Ruin: The El Diablo Chronicles

by Autumn Sand

  Wherever I am, death is lurking around the corner for those who cross me.

  Through sheer willpower, cunning, brute force, and a willingness to kill anything that got in my way, I surpassed what my mentor could’ve ever dreamt. Not everyone has the stomach for the ruthlessness it takes to do what I’ve done. Where others may second-guess killing an entire family, I’ve never given it a thought, and I expect the same of anyone who works for me. This belief alone keeps us all alive and expanding my kingdom, if you will.

  Being the most hunted man in the world does not come without its benefits as well as its flaws. However, I pay my men just enough to make them turn down a bribe but sufficient to keep them hungry for more.

  I stare at the hard-to-come-by intel folder my number-two man, Chicken, gave me just hours ago. A picture of a redhead with jade-colored eyes peeks out from the folder. My brother Manny’s close friend. If the information is correct, a mob war of proportions no one has witnessed before will begin, myself being the only one who can possibly prevent it. If it wasn’t for the fact I promised Manny I’d look after his friends, I would let this play out on its own.

  The problems and consequences of the information weigh heavy on my mind and make me even more restless.

  The lights from the buildings shine like the stars in the sky. I’ve traveled the world over many times, but nothing ever seems to match anything like the view I have from this balcony. My men would prefer to have me holed up in one of my private estates where it is easier to protect me, but I always prefer this penthouse. This is the one place I’ve always felt more at home.

  Boredom has always been my worst enemy, as it is tonight. I debate if I should send for one of my whores to come over so I can bend her over and fuck her one hundred different ways to Sunday. But the thought of that makes me uninterested, and my dick doesn’t even stir at the idea. The need to go out into the city overcomes me. When was the last time I had the freedom to go anywhere? I lean my head back and stare at the heaven above, a place I’m sure not to have a seat when I die. Too much blood on my hands of the innocent and not so innocent, to even get a hello.

  I search my memory for a time in recent history where I was able to stroll down the busy sidewalks of Manhattan without the lingering notion of a bullet with my name on it coming my way. Has it really been ten years when I went from man to myth? I’m the one most people fear in their nightmares and never knew I was a flesh and blood man. Perhaps calling myself a man is a poor choice of words. Am I still a man after all the lives I’ve taken? I’ve heard for every life you take, a piece of your soul dies. The deaths on my hands mount not in the hundreds but more like the thousands, so by all accounts, my soul should already be dead. I never regretted a single kill and would gladly do more, if not by my own hands then through my command.

  The weight of my expensive crystal tumbler suddenly feels heavier when I lift it to my lips and sip air. Fuck! I turn my head and look at the bottle sitting at the bar in my living room. Too damn far to walk to get it. I could call for one of my bodyguards to come from the next room. Then a thought hits me, a way to relieve my boredom. I set the glass down on the table and walk inside my seven thousand square foot penthouse, with its Italian marble columns and colors of golds and browns. The fucking gilded palace I built is more of a fortress than anything else.

  I bought out several of the floors beneath me to ensure my safety and moved in my men instead. I paid for the extra security cameras in the building and paid off the guards, providing their loyalty to me and only me. A man in my position has to go to great lengths to guarantee his peace of mind.

  The head of my security detail and best friend, Chicken, walks in. He’s never too far from my vicinity. Far enough to give me privacy but close enough to prevent any danger from coming my way.

  “You need something?” Chicken’s tight skin around his face causes his receding hairline to move as he talks. With a tall and slim build, he is often mistaken for sickly—an underestimation on anyone’s part who crosses him. His slight frame holds the strength of five men when he’s angry. I saved his life years ago, and he has felt indebted ever since. A debt I hope never to collect on.

  “Get the car ready.” I toss the words out casually as I walk in the direction of my bedroom suite, my plush mauve carpet sinking under my bare feet.

  “What about that matter downstairs?”

  I stop dead in my tracks as his words remind me of another situation I have to take care of first.

  Ah yes, a bit of amusement before I leave.

  Promptly, I turn from the direction I was headed and walk towards the winding staircase that leads me to a private area where only some of my men are allowed. Chicken follows close behind, forever in my shadow. At the bottom step, I come face-to-face with a steel door, protected by a code pad and fingerprint matching system. Hurriedly, I plug in the codes and scan my handprint. The locks pop, one by one, in a multi-lever system.

  The door weighs a ton, but because of a special design quality, I am able to push it open with the tip of my fingers.

  My workroom is scarce, just the basic necessities. I guess you can call it a mob-style panic room. But in this case, I have a guest down here.

  The man sits on a chair, the ropes around his body holding him in place. His head hangs down to his chest, and a drizzle of blood mixed with spit drips from his mouth onto his bloodied chest.

  One of my men we call The Butcher steps back from my guest and moves to the work table to put away one of his many “toys.” I never saw a motherfucker who got off on torturing people the way he does. I’ve been known to do some sick shit in my day, but this guy has me beat by a mile, or ten.

  My guest hears my footsteps and tries to lift his head, but lacks the energy to do so. The smell of blood and day-old urine coats the air so thick you could cut it with a knife.

  “Did he offer anything new?” I ask The Butcher.

  Slowly, the Butcher turns around from the work table, his long, jagged scar that goes from the scalp of his bald head, across his face, and ends at his collarbone comes face-to-face with me.

  “No.” His accent is thick of Eastern-European heritage. “He’s sticking with the same story.” He pronounces story like store-ree, with a heavy emphasis on the first syllable.

  Chicken, who is now standing next to me, says, “So I guess the information is valid.”

  “Yeah, I’d say so,” The Butcher agrees while removing his black plastic gloves and tossing them on the table. His vinyl apron drips with blood at its edges, onto the plastic covered tiled floors.

  I bend down to look at my guest and his eye lifts to meet me. The other eye was removed by The Butcher a few hours ago. His tears fall down his cheek and mix with the blood on his face.

  “Pleeaase,” he begs.

  I would imagine he is begging for death at this moment. Most do when The Butcher is done with them. Once, after a week of torture, a man not only begged for his own death but that of his mother too. He wished her dead because if it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t have been born to live through The Butchers …well…butchering.

  “Anything else you want to add?” I ask him.

  He tries to shake his head but instead says, “Pleeeaaasssee.”

  “I can make your death quick or I can prolong it. Choice is yours.” We have a defibrillator to shock the life back into his body so we can keep going.

  “Pleeaaasse, noooo,” his weak and hoarse voice begs again.

  I rise, believing we have all the information to confirm what was in the intel folder. I nod my approval of satisfaction.

  “Want me to do him now?” The Butcher asks.

  I shake my head and hold my hand out to Chicken. He places the thirty-eight caliber in my hand, safety already off.

  “Any last words?” I ask my guest.

  His one eye looks up at me. “M-my wife…” He’s too feeble to finish the sentence but I already know what he wants me to say. The message is always the same.

&nb
sp; “I’ll send your love and you can send my regards in hell.” I say the words calmly, as I place the cold steel against his temple and pull the trigger.

  The hot water pelts my skin, like tiny needles injecting me. My head feels heavy with thoughts and nightmares, and I lean my head against the shower wall. The hand holding my washcloth rubs my stomach and slowly moves lower…and lower. I open my legs wider to let my hand in and leisurely rub in circular motions. A moan escapes my mouth, my eyes flicker closed, and the motions between my legs quicken as a flame deep within me sparks to life. My free hand reaches out and touches the wall to steady myself, and I pant out loud. Before my climax takes over, I hear the words I’ve heard hundreds of times before.

  “Are you my sweet girl?”

  I gasp, the washcloth dropping to the shower floor, and my hand flies to my mouth. With wide-eyed terror, I look around the shower, fearful I would see the person whose words haunt me.

  Through the mist of the shower, he appears and looms over me. I try to look away but his glare locks me in place and I am frozen. With a cruel smile, he lowers his face to mine, lightly brushing the stubble of his beard over my cheek, and whispers, “Here’s a quarter for being my sweet girl.”

  I scream, reaching out. My hands touch the cold sheets of my bed and I waken to the darkness of my room.

  For long moments, I calm my breathing and my mind, finally realizing I’m not in his house in Florida but in New York, far away from him and the things he’s done to me. Next to my alarm clock, my gaze falls on the jar I keep next to my bed, to always remind me of what I escaped. The jar of quarters for being his Sweet Girl.

  Stepping out of my shower and into my bedroom, I begin the hunt for something sexy to wear to work tonight. Being the main hostess at the hottest club in Manhattan, I always have to look the part. Unlike the wait staff at the club, I have the option to wear outfits of my choice. Thank goodness for that—I couldn’t possibly imagine having to wear the same boring uniform, night after night after night.

  My eyes settle on a turquoise dress with a plunging cowl neckline, cutout chiffon sleeves, and rhinestone-studded cuffs. I bought the dress on a whim last year and only wore it once. The date I wore it for had me out of it within minutes of me putting it on.

  Basically, this is my “fuck me” dress and tonight, I’m looking to get fucked after work. It’s just a matter of which man I’ll give the honor to.

  Shit! Is that the correct time?

  Of course it is, and I should’ve been on my way at least thirty minutes ago.

  In full panic mode, I slip on my dress without completely drying myself off, and grab my hairbrush, frantically trying to get some shine into my hair.

  “Mags!” I yell for my roommate. Her real name is Margaret but because she hates her name, she always insists people call her Mags. We’ve roomed together since I moved to New York and answered an ad for a roommate when I was seventeen.

  “Mags,” I scream, grabbing my purse and slipping into my heels.

  In a rush, I open my bedroom door, causing the door to slam against my wall. Well, there goes my rent deposit, should I ever move.

  Instantly, I notice—or rather, I hear—why Mags wasn’t answering me. She has the television in the living room on full blast.

  There she sits, in front of the television, with the Bible her current boyfriend bought her. And that’s when I hear it.

  His voice.

  I’m transported back to another time by the sound of him preaching damnation to all that don’t obey the Lord. My body tenses at the sound of the voice I haven’t heard since that night I broke free and ran away from home. The memories threaten to flood me and I reach my hand out to touch the chair to steady myself.

  Dare I look? Dare I see him on the television?

  A range of emotions go through my body but fear is the overwhelming one that takes over and paralyzes me.

  “Oh yes, Lord! Bless these sinners and guide them to your loving arms. They need you, Lord. Do you hear me? They need you! I beseech you to hear me and cast thy demon out of their wicked flesh.”

  My eyes land on my mother, sitting in her full First Lady of the Church regalia. Without thinking, I stand more erect in anticipation of her would-be chastisement. My eyes drift away from the scene playing out on the lights of the TV.

  “The flesh is weak. Oh yes, I know. I was once you until I was saved. Let Jesus in your life, let Jesus flow through your blood.”

  Without having to look at the television I already know he has walked down from the pulpit and is amongst his followers. He is walking down the aisles and letting them touch him, as if he is the truly anointed one.

  “Oh, what a friend I’ve found in Je-sus. Oh…” The lead singer begins singing to the backbeat of a piano. This stirs the crowd even more. I can almost feel the energy happening in that church so many hundreds of miles away.

  The energy I feel isn’t the one of being saved. But the one that is damned.

  Heavenly father, is there room for one more? I’m a good girl, please forgive me of my sins.

  “Tallie, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you come in.” Mags smiles, grabbing the remote and muting the memories of my past.

  Warm tears flow down my already hot cheeks and I wipe at them brutally with the back of my hand.

  “He is good, isn’t he? He so moves me.” She stands and walks towards me with an outstretched hand. “Shall we pray together?” She smiles angelically.

  I stumble backward as if her hands were covered in the plague. “Pray?” I ask, startled.

  “Yes, shall we?” Her hands await my own but instead, I lower mine to my side.

  “Mags, since when did you start praying?” I’m already known as a party girl, but Mags was the Queen of them all. This new side of her has given me a shock to my system; not to mention she’s now watching my stepfather’s program to boot.

  “Clay has shown me a new way.” She spins around in her bare feet, her floral skirt twirling around her. “That life is now behind me. I’m a saved woman now.”

  “Saved? Since when?” I reach out my hand and touch her shoulder to stop her from spinning around like an idiot. “Who is this Clay anyway? If you two are so serious, how come I never met him? How did you two meet?”

  She claps her hands giddily and flops down on the couch. “I was working my shift at Beefeaters.” Beefeaters is a bar and restaurant in the Midtown section of Manhattan. “He walked in one day and sat at the bar.” She begins to laugh hysterically at the memory.

  “Well? What makes that so funny?” I’m annoyed at this point. I’m not only late for work, but now my roommate has lost her ever-loving mind!

  “I asked him what he would like to drink. He said a glass of milk. Buttermilk, to be exact.” She slaps her knee with the palm of her hand I, in turn, would like to slap some sense back into her.

  “Buttermilk? Why would he go to a bar to ask for buttermilk?”

  Clay is sounding like a loser of the Class-A variety.

  “Exactly! That’s what I thought and said. Well, he doesn’t drink, he said. He has been in AA for thirteen years.” She nods her head at me, with wide eyes. “It’s true, he showed me his anniversary tokens.”

  “And then what?” I take a seat next to her and promptly remember why I was calling her to begin with—I need my dress zipped in the back. I turn around and point.

  She begins zipping me up and finishing her story. “Well, we got to talking, and he said that he found Jesus and that is what really kept him off the booze. He was telling me how being baptized rebirthed him into a better man.”

  She pats me on my back to let me know she’s finished. I stand and straighten myself in the clingy material.

  “Mags, I’m sure he is a great guy. But you’re already a great woman. Just don’t let him change you too much.” I reach out and squeeze her hand.

  “Tals, I think he’s the one.”

  My mouth drops open, in shock at her words. How did this woman, who swore o
ff any committed relationships and had more notches on her bed than Wilt Chamberlain, all of a sudden talk about “the one”?

  My eyes catch sight of the time on the cable box and I’m officially over an hour late. I spin on my needle-thin heels and rush towards the door.

  “Listen Mags, I gotta run. I’m late already. You and I will finish this talk tomorrow though.” I blow her an air kiss before the door slams behind me.

  Freshly showered and changed into some clean clothes, I give myself a quick glance in the mirror. Not to see if my clothes look good but more to see if I washed off all of the blood and brain splatter that got onto my face.

  Kenny, my middle brother, walks in and leans against my door, watching me. “What’s going on?”

  Glancing at my selection of Rolexes and Breitling watches, I finally make a choice. “Bored. Going out for a bit.”

  “Can I come? Or is this your mob shit?”

  When we were kids, he was always trying to tag along with me, saying similar words. We might be older but the situation always remains the same—he is still trying to tag along.

  I turn around and look at his eyes. For once, they’re the look of a sober man. He’s been living with me for the past few months as I try, one failed attempt after another, to get him off of heroin.

  “It’s not mob business.” I chuckle. Really, who still uses the word mob anymore?

  “Then can I come?” He tips his chin at me.

  “Bro, I’m going to a club. Not sure if that’s a good environment for you right now.” I sound more like a concerned parent than a sibling, and it annoys the shit out of me.

  “And being here with all of your mob shit is? Don’t act like I don’t know what’s going on around here.” He angrily points at me. “It’s your fault that Manny had to disappear. When are you bringing him back?”