Canelo rubbed a hand through his thick black hair, staring at his nemesis. His terrorizer sat in a wingback chair next to the hotel room door. Her beautiful, listless eyes gazed at his muscular body.

Soledad licked her red-painted lips and crossed a shapely, toned leg. Though he looked ominous with a greasy long ponytail, bulldog face, colorful vicious tiger tattoo on his chest, and seven-foot-seven height, he trembled at the sight of Soledad. A mixture of pure hatred and disgust made him glare at her. If looks could kill, she’d be riddled with gaping holes all over her body.

Canelo turned away from the devil.

He picked up the bottle of Jose Cuervo next to his brass knuckles and tossed it back. He gulped and gulped, and then wiped the alcohol dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand.

“You better not be getting drunk!”

“I know,” he replied with bite. If she said something about his tone, he’d blame it on the alcohol.

“Your time is running out,” her soft voice almost teased.

“I know,” his voice boomed as he placed the bottle back on the expensive marble mantel. He turned away from the empty fireplace, only to catch the gleam of hatred in her eye.

Canelo’s cell phone vibrated in his shiny, gray suit pocket. He pulled it out. “Si, si…Idiota!”

He hung up quickly.

He turned around. Soledad was pretending to watch the fashion event on the large flat screen, but her eyes slid back to his, boring through his soul again.

“I’ve found her,” he replied.

“Humph.” Her slender nose turned up. “So one of those drunken transients you had keeping eyes on the streets came through? I was rather anticipating how you’d serve me instead.”

“Take me out if it makes you feel better, Soledad! But if he asked who found her, I did,” Canelo replied. He grabbed the keys to his Benz, looked back, and glared. She was coming. She stopped to pick up a high-end designer leather jacket with fur trim.

Canelo restrained his frown as her arm wriggled into his. From appearances, they were a couple. The beauty and the beast. The devil and the lamb.

They entered the elevator and rode down to the lobby of the five-star hotel. They mixed and mingled with the wealthy as they passed through. The Mercedes AMG was curbside as soon as they made it out the sliding glass door.

All eyes were on the beauty on his left flank. All thinking him a lucky, ugly bastard when his deepest desire was to slide his curved-knife across her slender neck.

The valet watched her every movement as she swiftly got into the passenger side. Canelo slid into the driver’s side and slammed the door in the valet’s face. No tip.

The ride was long and quiet as they drove toward the resort. A second-rate location, although too nice for the bum to have been strolling there. Still, he had concern that the amenities weren’t choice enough for Lalina… oh, well, he found her.

Canelo kissed the diamond-crusted rosary around his neck. Soledad rolled her eyes.

A few blocks from the resort, they got out of the car and walked toward an alley. Soledad’s stiletto boots clopped against the cracked cement as she went, head high, narrow shoulders square.

Canelo smelled the man before laying eyes on him. In Spanish, he asked where the man had seen Lalina.

“Over there,” the guy replied back rapidly. He pointed toward the ocean. He scratched the palms of his hands, and then held a palm out for payment.

Soledad’s top lip curled.

“Mi dinero, mi dinero.” The guy clapped his hand into his other palm.

“Si, si,” Canelo replied. “Is she still there? Did you see which way she went?”

He quickly replied, “Lalina went back to the resort with a wetback, and then left minutes ago. She walked with another man toward Bogota Lane.”

A man? Canelo rubbed his chin in thought.

“Mi dinero,” the guy again ticked with anxiety.

“Si, mi amigo,” Canelo answered in a calming voice, smooth as amber liquid.

Canelo stepped closer to the homeless man. The curved, hook knife from his utility belt was off in seconds. The soft clean slice across from ear to ear was precise. Blood squirted out. The next rip went from his forehead, split his left eye, and down his chin. The transient’s mouth opened in a shrill cry, yet blood curdled out instead.

Canelo yanked at the bone until it broke. He gutted his knife up the man’s lower abdomen, while gracefully holding his back. In a voice of sheer sympathy, Canelo murmured in his ear, “I’m sorry, mi amigo.”

It was true, the apology. The devil beside Canelo didn’t allow anyone to live. And their calling card was to leave a body fully mutilated. This man was now marked as Devil’s Blood. And Canelo was just the minion to oblige.

Soledad cleared her throat as Canelo gently laid the man on the ground and said a quick Hail Mary.

“Must you get in my car so dirty?”

“No,” Canelo replied, tugging one arm and then the other out of his button-up. More of his tiger tattoo was exposed. His well-defined biceps rippled as he rubbed his A-shirt on his hands. Canelo gingerly wiped off his favorite knife to place back inside of his belt.

“The have nots sure know how to continue the trend,” Soledad argued as he tossed the clothing in the trash on the corner. They started for the car, and she continued to reprimand him for throwing away his clothing. “I bought that suit, Canelo.”

“And you’ll buy the next suit,” he said, glare locked onto hers.

She stood in front of him. Six feet tall, they were almost the same height due to her mile-high stilettos. “Obviously, if Lalina is delivered on time.”

When he didn’t reply, she continued to goad him. “If she’s not delivered, your death will be worse than those nightmares you have, Canelo. Mark my word.” Her slender fingers took hold of his testicles. “I’ll be the owner of these.”

He wanted to say, you already own them. Instead, Canelo brushed her hand away and declared, “You will have your Lalina soon.”