The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2) (28 page)

“Three or four times a day.”

“Coño.” Chuito closed his eyes as he remembered getting blitzed that often. “Can your brother send you more?”

Tino shook his head. “I don’t want to ask him to do that. The blow upsets him. He thinks it’s his fault.”

“Is it?”

“No.” Tino sounded certain of it. “It’s my fault. He rides it out without anything but fucking cigarettes, and I’m getting loaded every chance I can get. I mean, granted, he did roll his ass off for a few years, but then he just walked away from it like it was nothing.”

“How much do you have left?”

“Not much.” Tino flinched as he said it. “I left it behind on purpose. I needed to get far enough away that I couldn’t get back.”

“Romeo’s gonna notice,” Chuito assured him. “’Cause you’re gonna feel like you want to die, especially if you got half as many bad memories as I do.”

“I gotta lotta bad memories.”

“When you crash, tell him you’re coming to hang at my place for a couple days.” Chuito hit his arm lightly. “I got your back, bro.”

“No, it’s okay.” Tino tilted his head on the steering wheel. “I think I can ride it out.”

“Well, if you can’t. Come see me.” Chuito gave him another smile. “I’ll do what I can to help.”

Tino considered that for a moment before he looked at him again. “Do you wanna drive it?”

“Oh, fuck, yes.” Chuito opened the door before Tino could change his mind. He walked around the front of the car and gestured to Tino. “Move, motherfucker. Let a real man drive her.”

Tino laughed as he crawled over and sat in the passenger seat. When Chuito got into the driver’s side, Tino warned him, “I do have blow on me. So if you could keep me from getting picked up on possession in this backward town, I’d appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Chuito closed the door and put the car into gear. “I haven’t had shit to do for three years but figure out how to speed without having Wyatt pull me over. That’s how I live hard these days.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Tino must have had less than he admitted; either that, or he had a little toilet funeral for his blow like Chuito had. There
was
something profoundly scary about getting picked up in a town like this on felony possession.

Gangsters liked to go down on their own turf.

Chuito was sure the Morettis had the federal correctional facilities completely under their thumb. Going down in New York would be like Club Med without the pussy, as Marcos used to put it.

Going down in Garnet was a whole other issue.

Chuito sat on the weight bench next to Tino, who was currently taking a fucking nap in the middle of the Cellar. He eyed Tino, seeing that his skin had become pale. He was tan, as tan as Chuito, because this motherfucker was
very
Italian, but there was just a strange, sickly gleam to him now, as if the lack of blow had sucked part of his heritage out of him.

Chuito remembered feeling like he was paying back a loan shark when he crashed, with triple the interest. Every fake good feeling he had ridden off of had simply been borrowed, and paying it back had been a bitch. He had honestly thought he’d never be able to have even a semblance of a good feeling again.

Tino’s hands were folded over his bare chest that was rising and falling too hard, making it obvious whatever he was dreaming about wasn’t good. Chuito looked around, making sure Romeo and Clay were still training in the cage.

Then he leaned over and touched his shoulder.

He jerked with how fast Tino knocked his hand away and then shoved Chuito back against the other bench. Between one blink and the next, Chuito had Tino’s hand wrapped around his neck. Chuito’s stomach knotted, because he saw the way Tino reached behind him, as if looking for a gun in the back of his pants.

Specialty.

No fucking kidding.

This guy tried to take out motherfuckers in his sleep.

Chuito was pretty sure he wasn’t
that
bad.

“Should I be glad you aren’t strapped while you’re working out?” Chuito asked curiously as he dropped his gaze to Tino’s hand still wrapped around his throat.

He wasn’t fighting back. It wasn’t Tino’s fault, but knowing someone almost pulled a gun on him didn’t exactly leave Chuito feeling warm and fuzzy either.

Tino sat back down on the bench without an apology. “What’re you doing here?”

“You are in a gym.” Chuito glanced around and then leaned into him. “Are you okay?”

“I flushed it,” Tino admitted as he buried his face in his hands. “My brother is nailing the sheriff’s sister. He could come after us with a real vendetta when he finds out. Can you imagine going down in this town?”

“I can imagine it. I have spent years having nightmares about that shit.”

“Madonn’.” Tino fell back against the bench and put a hand over his face.

It took less than thirty seconds for Tino’s hand to drop back to the floor.

Motherfucker was asleep again.

Either Chuito had a bigger tolerance for crashing, or Tino had been snorting a lot more blow than he’d admitted. Chuito leaned over and shook him again. This time, when Tino jerked, Chuito knocked his arm away and cupped Tino’s face in his hand. He squeezed his cheeks as he spoke to him the same way he would Marcos. “Keep your eyes open. You’re being obvious, and this town gossips. You’ll have Wyatt on your ass in two seconds.”

Tino blinked at him as he fought to stay awake. “Do you—”

Chuito shook his head before he could finish. “I haven’t done blow for three years.”

“Fuck.” Tino shoved his hand away and then pushed him once more for good measure. “I should just eat my Beretta.”

“Do you have a Beretta?” Chuito asked in concern.

“Fuck, yes, I have a Beretta. It’s in the Ferrari.”

“You need to separate yourself from it,” Chuito said with a bitter laugh. “It’s gonna get worse before it gets better. You’re gonna have to tell Romeo you’re crashing.”

“No. He doesn’t even drink. He would go outta his friggin’ mind if he knew I’ve been on coke.”

“You could still go back to New York.”

Tino sat there for a long moment, and Chuito got the impression he was witnessing a very deep and intense private battle. Chuito had good reasons to get off the blow. A part of him had wanted to suffer through the crash. It helped cleanse his soul from the guilt of knowing Marcos had gone to prison for Chuito’s sins.

He wasn’t certain what sort of motivation Tino had to put himself through that much misery when he was as connected as he was and could probably swim in pools of coke until it killed him. It wasn’t as if guys like them had any sort of long-term goals. They started young and died young. Everything about life was on fast-forward, and the coke just made the ride a lot easier.

Though, Chuito supposed, there were a lot of old mafia guys in the world.

It was just Chuito’s crew that was practically senior citizens by twenty-five.

Maybe it was brain cells and survival that had Tino wanting to get clean.

“I can’t keep letting Nova slit his wrists over this,” Tino whispered, and there were tears in his voice. “He’s got enough problems. Shit’s been getting deep at home.”

Or it was guilt and family loyalty.

Chuito could speak that language.

“Then you’re gonna have to suck it up, chica,” Chuito told him harshly. “You can’t cry in a gym in front of everyone.”

“
Vaffanculo
.” Tino flipped his hand under his chin, giving Chuito the middle finger as he did it. Then he fell back against the bench and covered his eyes. “I’ll cry wherever the hell I feel like it.”

Chuito stared at him, because this motherfucker was actually going to cry. He had zero interest in a pep talk like Marcos would’ve needed if he was this close to cracking in public.

“For real?” Chuito asked.

“Yup.” Tino dropped his hand and looked at Chuito, his dark eyes swimming. “What the fuck are you gonna do about it?”

“You just cry?” Chuito asked in disbelief.

“If I’m fucking sad, I do.”

“Wow,” Chuito said as he considered that. There was absolutely no apology about it. No worry about being soft. It was as if Tino had such a firm hold on being badass, he didn’t even bother to think of anyone questioning it. “Is this unique to you? Or do all your people cry?”

“All my people cry. We’re passionate. We
feel
things, motherfucker.”

“So if you’re at the top of the food chain, you get to cry?”

Tino nodded without an ounce of shame. “Yes, we do.”

“It’s nice to be you.” Chuito laughed. He couldn’t imagine being so connected he could sit in a gym and cry in front of another gangster without even being embarrassed about it. “You’re spoiled, Tino.”

“Man, I grew up poor as fuck.” Tino put his hand over his eyes again. “My ma died broke.”

“If you cry in the middle of a gym and take naps in public while you’re crashing, then you’re spoiled. I did all this shit in private.”

Tino flipped him off again, making it clear what he thought about Chuito’s opinions. Then he turned on his side, showing off his bare back. His shorts had ridden low, and Chuito saw the tattoo over his hip, right above his left ass cheek.

100% Grade A Italian.

More than that, Chuito noticed faint scars across the entire expanse of his back, white against his tanned skin. There were a lot of them; some were lighter than others, as if he had suffered from the same type of injury for several years.

Chuito frowned at it, realizing someone must have beaten him when he was younger, and it churned up a strange protectiveness he wasn’t expecting.

In an unusual way, Tino sort of reminded him of Marcos. It was the first time he had someone in Garnet who understood his life. It made Chuito very homesick.

“I miss my brother,” Tino whispered, the tears still heavy in his voice, as if he was voicing Chuito’s loss out loud.

“It’s been three days.”

“Yup,” Tino agreed.

“Come stay at my place. You’re sad because of the crash.” Chuito couldn’t keep the warmth out of his voice even if Tino was a spoiled brat. Tino missed his brother in crime just like Chuito missed his. “Tell Romeo you’re gonna hang for a few days.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chuito spoke to Nova Moretti for the first time thirty-six hours into Tino’s crash. He had made sure Tino kept feeding bullshit to Romeo via texts, but he had forgotten the all-important
connected
presence in Tino’s life.

He sat at the kitchen table, looking at Tino’s cell phone, seeing Nova’s face flash on the screen for the fourteenth time. Nova looked more like Tino than Romeo did, but there was something hard in his gaze, even in a picture, that kept Chuito from answering.

It stopped ringing.

Then the first texts showed up. Short and to the point, so he could read them all on the screen without having to slide his finger across it and risk them showing as read.

Pick up the phone.

You don’t want me showing up.

Chuito winced and looked back to his bedroom where Tino was currently sleeping like the dead. He was just considering trying to wake him up again, when another text showed up.

I’m talking to you, Garcia.

Oh. Shit.

When the phone rang, Chuito picked that fucker up before the second ring.

“Where is he?” Nova barked before Chuito could say hello.

“He’s sleeping,” Chuito said before he paused for a second and looked at the phone again. He realized only then they had both been speaking Spanish. “
¿Hablas español?
”

“Sí, cabrón.” Nova’s voice was harsh as he kept speaking Spanish. “What is going on?”

“Are you—” Chuito started, before he decided he needed to hear Nova speak Spanish some more, because Tino’s brother certainly didn’t sound like an Italian. “He’s, um, partied out. I was just letting him crash here for a couple days.”

“Actually crash there?” Nova asked skeptically. “Or did he find other things to do? I know he probably ran out of snow girls to fuck. Romeo said you two were out finding a party.”

“He’s just hanging out,” Chuito said as he tried to overlook the fact that this scary asshole also used the same code words Chuito’s people did. “He’s tired of the snow girls, and he had to tell Romeo something.”

“And why is he hanging with you to get over it?”

“’Cause I used to date snow girls too. I’ve been through a hard breakup.”

Nova was quiet for a long moment before he asked, “How bad is it?”

Chuito looked to the door and considered his options. He didn’t want to sell out Tino. He already had to tell a fuckload of lies to Alaine about why he had this Italian passed out in his apartment. Narcing on Tino went against everything in Chuito, but he was also starting to suspect the reason Tino was so fucking spoiled was because of the motherfucker on the other end of this phone.

Chuito finally admitted, “He’s been sleeping for twenty-four hours.”

“Are you taking care of him?” Nova asked, the pain so vivid over the line. “We know of you, but we don’t
know you
. I’m inclined to call Romeo even if it sells out Tino.”

“No, it’s fine.” Chuito shook his head, knowing what it was like to hurt for a brother like that. “I got it. He’s safe. The breakup won’t kill him. It’ll just make him wish he was dead.”

“I can’t come. Shit’s been deep.”

Chuito nodded. “I know. He told me.”

“He’s telling you my shit?” Nova asked in disbelief.

“No, he just said it’s complicated. It’s cool. I don’t give a fuck what you’ve got going on. I didn’t ask for details.”

“Listen to me very closely,” Nova growled at him. “I know what the ink on your arm means. If you do anything to my brother while he’s vulnerable, I won’t just hurt you; I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. I can be
very
creative about these things.”

“I believe you,” Chuito assured him, because the mafia did some seriously fucked-up shit to make sure they had the right to cry in public. “I’m just trying to help him. That’s it.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Okay.” Chuito pushed away from the table and walked to his room, finding Tino sprawled out in the middle of the bed where he’d left him, still pale but still breathing. He leaned over and shook him. “Hey, muchacho.”