Untamed Hearts 1: The Viper (27 page)

Chuito had no choice but to let Marcos pull his shirt over his head. Then he stood and held out his hands, showing off his bare chest that had all the same tattoos it always did. The stars on his shoulders. The cross over his heart. The black English lettering over his stomach that marked him as the Slayer. A name he’d had for years before he started fighting professionally. A title he’d earned much more brutally than any of his fans could imagine.

Marcos turned him, looking at his back, seeing it was all the same ink.

“Are you done?” Chuito asked in annoyance.

“No.” He looked to Chuito’s jeans. “Take them off.”

“Okay.” Chuito kicked off his shoes. He set his gun on the counter and unbuttoned his jeans. He stepped out of them and then threw them at Marcos hard enough to almost knock him off his feet when he was still fighting this concussion. “Happy?”

Marcos studied him, looking at his legs, knowing it had to be there somewhere, but it was all the same. He tilted his head, seeing something peeking above the edge of his boxer briefs on his hip.

Chuito cursed when Marcos pushed down the side of his underwear, finding it running over his hip, straight up and down toward his thigh, in one of the few places that would be hidden when he wore fighter shorts.

Omertà

“It’s new.”

“Yes, it is,” Chuito agreed and then shoved Marcos back. “So I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t fuck it up. It’s still healing.”

“Who gave you the Beretta?” Marcos whispered in horror. “I know you flew here. Who gave it to you when you got off the plane?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m worried about it!” Marcos yelled at him. “You sold yourself to them!”

“I didn’t sell myself,” Chuito argued. “I made a business arrangement.”

“With the mafia?” Marcos could hardly wrap his mind around that. “And you call me crazy? They’re the mafia! They’re not us, Chu. They are nothing like us. The Italians fuck up politicians and shit. It’s not pride. It’s money and power to them. They will bury anyone. No one is safe from them.”

“That’s right,” Chuito said as he leaned down and grabbed his jeans. “Guess who else no one is safe from? You think getting in bed with the mafia is going to change anything about me?” He started pulling his jeans on and then lifted his head and glared at Marcos. “He pulled a gun on you. He was going to smoke you!”

“I’m not dead!”

“Lucky for him.” Chuito’s dark eyes glowed with fury. “Now I just get to fuck with him until I get tired of it.”

“What’s your chica gonna think when she sees that ink?” Marcos gestured to his side.

“You think Alaine knows what this ink means?” Chuito laughed. “Are you kidding, Marc? She’s not Katie, okay? I could never bring her here. She is a girl who’s supposed to marry someone like Edward. I wasn’t ever supposed to get someone like that.”

Marcos reached out. “Chu—”

Chuito knocked his hand away. “I was the one who let them die! It was me who joined Los Corredores. It was me who dragged you into it! They were after me! You
know
they were after me! You were too busy looking for the next chica at seventeen! You were never a threat to anyone!
I was!
No one is watching out for me because they’re my sins! I cannot keep hiding in Garnet pretending that they weren’t! I cannot keep letting you pay for my shit, Marc!”

Marcos choked, because he couldn’t honestly argue that. He couldn’t even insult Chuito by trying. Marcos wasn’t a bad gangster, but he wasn’t a particularly good one either. He didn’t have anything required to be good at it. He wasn’t as smart as Chuito. He wasn’t as cunning. He didn’t thrive off respect or money or revenge. The only thing Marcos had ever really cared about was finding the next bed to crawl into.

Now there was only one bed he wanted, but the rules still applied. Just because the many had been narrowed down to one didn’t mean he didn’t still want to be wrapped up in Katie all the time.

There was a knock at the door, and Marcos looked out the bathroom.

“Coño.” Chuito buttoned his jeans and pushed past him.

Marcos grabbed the Beretta and followed him. He unclicked the safety when Chuito opened the door like he was still in Garnet.

“No, it’s fine,” Chuito said in English as he reached out and clasped the hand of a man Marcos couldn’t see in the darkness. “Just fighting with my cousin.”

“You Puerto Ricans. Always fighting. That’s all you know how to do.”

Chuito’s shoulders stiffened because he always had so much fucking Boricua pride. It was the reason he’d joined Los Corredores in the first place.

“Aren’t you here because I needed you here?” Chuito barked, his voice hard. “Doesn’t that essentially mean you’re working for me?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Don’t insult my people. I don’t like it. It pisses me off.”

“Hey, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Chuito shut the door and turned back to Marcos with a shake of his head. “Fucking Italians. I have no idea how I ended up with one as a best friend.”

“Good thing you’re not in bed with them,” Marcos deadpanned as he lowered the gun. He might have worried about their earlier argument being overheard, but they had been using Spanish. “Why are they outside my house?”

“Nova asked them to watch it for me. They’re watching my mother’s too.”

“Nova?”

“Tino’s brother.”

“Angel on steroids?”

Chuito nodded. “Yeah.”

“Great.” His eyebrow started bleeding again, and he wiped at it and stared at his bloody fingers. He had a massive headache, and he really just needed to lie down and crash for at least twenty-four hours. It had been a long week. “I’m going to bed.”

“Let me fix your eyebrow first.”

“Whatever.”

Marcos walked to his bedroom and set the Beretta on his dresser. Then he fell into the bed and just lay there looking up at the halos around the light in the ceiling fan.

When Chuito came in, he had the bags from the drugstore with him. He dumped them out on the bed. “This place is a shithole, Marc. You have no furniture except for this bed on the ground. Why do you live like this?”

“’Cause I’m broke.”

Chuito pulled out a bottle of alcohol and unrolled several paper towels. “Move in with my mother. I bought the house because of the apartment out back. You’re supposed to be living in it.”

“And have Angel shoot me there?”

“Angel is not going to shoot you. The Italians are just there until I get everything ironed out. I already said you’re out. You can live anywhere you want.”

“What
exactly
does ironed out mean?” Marcos asked as he looked at the ceiling. “Like I told your friend, I don’t speak Italian.”

“Does it matter?” Chuito held up the alcohol bottle. “Close your eyes. This may sting.”

Marcos closed his eyes just as the sear of pain stretched from his eyebrow, clear up into his forehead, making the headache he had about a thousand times worse.

“¡Coño! ¡Vete pa’l carajo! That hurts, you motherfucker!” He punched blindly at Chuito’s side, wanting him to share his pain. “¡Maldita sea la madre que te parió! Ow!”

Chuito laughed. “I am very scared at the idea of you teaching Katie Spanish.”

“Please stop talking about her.” Marcos groaned and touched the skin above his eyebrow. “It’s like you’re trying to punish me. I’m already miserable.”

“I don’t want you to be miserable, Marc.” Chuito held some gauze to the cut tightly, pressing down hard enough to make Marcos curse again. “I was sort of hoping for the opposite. You really
should
make the world better. Find a way.”

“Right, I’ll just find a way.” Marcos held up his hands. “I’ve got all the skills necessary to make the world a better place.”

Chuito laughed again. “I have honestly missed you. Very much.”

“Are you gonna cry, chica?”

“Yup, I’m gonna cry.”

Chuito pushed down harder on the cut.

“¡Me cago en ná!” Marcos shoved at his hand, and then pushed at his chest for good measure. “I want a real doctor!”

“Too bad. You didn’t want to go to the hospital.” Chuito grabbed Marcos’s hand and put it on the gauze. “Push hard.”

“Yeah, I’ll push hard, cabrón.”

Marcos pushed down hard, hurting himself, as he stared at the ceiling with his good eye and thought about what had happened. The ink was on Chuito’s body. That was permanent. Inflexible. He’d made a deal with the devil.

Marcos knew he couldn’t change it.

“Am I really out?” he whispered.

“You’re really out,” Chuito assured him. “Don’t tell anyone about the Italians. Don’t tell them I’m involved with what’s going down at the warehouse. I don’t want anyone to know right now. No one. Not even my mother.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not telling
anyone
my cousin is sleeping with the Italians. Especially your mother. I’ll barely be able to look at myself in the mirror after this. I’m certainly not going to look at Tía Sofia and have her know I made you whore yourself out to the mafia.”

“Marc, you didn’t do it. I did.” Chuito sighed as he laid a pair of medical scissors on Marcos’s chest as if he were an operating table. “Didn’t you hear what I said before?
I did it
. I made the mistakes. You’ve just been paying for them.”

“I got the ink on my arm, Chu,” Marcos argued. “You didn’t make me do it. No one makes me do anything. They probably shot at that house because they thought they’d get two for the price of one. We’ll share the sins.
All of them
.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Marcos agreed.

Chuito unrolled a piece of white medical tape and then cut a small piece off. “Let me see your eyebrow again.”

Marcos lifted his hand, showing off the cut. “Can you fix it?”

“Yeah.” Chuito nodded as he stared down at it. “I can fix it.”

“You get shit done,” Marcos choked out as he looked up at his cousin and realized just how far Chuito would go to fix something for him. The tears welled up in his eyes, and he closed them to fight it, but it was too late. “Coño.”

“No, it’s okay.” Chuito grabbed his hand when Marcos tried to cover his face. “You can cry. Real people cry. Only gangsters have to be hard.”

It was a good thing tonight was the first night Marcos wasn’t a gangster anymore. It was amazing Chuito was able to tape the damn cut at all, but he didn’t rush it. He stopped if Marcos needed him to stop, and then he’d start again when he could be still long enough to deal with it. Chuito was patient and did the best possible job he could to make sure Marcos didn’t have too visible of a scar.

And he didn’t cry once the entire time.

He let Marcos cry for him.

Chapter Twenty

Miami

July, 2014

Miami was interesting, because each street was different. They all had their own personalities. The houses too. Different colors. Different sizes. One road would be full of mansions, and then a few blocks over there would be run-down areas.

The divide was bizarre to Katie.

It was one of the richest cities in the United States. It was also one of the poorest. One fourth of all its residents lived below the poverty line. Katie knew that because she’d researched it, but seeing it was different.

Some areas had billboards all in English.

Others had billboards all in Spanish.

Some had a mix of both.

Katie knew that part because she had spent at least three hours lost in Miami. There were one-way streets everywhere. It was easy to get turned around, and her phone wasn’t being very helpful.

Finally she was forced to call for directions. She pulled off the side of the road and picked up her phone. She dialed the number, waiting for it to ring.

“¿Hola?”

“I’m lost.” She sighed.

“Again?” Chuito asked in disbelief. “You were lost before your interview too.”

“I’m sorry.” She threw up a hand in frustration. “I cannot be the only person who gets lost in Miami, and have you noticed everyone honks here? What are they all so angry about?”

“Ay Dios mio. Just tell me where you are. You cannot be that far. The high school is less than five miles away,” Chuito said as Katie looked behind her, staring at the street signs. She told him where she was, and he cursed. “Are your doors locked?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

“I have no idea how you got that far.” Chuito sounded exasperated. “Just have my mother drive with you for a few days. Maybe it’ll keep her away from the Cuban. Put it on speaker. I’ll stay on the phone with you until you get there.”

Katie put Chuito on speaker and pulled out. After she turned the way Chuito told her, she asked, “Why do you always complain about your mother’s boyfriend? Is it because he’s Cuban?”

“No, it’s because he’s dating my mother.”

“But you said you haven’t met him.”

“If he’s dating Sofia, I guarantee you, there’s something wrong with him.”

“I think you have mommy issues,” Katie announced as she stopped at a light. Someone was honking. “Did you hear that? What are they honking at?”

“Coño, this is a huge mistake.”

“I survived college out of Garnet. I can do this,” Katie announced more to herself than anyone and then reiterated the statement in Spanish. “
Yo puedo hacer esto
.”

“If you say so, chica.”

With Chuito as navigator, Katie found her way pretty easily. She wasn’t really sure how he could do that by phone thousands of miles away, but he could, and she was infinitely grateful for it.

When she pulled down the street, she was surprised by it. “Oh, this is nice.”

“You think I’d let my mother live in a shithole?” Chuito sounded insulted. “You have to turn right on Ocean View. Third house on the right.”

Katie just shook her head as she turned. “You definitely have mommy issues. Bizarre ones.”

“You meet my mother, and then we’ll talk.”

“Am I going to like her?” Katie asked not for the first time. “I am sort of moving in with her.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” Chuito laughed. “This whole thing feels like a scientific experiment. It could either go really good, or really, really bad.”

Katie noticed there were men outside their houses playing basketball. Which was insane; it was unbelievably hot out even at four in the afternoon. None of them had their shirts on, and they all had those strong, powerful builds like Marcos and Chuito. She pulled into the driveway of the biggest house she’d seen in the neighborhood and then looked behind her to the guys in the driveway across the street.