen to duck in the back. I want to be able to see without being seen. The back windows are tinted darker.
A buzzing noise hums through the car, and I pull up the center consul, finding where Christos stored my phone after he had hidden it to help me. I quickly scoop it up, flicking, my gaze between the screen and the door.
Unknown: Get out of there. Do it now.
My stomach twists at the text.
Unknown: It’s a set up. It’s another hit on you.
A feminine voice screams out, and I scramble in my seat to get a better view. An elderly woman cowers back, holding up a cane as Esteban and Christos tower over her. There’s no fucking way she is a drug lord.
Unknown: Get out!
I reach over and slam my palm to the horn, blaring it in a long succession. Christos spins and looks at me, fear crossing his face.
“Duck!” he yells, his voice echoing through the closed window.
I don’t have time to react as he yanks a gun from his jacket, aims, and shoots. I startle and screech, dropping to the floor and trying to shove myself under the dash the best I can.
My body jerks at the sound of another gunshot, and someone smacks into the window, trying to yank open the door. I push open the passenger side and manage to crawl out, keeping down. I can’t stay in a vehicle with someone trying to break in. Not if I want to survive.
“Stacia, over here,” Esteban says, motioning for me to run toward him while Christos shoots at a man in a mask.
I run, hunkering down. The old woman continues to scream and tries to attack Esteban with her cane. He grabs onto it and yanks it away. She hobbles down the hall and out of view. I knew this wasn’t the house of a drug lord. This is all set up. But by who?
“Get inside. There’s a back door that leads to a garage. Here are the keys.” Esteban hands me a set of keys with a fuzzy ball on them.
“The hit is still on me. This was a set up,” I say, hurrying inside, my nerves frayed because of the gunshots between a hitman and Christos with just a few cars between them.
“I know. The old lady said someone paid her twenty grand to use her house as a front.” Esteban pulls me inside, shutting the door. “I want you to get out of here. Wait for us to call. We need to find out about this fucking hit.”
I know better than to argue and let him lead the way to the back door. I step into the garage and click the alarm on the car. Esteban is too engrossed with me that he doesn’t see the old woman coming up behind him.
“Esteban!” I scream, rushing forward. I grab onto his jacket and yank, but I’m too slow. The old woman manages to stab him with a kitchen knife.
Esteban stumbles toward me, and I grab a wrench from a toolbox by the door, chucking it at the woman, getting her to fall back. Blood coats Esteban’s hand, and he wobbles on his feet.
“Fuck. Get in the car. I’ll get help.” I practically drag him and shove him into the passenger side. I hit the button to open the garage door, listening to another round of gunfire, echoing through the air, coming from the front.
But I can’t stay for Christos. Not when Esteban’s bleeding out in front of me. He’ll be okay. I know he will. The hitman isn’t after him but me.
“You can’t take me to a hospital,” Esteban groans, heaving deep breaths.
