Dirty

by Stevie J. Cole

  "I killed him."

  He smiles and cups my cheek. "Of course you did. I'm so proud of you, Camilla."

  For a second, I'm just a little girl again, basking in my father’s praise, but nostalgia soon gives way to anger. "So, Mama and Emilio died, Gabriel and I ended up on the streets, and you never thought to come for us?" There were so many times when I would have given anything for my father to rescue us. Those first few years were so hard, and I had Gabe to look after... "We barely survived," I say quietly.

  "You were safer without me." He shakes his head. "But you not only survived, you thrived. You've both become so strong. I could not have hoped for better." He stands and moves closer to me, stroking the back of his fingers down my cheek. "I've watched you. You've made me proud. You even infiltrated Ronan Cole."

  "Infiltrated," I whisper to myself, frowning.

  "To think, all the years I have spent trying to ruin him, and my very own daughter brought me the information so easily." He smiles.

  Like a bucket of ice-cold water, the realization of what is happening here jolts me to my core. "You're The Horseman," I choke.

  He huffs a laugh. "Not a name I developed myself."

  "You tried to have me killed," I say, pain lancing through my chest. My own father.

  He drops his chin to his chest. "I thought you were compromised. It hurt me to order it, but you know that business must always come first." Oh, I know it well. "I could not allow him to have you. If you were to side with him..."

  My father is alive, and he tried to have me killed. I sent him the information on Ronan's missiles and clients, and now...now he's taken me. "Why am I here?"

  "Ah, my sweet daughter. You are here because it's time."

  "Time?"

  "To kill Ronan Cole." He wants to kill Ronan. That's it? It feels so...anticlimactic.

  "Why do you want him dead so much?"

  "His father aided Cortez. The Cole's were responsible for the death of your mother and brother. They destroyed everything I built. And the young one is much worse than his father. More cunning, more ruthless."

  "But you then became The Horseman. You gained more power. You always said, business before all else. I can't believe Mama meant enough for you to go on a ten-year revenge pact."

  His jaw clenches. "I loved your mother."

  "The same way you loved me and Gabriel?" I ask, my voice far more vulnerable than I'd like.

  He swipes my hair from my face. "Ah, dulzura, I loved you enough to make you strong. It pained me to allow you to suffer, but look where you are now. You broke the Russian." He grins. "Made him fall in love with you against all odds. Made him want to marry you..." He lifts a brow and I swallow nervously. "He came for you when the Los Zetas took you. Even after he tried to kill you and you him. He’s weak for you.”

  “How do you know about that?" I didn’t tell anyone he poisoned me. No one but Ronan and I know that.

  “Who do you think saved you? I’m always watching, Camilla. I have eyes and ears everywhere. When I heard you slit his throat, I thought you’d done what no one before you could; kill Ronan Cole.” He tuts, shaking his head. “Such a shame you failed. But he still rushed to your aid when you were in peril.” He knew. Why does that bother me? It certainly wouldn't be the first time that my father knew I was kidnapped and did nothing. It's his way. We don't negotiate. I learned at an early age that if I didn't save myself I'd die. No one was coming for me...until Ronan. He always comes for me. "The Russian is so very weak for you," my father says.

  Ronan has never been weak in his life. I walk to the window and stare out. Large trees dot the grounds with several wooden buildings sprinkled between. Armed men pace about the perimeter of the barbed wire fence. "Why now after all these years?"

  "Because you are his kryptonite. I couldn't have predicted this outcome of course, but you will be the bait that lures the Russian to me."

  "So, what? You think you'll just call Ronan and tell him you have me, and he'll walk into your trap like some White Knight?" I snort. "You give him too much credit."

  "Do I? Or do you underestimate your hold over him, sweet child? He is not a man accustomed to losing, and to lose you is to lose altogether." He's wrong. If Ronan is stupid enough to come here I might just kill him myself.

  "If you just wanted to kill him, why play all these games? Why ask for the USB? Why build the missiles and take his clients?" I turn to face him, throwing my arms out wide. "Do you want him dead or do you just want his power?"

  A twisted smile pulls at his lips. "I simply want to destroy him before I kill him. Men like Ronan Cole do not fear death, but they fear losing that which is precious to them: money, power, missiles...his little kitty." He grins and my stomach knots tightly. How does he know these things?

  "You have it all figured out," I whisper, and for the first time, fear for Ronan settles over me.

  My father steps forward and clutches my face in both his hands before kissing my cheek. For a second, I'm five years old again and my father is my hero, the center of my world. "We will be unstoppable. Our family will be everything it once was and more." He strokes his thumbs over my cheekbones. I close my eyes, swallowing around the lump in my throat. "Remember who your family is, where your loyalties lie. And remember that Ronan Cole is the enemy."

  I know he's right. I've become weak. Taking a deep breath, I nod my head. "Yes, Papi."

  "Soon, you will call him and beg him to save you," he smiles. "And he will come running, right into our hands.”

  33

  Ronan

  It's been a week that I've been stuck in this abysmal city, waiting like some desperate beggar. It's a funny thing, to wait for revenge, because as the clock ticks by, the emotions of it all morph and change. Rage has given way to anger; anger ebbed into muffled aggravation. I've lost money, I've lost some power, but at the end of it all, the thing that has cost me sleep is that I've lost her. I pace the room, dragging a hand over my face. As ridiculous as it is, it is beautiful. The ruthless king, the savage queen bound by the most gentle part of humanity. The least likely of occurrences, and yet, they bare the most brutal consequences. You can lose a multitude of things, but when you've lost your ability to remain apathetic, you're truly ruined and no longer own yourself. My pride is nothing compared to my love for her.

  What other woman could make me so volatile? Could dance amongst the flames I create with a smile on her face? I'd be a fool to deny that she is what drives my existence now. Not power. Not money. Simply her. The phone rings on the table and I quickly cross the room to answer it. "Hello?" I struggle to maintain my composure.

  "Ronan," Camilla breathes, the sound of her voice sends a weakness pummeling through my chest.

  "Where are you?"

  "I don't know." She hesitates. "They chloroformed me in New York and I woke up here. Honestly, it could be anywhere."

  My jaw tenses. "Have they made you bleed?"

  "No." Her voice softens.

  A small amount of relief eases through my muscles.

  "Ronan, I..." She takes an audible breath. "I need you. I think they're going to kill me."

  My brows furrow. This is not like Camilla, this is not the woman who slit my throat, the woman who held her head high when I placed a gun beneath her chin. She is fearless...

  "I'm so scared." Her voice is too anguished, too theatrical.

  "Don't be scared, little kitty," I say cautiously, aware we're most likely being listened to. "Death suits you." I tap my finger over the desk. "I'll always remember how beautiful you looked at the President's funeral when all those people were poisoned..." There's a beat of silence. "Camilla, are you listening to me?" My pulse pounds in my temples. I need her to be very aware right now.

  "Yes. I'm here," she says quietly.

  "You looked so beautiful when everyone around you was being poisoned. Dropping like flies. I was so glad you didn't drink the water, would have been a pity for you have to have died as well."

  I hear her sli
ght intake of breath. "Anyone would think you like me, Russian."

  "Hmm."

  There's a rustling over the line. "So sweet," a man with a thick Spanish accent says. "If you wish to save her, you will be here tomorrow, five pm. I'll forward you the address. And Russian..." He laughs. "I will take your life for hers. Come alone. You try anything, she dies."

  When I hang up, the phone immediately buzzes with a text. I stare down at the address on the screen, and I smirk. Arrogance is a fault. An often fatal fault.

  "Boris," I call, lighting a cigarette. "I'm sending you the address, make sure everything is in place."

  "Yes, sir."

  I lean back in the chair, smiling like the devil. I do so love the suspense of such things. I really, really do...

  34

  Camilla

  The next morning, I wake to the sound of feet pounding down the hallway. The door to the bedroom swings open and my father steps inside, his broad shoulders almost touching the doorframe on either side.

  "I need to know now, Camilla. Did you have anything to do with this?" He's bristling with tension, the lines around his eyes more prevalent than usual.

  I frown. "Did I have anything to do with what?"

  He stares at me for a beat longer before releasing a breath, almost like he's relieved. "Half the men have fallen ill this morning."

  I lift a brow. "Oh?"

  "They've been rushed to the hospital. I'm calling in emergency guards for Cole's visit this evening," he sneers. "This is him, I know it is."

  "How? How would he even get access to your guards?" I ask, looking at him like he's crazy. "Maybe they just ate some bad food." Or water… Papi gave him the address for the compound. That was stupid. Arrogant.

  He narrows his eyes at me and I stare back at him, the pair of us walking this tentative line between father and daughter, enemy and ally. Neither of us really know where we stand, both craving something that may be irrevocably lost. And soon, our loyalties will be tested.

  35

  Ronan

  It's nearly nightfall when Boris parks the car. I stare at the barbed wire fencing outside as Mozart's Requiem-Lacrimosa plays over the radio. There are only a handful of guards milling about, which pleases me to no end. "I am sorry about this, Boris," I say, passing him a cigar. "But you must have known when you took the job you'd likely die."

  He takes the cigar and nods. "I did it for my family. For the money."

  "There's still hope you may make it out alive," I say.

  I bid him farewell as I step from the car. The warming welcome of guns cocking sends a jolt of excitement down my spine. I can't help but smile as I glance up at the few snipers with guns leaned over the fence, for here I am, Ronan Cole, on the brink of world domination and I may possibly be brought to my knees by a woman. Just as Marc Antony and Paris, King Louis. Of all the ways I imagined my demise would come about, it was never a woman. And I must find the poetry in that.

  The gate slowly creaks open and a guard stomps out, weapon drawn. He seizes me and silently leads me past several trees to a large, white house reminiscent of something in "Gone with the Wind". These old homes are never very trusty, what with the well water and faulty foundations. I laugh at myself and the guard tightens his hold as we walk down a hallway decorated with distasteful pictures of rabbits and flowers. The guard nudges me with his gun. I bite back my desire to kill him right here.

  "In there," he says, shoving me through a doorway and into a formal sitting room. There, on one of the crème sofas, sits my Camilla, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Her eyes lock with mine, but there's something amiss. That fire, the defiance that so readily dances in her eyes is not there.

  A door on the far wall opens and a man dressed in a suit and red tie, steps in, a large grin. "Ah, I'm so glad you came," he says. His salt and pepper hair is swept away from his forehead, and while his eyes are cold, there's a shimmer of self-doubt. And I can't blame him.

  "I'm here," I hold my hands up, waiting, shoving down the tingle of excitement bubbling through me. I won't lie, I find it very pleasing playing the victim. "Now, let her go," I say.

  He slowly saunters toward Camilla and strokes his knuckles over her cheek. "My daughter is free to leave at any time." Camilla drops her chin to her chest, and my heart hammers against my ribs as I try to comprehend the gravity of the situation. "She's an alluring little thing, isn't she? She gets it from her mother."

  My stomach slips around itself as every monumental moment since I've met Camila rolls through my mind like tattered film. Was I so blind that I fell into her trap? I step toward her, anger billowing in my chest, my jaw tensed. I raise my arm and backhand her across the face, splitting her perfect lip. Blood trickles down her chin.

  The guard grabs me by the shoulders and shoves me to my knees while The Horseman circles me, tapping his finger over his lip. "Shoot him," The Horseman says, taking a gun from the guard and placing it in her hand. “His father worked with Cortez. His father helped overthrow our family.” And there it is, revenge. He simply wants revenge, how petty. Camilla turns the piece of metal over before locking her gaze with mine. A slow trickle of blood rolls over her lip, and I fight back a groan.

  “He did,” she says. And maybe I have been played, maybe this has all been a grand act for which I should applaud her.

  "Ah, little kitty, you played your part well. You fucked me like you meant it." I smirk.

  She drops to a crouch in front of me and places the cold barrel of the gun beneath my chin, forcing my head back. "Ah, Ronan," her lips brush mine, "I'll admit, you were fun. So very addictive."

  There's a slight flicker in her eyes, a flash of anger. Adrenaline swims through me at the thought of possibly dying. Will it be artful? Will my blood look like a masterpiece splattered against the wall? I shouldn't find excitement in such things, but you feel the most alive just before you die...

  Pushing to her feet, she stares down at me and moves the barrel of the gun to my forehead. I can’t help but smile as I stare at her skin so smooth and tempting like a forbidden fruit. It's no wonder I loved her, as much as I've sworn I had no weaknesses, I've always been weak for pretty things—for art. And Camilla Estrada is a fine piece of art. Delicate yet strong, sensual and volatile. "Krasivaya," I say, "you are the grand crescendo of my life, a masterpiece I should have set fire to instead of admire." On an inhale, she closes her eyes and when she opens them, I see the absolute resolve, the flicker of pain mixed with resignation.

  She spins on her heels, placing herself between me and everyone else in the room as she aims the gun at her father and pulls the trigger. There's a small pop followed by the heavy thump of his body hitting the floor. For a moment, she remains motionless and I take the opportunity to stand. I brush my hand over my jacket and nod at the guard next to me, watching with delight as he slowly backs away. "Little kitty," I whisper, oh so pleased with how this has played out. Camilla gasps, as though coming up for air, and she quickly presses her back to my chest, then raises the gun, swinging it from one guard to the next.

  I find it cute that she feels the need to protect the Big Bad Wolf. "Are you going to shoot them," I say, a thrill in my voice.

  She remains tense. "I don't know, Ronan! I don't know if you noticed but there's five of them and one of me," she snaps.

  "Ah," I place a hand on her shoulder and slowly step around her, turning to face her, "so there is, whatever shall we do?" I notice one of the guards stiffen.

  She narrows her eyes at me, before glancing at each of the men. "You fucking bought them, didn't you?"

  I shrug. "Bought isn't the proper term, really." I sweep a piece of hair behind her ear. "How did it feel?" I jerk my chin toward her father's body. "To kill someone who betrayed you? Someone who would have stood in our way?"

  "I don't know," she whispers. "I wasn't thinking about that."

  Such a shame. The moment I killed my father, I still relish in that. It's one of my fondest memories. "That's too bad, kras
ivaya."

  She looks at me and for the first time, my little kitty looks truly lost. "It hurts," she says, her voice so quiet I barely hear her.

  On a sigh, I take her by the arms and close the space between us. "Relish in it."

  "He would have killed you. I had no choice.”

  I'm fairly certain that is an attempt to convince herself. Some bonds, no matter how twisted, are hard to break. I pull back to look at her. Her eyes water, her jaw sets, and I stroke my fingers over her cheek. "Thank you," I whisper, the words so foreign on my tongue.

  Gripping my jacket, she pulls me closer and presses her face into my chest. "Thank you for coming for me. Every time."

  "A king always saves his queen, krasivaya."

  "I knew you'd come, even though I warned you not to."

  "I don't recall being warned." I smirk.

  She pulls her face from my chest and rolls her eyes. "Please. As if I would ever beg you to rescue me," she snorts. "I did avoid the water though."

  "Good, kitty. I'd have hated for you to die such a distasteful death."

  "Would you miss me?" she teases.

  And there my krasivaya is. Guilt isn't something she wears for very long. "Tremendously," I say.

  On a sigh she glances around the room. "How many of the guards do you have?"

  "Ten, unless one carelessly drank the water..."

  "Okay. I'm going to need to borrow a couple." She flashes me a wry smile and crooks her finger at a couple of the guards. They approach her, visibly nervous in her presence. "Go to my father's office, take everything, the computers, the paperwork, all of it." They hurry away and she walks to the door, stepping around her father's lifeless body. "Give me a minute," she says, leaving the room, her hips swaying.

  Guards rush through the house, grabbing items before hurrying outside. I watch them through the window as I pull a cigar from my pocket and light it. I pace the length of the room, running my finger along the wall before I step over The Horseman's body. Blowing a puff of smoke through my lips, I crouch next to him and search his pockets, pulling out an old military knife. I flip it open, smiling at the serrated edge before I slip it inside my pocket. "I can't blame you," I say, standing. "So many men have thought to overthrow me."