by Box Set
I sit back on the bed once more and watch him collapse on the floor in a pitiful heap, blood seeping from his head. His broken arm lays at an odd angle next to his body. I wipe the edge of my blade on his pillow and then tap it against my leg as I let him writhe in pain a little longer. I’ve found over the years that suffering is increased by two things; the expectation of more pain and the time it takes for the body to take stock of the damage done to it, for the pain receptors to go from blissful numbness to agonizing life as the body tries to recover.
His groans increase in volume as the fire of pain licks at him. I stand and circle him, wishing for a worthier opponent. A good fight might have released some pent-up frustration. Might have saved my wife from some of the seething hate running through my veins. Instead, he acts like nothing more than a slithering worm. Barely worthy of my notice, let alone the edge of my blade.
“You disgust me,” I snarl, feeling suddenly tired. I drop my cigarette on the floor and crush it beneath my heel.
He cringes into the floor and rolls onto his back. He brings his hands up, one broken and mangled, and places them in a prayer position. He begs with his eyes. I grant his wish for death, slashing my knife in a downward arc through the material of his shirt, the soft tissue of his stomach and deep into the recesses of stomach cavity. He howls in pain while I slice through his bowels, making sure he will feel every moment of his death for the long hours to come.
The man that aided my wife’s departure does not get to die easily. He will go to hell wishing he’d made another choice. I pull my blade from his intestines as easily as if I sliced through butter. Another fist to the face and his screams turn to gurgles of agony. I stand, pleased that Pedro has learned his lesson.
I wipe my knife on his bed and sheath it once more. An image of Luna flashes through my mind and I fear that I will need it again soon enough. I’m unable to hold onto the thought of slicing her up, though I know there can be no other way. She’s earned the justice that will be coming her way. As I leave the shack and make my way toward the house, I know it’s eagerness to set eyes on her once more, touch her soft skin, hold her against me, sink inside her silken body that drives me forward.
There’s no reason I can’t fuck my wife before I release her from this mortal world. Perhaps she’ll thank me. After Pedro’s death I’m feeling benevolent, less vengeful. Maybe I’ll be able to suppress the fury enough to send her on an orgasmic high before I kill her. She knows what must happen. Though purposefully oblivious on occasion, Luna is not a stupid woman.
I walk steadily toward the cottage a bleak calm settling over me. Soon I will see her again. The woman that I love, the woman I can never trust. She must be put down.
As I reach for the back door it flies open in my hand. I pull my gun and jump to the side, prepared to shoot the threat. When I see Alberto, I reholster my gun and straighten. “What the fuck, man?” I grumble and go to step around him.
He holds a hand out. “She’s not here,” he says grimly. “It looks like she took the children and ran as soon as we got here.”
5
Luna
I can’t sleep.
I roll over onto my side and punch one of the extra pillows pulling it against my stomach. I think about going out to the kitchen for a shot or two of the Cuban rum I picked up in Havana today, but I fear that Pedro will see the light and think it is an invitation to come inside for a visit. I turn over again and sigh, staring at the faint light in the hall. I’ve been leaving the washroom light on with the door partially closed as a makeshift nightlight for the children. So far neither of them have needed to get up in the night. My little darlings have always been amazing sleepers, like their father. Unlike their mama.
I roll over again, turning my back to the hallway, and hug the pillow tight against me. I close my eyes. Andres immediately fills my mind, his dark, tattooed body stalking to the forefront. I bury my face into the bedding and release a muffled sob. There’s no help for it. I can’t stop thinking of him. I never could. He’s been the only man for me since the moment I set eyes on him five years ago.
I was nineteen.
I lived at home still, with my mama, Julia. She was the prettiest, most sought after woman in our small Mexican town. She never said she made a mistake with my papá, because she loved me too much to tell me I wasn’t wanted. But I knew. I’m not stupid. I stayed home to help mama pay rent. It was hard to find jobs in our territory, especially for women. Most jobs were paid for on their backs. My mama… she wasn’t having any of that shit. She was a hard worker, even though a woman with her looks didn’t have to work.
I, on the other hand, took advantage of the many offers that started coming my way when I turned 14 and my curves filled in. I didn’t fuck around with them… for the most part. Mama would’ve killed them and then me if she thought I was selling my body for money. No, I just used men, dangled them on my little finger and greased them for as much as I could get. I learned the art of flirtation at an early age and used it for as much as I could possibly get for me and my family. Once I’d assured mama that I wasn’t prostituting myself, she seemed happy to partake of the money, jewelry and other gifts that were showered on me.
I met Andres at a bar just outside Los Zetas territory. It was near the small town I lived in. My friend, Sonja, convinced me I would find richer, better looking prey if I widened my hunting grounds. She wasn’t entirely wrong. I’d exhausted the pool of willing saps in the town where I lived and, since I wasn’t willing to commit, I needed to find a new haunt. The evening I met my future husband I wore the sluttiest jeans I owned, a pair of ripped up skinny jeans that may as well have been glued to my ass and hips. I topped it with a black half corset, fire engine red lipstick and my favourite pair of lucky cowgirl boots that I’d bought in Tijuana.
When we arrived, it was to discover that we weren’t the only ones with this brilliant plan. One of the resident whores from my small town, a bitch that actually sold herself, was perched on a barstool, talking shit about me and mine. Marta Sanchez. I’d known her since grade school, long enough for the two of us to develop a decent hatred of each other. Well, I couldn’t have this smack-talking whore bad-mouthing my mama in some other town. Especially not behind my back. Nope. She was going to do that shit right in front of me where I could cut her up for daring.
“Please don’t,” Sonja whispered, clutching my arm. “I think there’s some cartel guys in here.”
“You might want to stand away from the blood spray,” I muttered back, peeling her fingers away and stalking toward the bar, my eyes narrowing on Marta.
“Well fuck me, if it isn’t my home town whore!” Marta shouted when I got close enough for her to spot me. Her shrill voice carried throughout the bar. “Her mama used to be pretty and now this one thinks she’s hot shit.”
“Keep talking, bitch!” I snarled as I approached.
She must’ve drank too much for self-preservation to kick in because she remained seated, a cruel smile twisting her bright-pink painted lips while everyone within her vicinity scattered.
“You think you’re so fucking hot,” she said, pointing at me. “You’re nothing but a pair of tits and a bad fuck when the guys can’t find someone better. Go back home, Luna. No one wants you in these parts. You ain’t got nothing they want. Go take care of your broken-down whore of a mama.”
I didn’t respond verbally. I grabbed a fistful of her curly hair and dragged her off the bar stool. Her back hit the floor so hard the empty chairs around us rattled. I reached for a beer bottle brought it down hard against the side of bar, smashing it. I’d never really been in a true bar fight before but at that moment I was pretty happy I’d practiced smashing empties out behind my house.
I leapt on top of Marta, grabbed her by the hair and smashed her head into the floor, dazing her. When her eyes started to focus once more I brought the jagged edge of the bottle to her throat and snarled, “You will apologize about my mama. Right. Fucking. Now.”
&n
bsp; She turned her head to the side and spat then looked up and gave me a bloody half grin. “Make me, puta. You’re just like her, making your money on your back.”
I saw red. I didn’t care that I’d never really been in a fight in my life, didn’t care that there were all kinds of witnesses, I was going to cut this bitch. Make her regret her own birth. I lifted my arm, about to bring my hand down in a dramatic swing and cut her face open. Take out at least one of my competition. But before I could cut the bitch, my wrist was seized from behind in a strong, uncompromising grip. I frowned and glanced back over my shoulder. I met the bluest, sexiest most alluring eyes I’d ever seen on a Mexican man.
I recognized him instantly from his tattoos, his massive build and his arrogant attitude. Los Zetas. He was cartel. Holy. Shit. Despite the death I read in his eyes, I could feel myself instantly respond to him; my heart beat faster, my cheeks flushed and my body started to melt right then and there.
“You sure you want to do that, chica?” he asked, his deep voice filtering through my angry haze, turning my nipples diamond hard.
My gaze rolled back toward my victim still laying frozen beneath me, her eyes squeezed shut now. She seemed to have figured out that I meant business with the broken end of a beer bottle. I studied her for a moment, trying to feel sympathy for the psycho whore cunt that had called my mama names in front of an entire bar. Nope, nothing.
I nodded my head. “Yes, definitely,” I said earnestly batting my lashes at him and giving him the big deep brown, almost black eyes that usually worked on all of my male prey. He seemed completely unmoved.
“Have you ever cut anyone before?” he asked idly, his thumb caressing the sensitive spot on the back of my wrist underneath my thumb.
I shook my head. “No, but Marta seems like a good start.” Her eyes were starting to open and I saw hope reflected there. I glared death at her, assuring her with my own eyes that she better start melting back into the floor because as soon as this hombre dropped my hand she was DONE.
He nodded and continued to caress my skin, his thumb making circling motions. “The feel of flesh under a blade is not something you should take lightly, Luna. I know this well. You cut her up, and it will stay with you for life.” His deep voice caressing my name, his words, the emotion he allowed me to see in those gorgeous, bottomless eyes, they pierced me.
I nodded my head thoughtfully. I believed him. This was a man that had seen darkness and death. Had lived it and something in him didn’t want me to see the same things. I dropped the bottle. He grinned at me, showing me a dimple in his cheek. I realized he must be younger than I thought; maybe twenty or twenty-one.
“Th-thank you,” Marta said gratefully from underneath me.
My head snapped down and I drew my fist back, sending it flying into her face. The back of her head hit the floor hard with a satisfying thump. I grinned and looked up at the incredibly gorgeous Los Zetas crouched over top of me. He offered me his hand and I took it, allowing him to help me up.
“Let’s go, sweet Luna.”
I went with him and we spent the rest of the night making love, exploring each other and indulging in a sensual tasting unlike anything I’d ever done before. When we finally sated our desires for a few hours at a time, we talked. Andres wanted to know everything about me, even though it wasn’t an exciting story. He asked endless questions, frowning fiercely if I dared to mention other men. At one point, when I told him the truth about my reason for being in the bar he apparently frequented, he’d become so annoyed, he’d flipped me right over and fucked me from behind, demanding that I never again do anything so reckless.
One night turned into a day, and a day turned into a weekend. At the end of that weekend I’d insisted that I needed to go see my mama, explain why I wasn’t home. Even though I was a flirt, I wasn’t a loose kind of woman. I didn’t usually stay away for entire nights. I was shocked when Andres refused to allow me to leave. Even he seemed confused by his own possessive anger over my need to go home. Finally, he agreed that it was ridiculous to keep me locked away from my family and friends.
I made the promise that I would come back and he allowed me to leave. Our separation didn’t last longer than a few hours. I’d barely walked through my front door, said hello to my mama and tried to explain my absence when the big Mexican conqueror came striding in behind me, uncaring that he hadn’t been invited in.
I sigh and smile into my pillow as I picture the confrontation between him and mama. She’d made only one protest and then he’d swept her away by both dogged determination and charm, assuring her that his intentions were honourable; that he wanted to marry me the moment we could find a church. A warm rush of feeling had swept over me as I’d listened to him speak to my only living relative. Logical arguments had popped up in my brain, but each time I tried to fight with myself, my gaze was drawn back to him. I couldn’t believe my luck. Couldn’t believe a man like this wanted a girl like me.
I came from nothing, living like a pauper, on my wits and will alone. It amazed me that a man as good looking and connected as Andres could possibly want me for more than a good night’s fuck. And I’d done exactly what I’d sworn never to do, given up the goods at the blink of an eye. I thought I would come back home to my small town with my small, lonely life and stay here until I died. I never thought I’d see the powerful, sexy mobster again. Perhaps a small part of me was relieved at the prospect, knew I was safer, saner, if I walked away and didn’t look back. That life wasn’t for a small-town girl like me.
But then he showed up at my door. Spoke like a man in love. He even convinced mama. Or at least convinced her that he planned on kidnapping me, dragging me to the alter and eventually impregnating me, and there was nothing she could do to stop him; that if she wanted a relationship with her daughter and future grandbabies then she’d better sanction the union.
We were married the next day with only my mother and one of his brothers to stand up with us. It was such a whirlwind. Before I knew what was happening, I was on a plane to Paris for a new wardrobe and then Cuba for the rest of our honeymoon. It was terrifying, it was exciting, it was the happiest time in my life. Because I had never seen my husband more relaxed and carefree than those two weeks that we’d taken away from real life, away from the Los Zetas.
Once we returned to The Site and Andres returned to his life within the organization, our marriage became a terrifying struggle between his brutal dark side and my ability to ignore everything that went on around me. Before I could question myself, question my values and the horrors I knew I shouldn’t keep turning away from, I became pregnant. A terrifying and exhilarating prospect. My baby, my Cristo, gave me something else to focus on. Gave Andres and me someone else to love.
But then Andres started disappearing, coming home less frequently and when he did, the black aura of death would cling to him and I’d know he’d been on a particularly brutal job. I would beg him to come home. But he would still disappear, sometimes for weeks at a time, sometimes longer. Once he didn’t come home for over two months. When he did finally show up on our doorstep he was a burnt-out shadow of his former self. And though he promised me he would never do it again, I knew drug addicts. Had grown up around them in my small town. Heard stories from mama about my deadbeat daddy. Once an addict, always an addict. Eventually the pull of the drug would be too much for him. More than his love for his family. I’d had no choice but to ask Charlie to step in. Since that terrible time I know that Andres has controlled his habit. I used it against him, throwing it in his face as my reason for leaving. I lied to him.
I sit up in bed with a sigh and shove hair out of my face. I know I won’t be able to sleep. I decide to try to find the rum without turning any lights on. I need a couple of shots before I can settle down. I slide off the bed and reach for my robe, tying it loosely around my middle. I pad barefoot down the hall, past the washroom, around the corner toward the kitchen, squinting in the darkness. Very little light filters through the win
dows here. We’re too far on the outskirts of Havana to see city lights.
I turn the corner and reach for the cupboard. My fingers just barely graze the handle when I’m seized from behind, lifted right of the floor and slammed into a hard chest, a hand covering my mouth. Panic engulfs my mind and I kick out, striking the fridge with the heel of my foot. I think Andres must have me and has covered my mouth so we won’t wake the children, but I realize quickly I’m wrong. The man holding me doesn’t feel like my husband, doesn’t smell like my husband.
It doesn’t take me long to realize that whoever is holding me doesn’t want to hurt me. I stop panicking and let myself go limp, gripping his arm. He gentles his hold and starts whispering rapidly in my ear.
“We don’t have much time,” he says. “Soon as Andres is done playing with Pedro, he’ll be in here looking for you.”
A chill slithers through my heart as I realize who has me. Alberto. Andres’ best friend and second-in-command. I begin shaking in his arms. I don’t understand why he isn’t immediately turning me over to my husband. Why he’s saying this to me. As though he intends to help me. I try to speak, but my words are muffled by his hand. He has more to say and he wants to get it out quickly before we’re interrupted.
“You must take the children and go, run far away from here, Luna,” he says against my ear. The scent of his cologne wafts between us and I know that smell will forever be burned into my memory along with the confusion and terror of this moment. I despise Alberto’s touch, but he’s giving me a chance so I settle and listen. “Andres intends to kill you, and I can’t let that happen. When I release you, you will run. Comprende?”
I nod frantically, my lips pressing hard against his fingers. He releases me and shoves me away from him. I stumble forward and catch myself against the edge of the fridge. I take three running steps toward the hall without looking back, instinct guiding me to my children. Then I wheel around, my hands on either wall and squint at him in the darkness.