Rosa
Present…
“Your corners are messy,” I chide as I unfold the sheet and show my newest charge how to properly fold the linens. “Like this, Araceli.”
Araceli, an eighteen-year-old Mexican woman, watches with wide eyes as I show her. With time, she’ll learn how things run around here. I run a tight ship and they all must stay on their toes to keep up with my level of perfection.
I’m borderline OCD when it comes to this house.
No dust. No crinkles. No mess.
It must remain as clean as possible, for who lives within it is far from so.
“Let me try,” she says, determination in her tone. I love the fierce woman who lives beneath the unsureness and slight awkwardness. Araceli reminds me of myself ten years ago when I was her age.
I’ve grown into this hard, formidable woman.
Strength hidden behind a soft, sweet, compliant package.
I watch her fold the sheet, my eyes scrutinizing her work for errors. She flawlessly folds it and pride surges within me. “Excellent work, querida.”
She beams under my praise as I don’t give it often. Araceli has been working in the Estrada home for three weeks now and this is the first real compliment I’ve given her. When you work at a place like this, there’s no room for vulnerability and softness. You must always be striving for perfection and watching for danger.
“Run along and make the beds.”
Her dark brows scrunch together. “¿Señor Estrada?”
All warm thoughts leak from my body as cold settles in my bones. I lift my chin and pierce her with an icy stare. “No. Since when do you ever make Señor Estrada’s bed?”
She cowers under my biting words. “Never.”
“Never,” I agree. “Never. Only I am to be trusted in his room. I’ll make his bed and that is the end of this conversation.”
Her bottom lip quivers as though I’ve struck her. True, I may have a soft spot for little Araceli, but I can’t let her get too comfortable here. None of my ladies are. It’s unsafe. We must always be on guard, stay out of the way, and keep the house looking impeccable.
“I’m sorry, Rosa,” she murmurs.
I don’t correct her for not calling me Señorita Delgado. She’s upset and I’ll allow it this once. “Run along,” I snip.
Once she’s gone, I pick up the folded sheet and bring it to my nose. My heart clenches when I inhale the scent of lavender and detergent. I’d never realized the smell I associated with my mother was laundry detergent. And now, because of my job, I smell her every day. Each second of each day is a reminder of what I lost.
My eyes prickle, but tears don’t form. I’ve spent almost twenty years learning to harden my heart and block my emotions. The last four, I’ve specifically honed that skill. I’ve become like them. A jaguar stalking my prey. I’m good. Very good. None of them, especially him, suspect a thing.
And when the time is right, I’ll bring down every last one of them.
Until then, I lie in wait. Crouched low in the grass. My mouth watering and my claws sharp. Javier Estrada, the leader of El Malo, will be ripped to shreds by the time I’m done with him.
Patience is my friend.
My fuel.
My motherfucking sustenance.
Clearing my head with a slight shake, I carry the sheet to the closet. Once I’ve neatly tucked it inside, I smooth my palms over my crisp black uniform and stride through the massive almost eighteen-thousand-square-foot seaside mansion. All the windows are open facing the Pacific Ocean. The breeze is warm and it fills my lungs with a sense of purpose. I’m silent, my shoes not even making a squeak as I slip through the house. I check for dust on picture frames along the way. Yolanda and Silvia tend to get starry-eyed around the men at times and slack off. I have to stay on those two. Both women are too beautiful for their own good. One day, their beauty will get them hurt.
I stop in front of a giant mirror in the hallway and stare at my reflection. I study the glass for smears but really, I look at myself. I look at her. The spitting image of my mother. Wide brown eyes. Dark, almost black, sculpted brows. Full, naturally pink lips. My mocha brown hair that normally hangs in loose waves halfway down my back is pulled tight into a bun at the base of my neck. At work, I remain plain and hidden. I don’t want any attention on myself whatsoever. The diamond stud earrings that belonged to my mother are the only shiny piece of me. They catch the light and sparkle in my reflection.
Blood.
Blood.
So much blood.
I blink away the memory of myself sitting on the bathroom floor of my grandmother’s house scrubbing my mother’s bloody earrings with a toothbrush. Every day for weeks, I’d scrub at those earrings. Grandmother said the blood was long gone, but I could sense it there. I wasn’t satisfied until I’d cleaned them every day for a month.
Sometimes I still wonder about the blood.
Giggles resound from a nearby room and I jolt. The girls. I storm down the hallway, a scowl on my face. As soon as I enter Marco Antonio’s room, Javier’s second-in-command, I discover Yolanda and Silvia. Neither of them is working. No, they are tossing a pair of his boxer briefs at one another. Such foolish behavior could get them killed.
“¡Suficiente!” Enough! I snap as I rush over and tear the underwear from Silvia’s grip.
Yolanda starts laughing and my blood boils with the blatant disrespect.
“I suggest you two separate and do your jobs. I’m writing you both up over this. That makes two for each of you now. You know, one more and you’re gone,” I warn.
They both lose their smiles and hang their heads. On one hand, I feel guilty for taking away such a small pleasure as giggling over a man’s boxers. But he’s not just any man. Marco Antonio is vicious and cruel. I’ve had to clean up his bloodshed more than I’d like to remember. Half of his clothes end up in the trash because some stains simply don’t come out. Violence is a stain that imbeds in the fibers and never lets go.
I wave them away and they run off, their heels clacking the wood floors in their wake. No matter what I try to impress upon them, they don’t listen. It will be their end one day. I hate that for them. I hate that these young girls grew up in the ravished parts of Guerrero, Mexico, and think this place is their happily ever after. That they feel safe here. They aren’t safe anywhere. Acapulco isn’t what it used to be in the ’50s and ’60s when The Kennedys and Frank Sinatra would vacation here. Back then, it was family oriented and a true attraction for tourists.
Now, just beyond the mansions that line the beaches and the fancy resorts is a city overrun by corruption and out of control violence. Violence that is fed morsel by morsel by none other than my boss.
Javier Estrada.
I quickly fold Marco Antonio’s boxers and place them in his drawer. His weapons are stuffed in the strangest places. I never touch them, but I catalogue them in my head. If I ever need an out, it’s in Marco Antonio’s room I’ll find that out. He’s got an arsenal ready. And just like he always wants to be quick to annihilate if things go south and quick, so do I.
The last thing I need is for young, silly girls to ruin that for me. As of today, I’ll add his room to the ones they aren’t allowed to touch.
Booming voices jerk me from my inner thoughts and I hurry from his room. Javier and his men have arrived home from some business in the city. Usually, someone comes back injured or wearing the blood of someone they’ve injured. Always, I’m stuck cleaning up after their mini wars they have each day.
Quickly, I rush through the hallways to peek in at them. Marco Antonio, Arturo, and Alejandro are gathered around Javier’s favorite leather chair in the living room. I can’t see him, just the backs of his men, but I sense him. Javier is evil personified. Death and corruption and sadism all rolled into one magnificent package.
I try not to think about that part of him. The part that has my girls’ cheeks turning pink any time he glances at them. Javier is handsome. Charismatic even. But behind his wide, flirtatious grins are hate and fury and madness. I wish I could throttle each of my girls and remind them we are in the lion’s den. They’re simply meat for him to bite into if he gets hungry.
I, however, am not meat.
I am a worthy adversary.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
“Dissension is key,” Javier’s rugged, masculine voice rumbles. It always seems to rattle my nerves. It coils in the pit of my belly like a snake. No matter how hard I try not to let him affect me, he does. When I look at Javier, I see the monsters who killed my mother and Ana and Miguel. I hate him as much as I hate the ones who were actually responsible.
“What does that mean?” Alejandro asks. He’s the runt of the group. Massive and muscular being that he was an ex-MMA fighter, but dumber than a box of rocks.
Marco Antonio grunts. “You have a phone. Google it, asswipe.”
Alejandro shoves him, but Marco Antonio is twice as solid. Older and meaner. He doesn’t budge and that only serves to piss Alejandro off even more.
“It means,” Javier interrupts, always so patient with his young goon, “we’ll continue to encourage the dissension among rival gangs and cartels. Worm our way into each clan. El Malo will be like a disease. We’ll slowly infect the entire region. One man at a time. And when they’re all relying on us for their next paycheck and meal, we’ll cut off the dead weight. Rein in the strong and moldable. These motherfuckers will live and breathe El Malo. I will rule Guerrero with an iron fist.”
“Fuck yeah,” Arturo agrees. He’s closer to Marco Antonio’s age. Early thirties. He’s leaner than the other two goons, but I’ve seen him in hand-to-hand combat on the estate. Arturo’s hands are lethal. He can kill a man within seconds simply from using his bare hands.
I’m standing behind one of the massive stone pillars at the edge of the living room. I want to edge closer since they are distracted, but I know that won’t do. Instead, I lean my ear out and listen for their plans.
“Tomorrow, we’ll go see Mayor Velez. I have some favors I need to call in,” Javier growls.
I know what he means by favors. I’ve worked here for four years and favors mean he has information on a man and plans to blackmail him. I take mental note of the name.
The scent of candy apple and tobacco permeates my senses. I can smell Javier coming from a mile away because of his favorite vice. Where most men in powerful positions smoke the fat cigars you have to cut and prepare, Javier smokes the “little cigars.” And not just regular ones but the candy apple flavored ones. It’s almost laughable. In America, the media gets their panties in a wad complaining about how those little cigars appeal to minors because they taste and smell like candy.
If they only knew.
One of the biggest monsters in Mexico has a hard-on for them.
A rare smile tilts my lips up. Would Javier change his smoking habits if he knew a bunch of fifteen-year-olds in the US smoke the same crap he does just to seem cool? Something tells me he’d be annoyed by that fact. And that makes me smile.
The men continue hashing out details and when I realize the conversation is over, I slip away down another hallway.
I’m always watching and listening, Estrada.
And one day, I’m going to bring your candy apple ass down.