The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2) (34 page)

“Yeah?” Vaughn asked as he looked at Chuito. “What happened?”

“Wyatt happened, actually.” Chuito kept ahold of his gun as he rested his hand on his leg, pointing it at Vaughn on purpose. “And you fucking raped his wife. You and me, we have an issue, cabrón.”

“But the Italian—”

“What’d he say?” Chuito asked again. “’Cause I’m gonna be very surprised if Nova wrote you a free ticket for keeping quiet.”

“He said, um—” More scratching as Vaughn stared ahead. “He said he’d cut off my balls and feed ’em to me if I snitched. Yeah, that’s what he said. I didn’t snitch.”

Chuito winced at that image. “Good plan, motherfucker. The Italians are creative. Very creative. Coño. I bet he was serious too.”

“He sounded serious,” Vaughn agreed. “You think he was?”

Chuito nodded. “Yeah, they do some fucked-up shit in the mafia. My ass wouldn’t snitch on them.”

“So you’re not gonna kill me?”

“I’m not gonna cut off your balls,” Chuito clarified. “I’ve done some fucked-up shit in my life, but I don’t think I can stomach that, even for a rapist motherfucker like you.”

“It was, like, twenty years ago. That shit with Tabitha.” Vaughn’s voice was whiny. His pupils were wide and dilated, making it obvious he was high as a kite. “Conner already shot me. See?”

He pulled up his shirt, showing Chuito the wound that was swollen and infected, as though he hadn’t cared for it since he got out of the hospital. Chuito grunted and looked away, feeling like he needed to shower for a month.

He needed to get out of this place. The smell alone was making him sick.

Chuito reached into the back of his pants and pulled out one of the two small black satchels Nova had driven all the way to New York to pick up. Chuito had met him halfway to get them from him.

The other one was still sitting in his top drawer, waiting for Tabitha’s brother, who had unexpectedly moved to California a few weeks ago.

Probably after Nova threatened to cut off his balls.

“This is a gift from the Italians,” Chuito said as he held it out. He thrust it at him when Vaughn didn’t take it. “For not snitching.”

Vaughn took it and opened it, looking at the syringe and tourniquet, neatly displayed, like only an Italian would do.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s smack.”

Vaughn turned to him skeptically. “Really?”

“Oh yeah, it’s heroin. Top-shelf. Anything from the Italians is gonna be top-shelf.”

“Is it gonna kill me?” Vaughn looked so broken all of a sudden as he stared at that black bag in his hands. “Is that why they sent you?”

“It’ll definitely kill you. I know Nova; he’d make sure it’s a lethal dose.”

Vaughn stared at Chuito and confessed, “I use heroin.”

“I’m pretty sure he compensated for that,” Chuito said as he looked at the syringe in the bag. “Personally, I think it’s fucked-up you get to ride the smack gravy train to hell. The fucking Italians, crime with them is so neat and pretty. But it’s your choice. You don’t have to use it. We can do it the Boricua way instead.”

“What’s a Boricua?” Vaughn asked, still staring at the bag in his hands.

“I’m a Boricua,” Chuito snapped as he leaned in, giving him a hard look. “And you want to know what happens when you rape one of my friends’ wives? I hurt you.
Badly
. I drag that shit out until you’re fucking begging me to kill you, and then I drag it out longer ’cause I don’t like rapists. I fucking hate them. The Italians have been begging me to keep my cool for two weeks, and now I’m sitting here in this shithole hoping you don’t shoot up so I get to take a lifetime of anger out on your ass.”

“Y-you’re not. You can’t—” he stuttered and scratched his arm with his free hand. “You wouldn’t—”

“I would,” Chuito promised him. “In some ways, Tabitha reminds me of the woman I love. It’s sorta crossed the wires in my mind since I found out. I look at you, and I think this motherfucker could’ve raped
my
woman. You really don’t want to test me, bro. I will piss off the Italians in a New York minute to beat you until I get that image out of my head. I do not want to fucking be here. I did not want to be running in the fucking snow for two weeks. I do not want to keep running in it just to cover my ass. You know what, fuck it—”

Chuito went to reach for the bag, deciding that Nova could kiss his ass.

“I’ll do it,” Vaughn said quickly, as though he saw just how serious Chuito was. “I’ll do it! Is that what you want?”

“No, it’s not what I want. I just told you what
I
want,” Chuito countered as he lifted his .38 and put his finger on the trigger. “And I’m starting to think I like the Italian’s first idea better. You believe in karma, cabrón?”

Chuito lowered the gun to Vaughn’s lap and pointed it at his crotch.

He kept it there, watching with a cold, dispassionate gaze as Vaughn shot up with shaking hands. It was only when he dropped the syringe to the floor that Chuito lifted his gun, waiting for the asshole who raped Wyatt’s wife to die.

Never underestimate the Italians.

Vaughn fell back against the couch and stopped breathing in less than three minutes. Chuito just looked at him for a while afterward, wondering if he was going to run into this motherfucker in hell one day.

Chuito locked the door on the way out, and he didn’t pass one car as he took a back route home, running the whole way. He was sweaty when he walked into his apartment, despite the icy temperatures.

He pulled off his gloves and tossed them in the garbage.

He wanted to burn his running clothes, ’cause he could feel that nasty place sticking to him. He threw them in the washer instead. He tossed his gun and holster in his top drawer to rest next to the other black satchel, reminding him he had to drive to California and do this shit again in another few months.

His hands were shaking the entire time.

More than all the demons dealing with a rapist caused, it was the idea that he could have ended up like that. Strung out and scratching the skin off his arms, with a festering police bullet hole in his shoulder.

Crack was one very small step away from blow.

He had even considered the shit when he was detoxing those first few weeks in Garnet. He would have done anything to escape back then.

If he hadn’t had Alaine, he might have gone looking for it.

He was so grossed out and disgusted he showered until the water got cold. He scrubbed his skin so hard it burned. He washed his hair four times and had the thought that he was going to shave his head tomorrow.

He had another fight coming up next month.

A bit early to shave, but he didn’t give a shit. He was definitely doing it.

When he got out, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stood in his bedroom, staring at his prison. Then he heard the music from next door, filtering through the thin walls, like a distant memory from the past.

All he could really hear was the drums, the steady, quick beat of Latin music that was so distinct he started to count the salsa in his head.

He should have thought it was ominous, like the devil reminding him he was never going to escape who he was in Miami.

Instead he tugged on a clean pair of jeans and walked next door.

He knocked on Alaine’s door and then pushed it open, just as she came out of her bedroom, wearing a long nightgown similar to the one she’d worn the night she’d first saved him from a fate so much worse than prison or death.

“Did I wake you?” she asked with a wide-eyed look. “I was trying to stay awake. Finals are kicking my butt.”

“No.” He smiled, because they both knew he stayed up most of the night. “I just got back from running.”

She winced. “Weren’t you cold?”

“I was. Very cold,” he admitted as he stared at Alaine for a long moment. Her cheeks were flushed pink, as if she had been jumping around instead of studying. “It doesn’t look like you were studying.”

“Dancing a little.” She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I need to keep the blood to my brain flowing.”

He stepped into her apartment and closed the door behind him. “Dancing alone?”

“Don’t tell anyone.” Alaine laughed. “You think it’s silly, huh?”

“Nah.” He shook his head, still looking at her and knowing the last thing he should do was touch her the same night he had killed someone, but he couldn’t resist. “You want a partner?”

“Yeah.” Her smile became wide and pleased. “I’d love one.”

He crooked his finger and said, “Come here, mami.”

Alaine practically jumped into his arms, barefoot and wearing nothing but a nightgown. She pressed against him, the silk of her nightgown soft against his bare chest as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She danced with him for a long time, letting him forget that dirty trailer and the dead motherfucker lying on the couch where Chuito had left him.

* * * *

Nova had been right.

No one suspected Chuito when they discovered Vaughn’s body eight days later. Chuito had run past the trailer park that night, seeing the yellow tape and police cars. He had slowed to a walk, knowing it would look stranger to keep going. The shotgun-toting drug dealer even stopped Chuito to tell him what happened, and it never occurred to him any more than it occurred to Wyatt’s deputies that Chuito’s running-route change was unusual timing.

Luckily, Wyatt hadn’t been there.

Some bullshit about a conflict of interest because of the ongoing investigation over the shooting. The investigation died completely after Vaughn ended up dead of an overdose.

Just like Nova said it would, because a motherfucker with generations of organized-crime bosses making up his genetics and a photographic memory knew how to solve a problem.

They didn’t suspect Chuito six months later when he faked a trip to Miami and drove all the way to California instead, lying low the entire time because he didn’t need his picture showing up on some sort of social-media site.

Being famous was a definite downside for a gangster.

But no one noticed him, not even when he got extra ink added to his arm after he killed Tabitha’s brother, who went just as easily as Vaughn had, willingly riding the smack gravy train to hell rather than deal with Chuito’s wrath.

Chuito found the right kind of tattoo parlor that knew not to ask questions or look a gangster in the eye while he was putting blood drops on his arm.

Then when Chuito got home, he danced with Alaine again.

’Cause he needed it.

Desperately.

Even if he knew it was the worst sin, letting her heal him, because one of these days the stain was going to stick to her.

Chuito just hoped he worked up the willpower to get out of her life before it happened.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Garnet County

October 2014

Present Day

Tino had whiskey.

He had Vicodin too.

And there wasn’t milk or aspirin in sight.

Chuito almost congratulated himself for knowing that Tino had been full of shit in the sheriff’s office when he told Wyatt he was kidding.

“Motherfucker.” Chuito looked at the bottle on the table. “You can’t take this shit. It’s a narcotic.”

“I know.” Tino grinned at Chuito as he sat across from him at the table. “That’s sorta why I like it.”

“It’s gonna show up on a drug test.”

“I don’t have another fight until next month. We’re good,” Tino said as if that explained it. “Besides, it’s got my name on the bottle. I dislocated my shoulder. I can legally take a fucking Vicodin when my best friend jerks my arm outta the socket.”

“This prescription is four months old.”

“And there are still pills in the bottle.” Tino sounded very proud of himself. “Give me some credit.”

“Man, you’re better than me. I can’t take any of it. No matter how bad the injury is, I can’t let them write me a script like this. I’d swallow the bottle in three days. I wanna swallow it right now.”

“Yeah, me too.” Tino took a sip from his very large glass of whiskey. “Give it to me.”

“Considering what you associate stimulants with”—Chuito looked at Tino harshly—“I’d rather not.”

“Good point.” Tino leaned over the table and set the bottle between them like an ominous symbol of everything it represented to both of them. He got up and poured Chuito a glass of whiskey and handed it to him. Then he clinked the one in his hand with it and toasted. “To downers.”

“To downers.” Chuito agreed and drank half the glass, because he saw it for what it was, an offering of something that was the exact opposite of violence.

“Damn.” Tino winced as he watched Chuito drink. “I shudder to think what you did with blow.”

“Right?” Chuito laughed. “Now you know why I can’t take Vicodin.”

Tino sat down and studied him for a long moment, taking a drink, but doing it like an Italian, savoring it like the pendejos who made Johnnie Walker did it just for him.

“Okay, so tell me, ’cause I gotta know,” Tino started as he stretched out in the chair, dark gaze still leveled at Chuito. “How good is the sex that had you spilling your guts like that? ’Cause I sure haven’t fucked a woman who made life in prison sound like a good idea.”

Chuito looked at his glass, considering the question. “Pretty fucking good.”

“Your back’s all fucked-up,” Tino pointed out. “She’s a scratcher. I like scratchers. It’s always the quiet ones. Always.”

“She fucked me like a criminal,” Chuito admitted as he closed his eyes. “It messed up my sensors.”

“I guess.” Tino took another drink. “Did you tell her about Nova?”

“No.” Chuito shook his head. “But she noticed the ink is the same as yours. She did notice, and I’m sorry about that.”

“I fucking hate my tattoo.” Tino sighed. “We were young and stupid when we got them. My people, we don’t get tattoos, you know? It’s just a thing Nova and I did. Like a statement, fuck the establishment, and afterward all the guys in our crew got it too. Made it worse, like they were standing with Nova no matter what. Man, my father whipped the shit outta me when he saw the ink. Holy fuck. I think I still feel the belt from it.” Tino closed his eyes and tilted his head back as if remembering. “Asshole’s been dead for two years, and I can still feel that belt.”