The Devil's Desire

by Clara Capp

  Contents

  Copyright

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Stephanie

  Stephanie

  Shu

  Epilogue - Stephanie

  End Matter

  NATALIE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Copyright

  Copyright ©2020 Clara Capp

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Authorclaracapp@gmail.com

  Shu

  I’m waiting at the docks with two of my lower level subordinates. They normally take on menial tasks, and I don’t even know their names. I think one is Gianni, or Giuseppe, and the other is Mike.

  I don’t want to be here. This assignment seems like a waste of my time, but the boss told me to get it done, so, here I am. We’re waiting for an exchange. We’ve—The Italian Mafia—recently made a truce with the Mexican Mafia, and they’re sending a couple men here to pick up some opioids in exchange for guns.

  An underboss at an exchange is huge overkill. Antonio—my boss—probably sent me so these idiots don’t say anything that jeopardizes the truce. The two are very well suited for thug type of work but socializing with others isn’t their specialty.

  A breeze runs through the docks and I pull my jacket closer. It’s abnormally breezy in LA today. It’s usually scorching hot in October because we’re the Sunshine State.

  “Where are these guys, anyways?” Gianni/Giuseppe complains.

  “The Mexican Mafia aren’t known for their promptness,” I respond.

  The concept of time is very flexible in Mexico. If someone says they’ll be a few minutes late it will most likely be at least half an hour. It’s a cultural thing, albeit a very annoying one when trying to do business.

  “We bring them 500k worth of drugs and they leave us hanging. The fuck is up with that?” he says.

  “Quit bitching. We need the guns. If we have to wait at the docks for an extra half hour, so be it.”

  We don’t have to worry about looking suspicious, because no business happens at the docks during the weekends. All that’s down here is a bunch of warehouses that receive shipments Monday through Friday. There is a weekend security guard, but he’s on our payroll, and looks the other way when we’re conducting business here.

  “Is that them?” Mike asks.

  A black SUV is driving in our direction. They slow down at different ports, and the driver appears to check if there’s people before moving on.

  “I’d hope so,” I say. “Because anyone else who sees us will get a bullet through their skull.”

  The SUV finally reaches us. I can see there are multiple men inside, but only the two in the back step out. They do a quick search around the port, presumably seeing if we’ve brought more than the agreed upon men. After they’re satisfied with the search they nod to the driver and the front two passengers step out.

  “Gentlemen.” A Mexican man with light green eyes steps out of the passenger seat. I’ve already met him—he’s the right-hand man of the mob’s boss. “How are you?”

  “Great. Yourself, Eduardo?” I say.

  “Superb, as always. Excited to get this deal done.”

  “As am I.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to inspect the goods before we take them.”

  I nod at Giuseppe/Gianni and he walks to Eduardo with the briefcase full of opioids. He rests the case on top of a wooden shipping crate and has one of his cronies start to count the contents.

  “So how has business been?” Eduardo asks. He doesn’t care. Eduardo plays a charming role, but he’s more like a viper, and can strike at any moment. If there is one thing I know about the Mexican Mafia, it’s that he’s the last person to trust.

  “Good. Our contacts have been quite cooperative,” I respond.

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  His crony has almost finished counting the drugs. “Is the number of pills correct, Luis?”

  “Parece que si.”

  “Good. There’s something I’d like to bring up, Shudevil.” I can see the viper look on his face and I know whatever is coming next won’t be good. “It’s about our truce. If I recall correctly, some vendors that you work with are supposed to cooperate with us. We’ve had trouble with one.”

  I groan. Of course someone isn’t coming through.

  “And who would that be? I’ll resolve the issue,” I say.

  “Hawthorne Medical Supplies.”

  Hawthorne Medical Supplies was not an agreed upon vendor when our truce was made. We use them to run our opioids. Although we have various other income sources, opioids brings in the most money. And if the Mexican Mafia starts selling drugs in LA, that means less money for us. They’re not someone who will be shared.

  “I appreciate you bringing it up, Eduardo, but Hawthorne wasn’t an agreed upon vendor. You know our relationship with them, and it isn’t one that will be shared.”

  “Ah, of course.” Eduardo slams the briefcase full of opioids shut and hands it to his crony to take to the vehicle. “I meant to ask last time, why do they call you ‘The Devil?’”

  The saliva in my mouth evaporates. I don’t like to think about the things I’ve done to earn that title. “Play on my last name, I guess.”

  “I see. Well, I suppose the rumors I’ve heard about you may or may not be true, then.”

  He doesn’t bring out the guns we agreed upon. The other three men come and stand next to him, and the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me something is about to go very wrong.

  “Either way, today I’ll get the privilege of killing The Devil.”

  “Get dow—” I start to yell, but one of his men has already put a bullet through Gianni/Giuseppe’s skull.

  I can’t get behind a shipping container in time. A bullet hits me in the right side of my stomach, and I fall behind it. Mike is crouched behind the other side of the container, firing at Eduardo’s men. I push through the pain and use the container as cover as I shoot at the men.

  They get Mike. His body crumples and he falls to the floor.

  Rage I’ve never known is burning through my body. We made a deal with these idiots, and they go and double cross us. I may be about to die, but if I’m going out, Eduardo is going with me. I lean out from the shipping container once more and take a head shot at him.

  My injury impedes my aim and I hit him somewhere along the neck.

  “Vamonos!” he yells, grabbing the delicate flesh of his neck.

  I must have hit around his jugular. If he doesn’t tend to that within a few minutes he’s going to bleed out.

  He and his men pile into the SUV and I watch them speed away. Tending to Eduardo’s injury takes priority over double checking I’m dead. He will die if he doesn’t find a doctor, and I bet his men are confident I will die. I probably am.

  We are so fucked. Gianni/Giuseppe took a bullet to the head, so I know he’s dead. I stumble over to Mike to see his injuries. If I can stop one of my men from dying, no matter their rank, you better believe I’ll do anything in
my power.

  He’s also gone. Mike took around seven bullets to the chest and blood is leaking out of his mouth. He died with his eyes open, which I have rarely seen in the many deaths I’ve witnessed. And I’ve seen many, many deaths.

  Eduardo isn’t the only one who may bleed out. My stomach is profusely bleeding, and even though I’m compressing the wound with my hand, it isn’t doing much to slow it. I wonder how long I have. If I don’t get medical attention, twenty minutes, maybe.

  It’s not as simple as calling an ambulance. My only options are to be seen by the doctor at our office or go to one of the hospitals on our payroll. Whenever we have major injuries, they report them as ‘accidents,’ such as being caught in the crossfire of an unrelated drive by. No one can know I’ve been at these docks.

  I grab my phone out of my pocket and see there’s no service. Shit. I need to call Taime for help ASAP. My only option is to stumble out from under the docks and find service.

  I hold the side of my stomach and walk agonizingly towards an area that doesn’t have a rooftop, in hopes that that is what’s blocking the cell service. Each step feels like a mile with this bullet lodged in my side. There’s no way in hell I’m going to make it.

  There’s a warehouse with the door cracked open. Maybe there’s something I can use. A shirt to better stop the bleeding, or a cart so I don’t have to keep walking.

  I stagger the last few feet towards the warehouse. If there isn’t anything here, I’m done for. This isn’t how I pictured myself dying—I always thought the situation would be higher stakes. It’s a bit shameful for an underboss.

  If I make it out of this alive, I will get revenge on Eduardo Rodriguez. It’s the last thing I think of as I fall to the warehouse floor.

  Stephanie

  I don’t want to do this. But, I’m extremely easy to push around, and I hate that about myself.

  I’m on my way to my dad’s LA warehouse. He owns Hawthorne Medical Supplies, the biggest supplier for doctors, dentists, and who the heck knows what else. The company is based in the Bay Area, and he wants me to do this inspection because I’m ‘the only one he can trust.’

  Complete bullshit. Just him pulling a highly effective manipulation tactic on me. It always works.

  I’m meeting the warehouse manager and spot-checking inventory. Which apparently, I’ll be great at because I have a business degree. This is a job for someone who works in supply chain, not accounting. But it’s whatever. I graduated with a 3.95 GPA, and aced my supply chain class, so it won’t be too hard.

  I grumble as I park in the alley at the docks. Why am I incapable of saying no? I use my key to open the padlock on the side gate. I don’t feel like going through the main entrance, because that means greeting whatever security guard is working, and I don’t want to socialize.

  I think the warehouse is left from here. As I search for the correct warehouse, a black SUV drives slowly through the area, which is weird, because no business is conducted here on weekends. But I am here, so I suppose there are exceptions for other people, too. I don’t think too much about it as I walk to the building.

  The door is locked when I arrived. I’m a bit irked, because the manager is supposed to be here, and I don’t feel like wasting my Saturday waiting for him. It’s not like I have any better to do, though. I pull out the key to the warehouse and let myself in.

  This place is massive. I show myself around as I wait for him to arrive. It’s organized by type of supply, and it doesn’t look like there’s a thing out of place. I doubt there will be issues passing the spot check with how neat everything is.

  It’s a bit creepy being here alone. The warehouse is huge, and I’m surrounded by things such as metal dental tools, which look like they can double as torture devices. I really hope the manager shows up soon.

  There’s a popping noise from outside and I freeze. It can’t be gunshots…right? I decide my imagination is running wild, and the palm trees are slapping against the shipping containers. It is abnormally windy today.

  After a few minutes, the front door to the warehouse creaks open. Finally. He’s thirty minutes late, it’s about time he got here. I walk towards the front door and what I find isn’t the manager.

  It’s a man who has a stomach wound and is bleeding profusely. I wasn’t imagining things. Those were gunshots going on outside.

  The man is flat on his back and is taking short breaths. With his wound he doesn’t have long if he doesn’t receive minimal medical attention; maybe twenty minutes.

  I can’t help but notice how big he is. The man is around 6’6ish, and most people around that height are lanky, but this man’s biceps are bulging. There are tattoos that run along his arms, and I’m not sure, but I think they’re gang related. I wouldn’t want to encounter him alone, anywhere.

  Wait. I guess we are alone, but this huge man seems far less terrifying because he’s about to die. The ethical side of me won’t let him bleed out, even if he is a criminal. Against my better judgement, I approach him to see what shape he’s in.

  He notices my presence and points his gun at me.

  “Oh my god!” I say, jumping back.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asks.

  “I was just inspecting the warehouse; I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please don’t kill me,” I sob, tears streaming down my face.

  Listening to my dad is always a bad idea. I should have never come to this stupid warehouse and helped him out. Historically, helping him never leads to anything good. Now I’m going to be murdered by some thug because of it.

  My nose starts to run from crying, and I use my sleeve to wipe it. I look pathetic.

  “Tch.” He puts his gun down. “Fucking fantastic.”

  His breathing has become even more labored. This man needs help soon or else he’s going to die.

  “I should call an ambulance,” I squeak.

  He glares at me. “No, you will not, or I really will have to do something about you.”

  The look on his face says he’ll follow through with that statement. I’m not sure what to do. Do I run? He might shoot me as I go for the door. If I wait for him to die, it’ll feel ethically wrong, even if whatever he was doing is illegal.

  I watch him grimace as he holds his wound and know what I have to do.

  “I can stitch that up for you,” I say.

  “What makes you think you’re capable of that?”

  “I spent two years in med school.”

  “You must not have been that great if you were only there for two years.”

  I frown at him. “I was top of my class. Why I left med school is none of your business. Do you want help, or not?”

  The man lets out a grunt of pain and realizes he’s out of options. “How do you plan on stitching me up? Do you carry your old supplies around with you?”

  I’m really irritated with his sarcasm. “It’s fortunate that you stumbled into a medical supply warehouse.”

  His brown-red eyes burn with an irritation for me. I hate how beautiful they are. Why is someone so bad blessed with such beautiful eyes?

  “Ok,” he says. “Stitch me up.”

  “Alright. Let me just grab what I need.”

  He glares at me and his hand starts to reach for his gun again. “You’re going to call the cops?”

  “No. And even if I did, you’d be dead before they got here.” I set down my purse and phone in front of him. “See? I’m not calling anyone. Now let me get what I need.”

  I’m nervous as I turn my back to him. If he thinks I’m going to call the cops he really will shoot me in the back. I take hesitant steps away from him as I walk towards the supplies. Luckily, I don’t get shot.

  The previous tour around the building proved useful for finding the supplies I need. I quickly pick up gloves, antiseptic, gauze, and the required materials for performing stitches.

  I’m secretly nervous about performing the stitches. I haven’t done it in a little over a year. But my professor said
it’s like riding a bike, and I wouldn’t forget. I hope that’s true, or the man might change his mind about killing me.

  “Ok,” I say, holding everything up.

  “Great,” he responds.

  “This will hurt.”

  “I guarantee I’ve been through worse.”

  I don’t doubt that. He managed to walk after getting shot in the abdomen, which is unheard of. I push up his shirt and start to clean the area around his wound. My face flushes when I see the dips of his abs—I had been so afraid of this stranger that I didn’t notice how attractive he is.

  His shirt slips down every time I go to perform stitches.

  “I need to cut this off,” I say. “It’s in the way.”

  “If you want to see me shirtless all you have to do is ask.”

  I frown at him again. He’s in the middle of bleeding out and is cracking a joke. I snip off his shirt and resume stitches.

  “Are you insane?” he says as I thread the first stitch through. “You didn’t even get the bullet out.”

  “This isn’t a TV show. It’s safer for most bullets to stay in place. The only way you’re going to get that out is on an operating table—if I do it without the proper tools, I might hit an internal organ.”

  He curses to himself.

  “If you’ve been through worse, you should know this,” I muse.

  He shoots me a dirty look but doesn’t say anything. The man doesn’t moan once as I stitch him up, but I can tell he’s in pain by the way he’s clenching his nails into his palm. After I finish, I take a large piece of gauze and wrap it firmly around his abdomen.

  “Ok,” I say. “Done. Try not to move too much, though.”

  He leans against the wall of the building and checks his phone. “Fuck.”

  “Hm?”

  “Still no service.”

  “Oh.” There’s a brief pause between us. “So…how did this happen?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Sorry…”

  He puts his phone down and continues to curse to himself. I wonder what happened. He didn’t just get shot randomly on the docks; there’s no one down here on weekends. He was here for a reason.