Loan defaulter Matías Pargas tried to block the oncoming blow, but Tony batted the man’s raised arm aside and drove a fist straight into his ruddy, sweating face.
Pargas cried out as his head whipped back—not too far, though, and with no loss of teeth.
“Resist, Matías,” Carmelo warned, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, “and you only make it worse.”
Tony stepped back and waited on the balls of his feet. He didn’t know why the hell he was still on this op, playing the role of enforcer. Wasn’t he an extraneous appendage to this mission now? Officially no longer fucking needed. Not needed to help rescue the cure for leukemia, that was for sure, and certainly not needed by her, who had beat him out for the prize by discovering the safe’s combination.
On top of that jolly schooling, the whole incident had forced him to ask the what-the-hell-kind-of-man-am-I-really? question.
Had he done what he did in Cuntrera’s den because he was a methodical operator who’d logically calculated the cost/benefit ratio of an untenable situation, then followed through only “in the line of duty?”
Or had he acted from the twisted-metal place inside himself? The place inside that felt like he was still the kid who’d been raised by a worn-out mother and no father. The kid who’d been forced to come up with his own definitions of right and wrong while growing up without much guidance on the tough streets of Chicago. His own system of survival. His own rules of manhood and justice. All the things he thought he’d figured out…except at times like last night when he knew he hadn’t.
“The stomach,” Carmelo instructed Tony.
Moving forward, Tony slammed a punch into Pargas’s gut, catching the man just under the sternum. Pargas doubled over Tony’s fist then slumped down to his knees, his mouth working as he fought for air.
Tony firmed his jaw in self-disgust. What the hell kind of man am I? Really? Clearly, he was a man who could assault people as an undercover agent, shoot Nicole O’Dwyer, nail a desperate woman on a desk, walk away from—
Pargas was still struggling for air…and wasn’t finding any. The man turned red, then purple, then a cyanotic blue.
Tony barked, “Shit!” when Pargas toppled over, his tongue ballooning to twice its normal size.
Tony went down on his knees and ripped Pargas’s shirt open to expose his skinny chest. He tried to initiate CPR, but Carmelo seized him by the arm and hauled him back.
“Leave him.”
“He’s having a heart attack!” Tony jerked out of Carmelo’s hold, scrambled over to Pargas, and gave him CPR.
Carmelo hovered over Tony, smoke leaking in a bored stream from his nostrils. “Saint Jude, Antonio, leave the insect, would you? He’s a worthless heroin addict. Who cares?”
“Fuck off,” Tony snarled, pumping Pargas’s chest while the man made gurgling noises and his eyes went glassy. His mouth finally froze into a grimace of pain and shock. His heart stopped beating.
It was over.
Tony sank back on his heels, a cold sweat breaking over his body and a vast, consuming heaviness filling his insides. He dragged a palm over his chin. Holy shit.
The corpse convulsed one last time, then evacuated its bladder and bowels with an unrivaled stink. In the movies, death could be depicted in cinematic poignancy. In real life, it wasn’t pretty.
Carmelo’s cigarette tumbled from his fingers as he pressed a forearm over his nose. “Eat my fuck, Antonio, you idiot! Now it smells like a slut’s overused asshole in here.”
Tony bolted to his feet, his stomach a rotted knot. “Shut up, Bellomo. I just killed a man.”
Carmelo lowered his arm and observed Tony curiously, then suspiciously. A true enforcer would never be squeamish.
“This violates Mr. Cuntrera’s orders.” Tony chopped a hand down at the corpse. “The capo didn’t want him dead. Now Pargas can’t pay.”
Carmelo accepted this explanation, his skepticism clearing. “Bah, Matías wouldn’t have paid anyway. He was a deadbeat.” Carmelo kicked his smoldering cigarette at the dead body. “Come on, let’s go to Zulimar’s. There’s a whore there who gobbles pork so good, your nuts will fly to heaven.”
* * *
Ronnie came to stand in the doorway of Antonio’s bedroom and silently watched him.
He was stalking around his room, collecting items off his dresser and from his private bathroom. His expression was stony, his eyes hard, and tension visibly throbbed along the muscles in his shoulders.
She twined her fingers together. “I heard about what happened on your enforcer job in La Castellana earlier,” she said quietly, her heart a sick lump. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t respond. He tossed the items he’d gathered onto his bed, then strode over to his dresser, yanked a suitcase out from beside it, and flopped it open on the bed next to his stuff.
She studied the suitcase for a long, disbelieving moment. “You’re leaving?”
He returned to his dresser and grabbed some clothes. “You wanted me to leave.”
Yes. But not now. Not since she’d spent all last night tossing and turning, unable to sleep because she kept thinking about him. As if her mind was a scratched vinyl album, she replayed certain scenes over and over—like what they’d done in the den. God, yes, that notorious scene. But this time, free from the distractions of fear and anxiety, she saw the subtleties in Antonio’s expression she’d missed in real time: his regret over her throwing herself at him, his hesitancy, his raw confusion about what screwing her meant.
Then there was the way he’d looked in the alley behind La Caleta. I’m not the one being cavalier here, chica, and everything else he’d said, about his soul being ripped apart. A warm, slippery sensation settled in the middle of her chest, and she pressed her fingers there. No wonder she was drawn to him. The “real” Antonio who lurked underneath the pretend enforcer had a lot of heart.
He was such a refreshing change from the men she usually dated, none of whom—not a one—had ever been up front about his perceived failings. The men she disastrously got involved with were a lot of polish on the outside and not much substance on the inside.
And, no, it didn’t make sense that a woman with her special skills should be fooled by a lot of flash. After all, she had the ability to Extract the truth about a man, and then, knowing what was coming her way, possibly avoid the bad stuff. But experience had taught her that acquiring knowledge about a man by dredging the secret waters of his mind was, to put it mildly, not the best way to begin a romantic relationship. Antonio’s heated reaction in the alley to the idea of her having read his personal thoughts was pretty standard. The fuck you do! No one liked having his privacy breached.
So she tried not to make a habit of willy-nilly using her special skills on people. She mostly functioned like a regular mortal in her personal relationships, tripping over all the requisite mistakes that were good for learning life’s lessons and self-growth, but also led to a lot of heartbreak.
And heartbreak sucked for her as much as it did for anyone else.
Now, while she watched Antonio toss his clothes into the suitcase, a small spurt of panic surged through her. She didn’t want him to leave anymore. She liked him now, and she was also realizing, standing here with a weird emptiness echoing through her stomach, that it’d been lonely working deep undercover by herself for months. Having Antonio nearby would be a comfort. Maybe she could also learn from him.
“Please stay.”
He stalked back to his dresser and grabbed more clothes. “You’ve got things covered. You don’t need me. You said so yourself.”
She swallowed. Why had she said those things? Pride. Because of her need to prove herself as more than a kook. We’re talking about the cure for leukemia here, Verónica—not exactly the time to be getting all territorial. No, it wasn’t. He was right. “I’ve been rethinking the situation, Antonio, and it’s probably a good idea to, uh…I’ve decided it’s better for us both to be here. We can help each other.”
He stopped and looked at her. His eyes were now unimaginably hard. “I killed a man today.”
Her chest squeezed. She quickly stepped inside his room and closed the door. “It was an accident,” she said softly.
“Does it matter?”
“What?” Jesus God. “Of course, it does.” She moved farther into his room. “I saw Matías Pargas once when he came sniveling around here for more drug money. He was a skinny, sickly heroin addict, and he should’ve been dead long before today.”
“Thank you for saying that,” Antonio responded tautly. “But it doesn’t change my mind. It would be piss-poor headwork on my part to keep trusting in Lady Luck after she’s clearly abandoned me. Sticking around following a screwup generally leads to more screwups. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, Verónica.”
“It’s Ronnie,” she corrected hoarsely. “I go by Ronnie.”
He pulled his sunglasses out of his breast pocket and jabbed them onto his face. “Not exactly the time to be getting chummy, is it?” He brushed past her and opened his bedroom door, inviting her to exit. “Good luck.”
She moved into the jamb. “Well.” She set her shoulders. “If you leave tomorrow, then so will I.” She gave him a firm nod and headed down the hall.