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“For?”
“Disrespecting you and Mr. Emiliano.” My expression is emotionless at those less than convincing words. If anything, the sight of him is irritating me at the moment. “I was out of line.”
“Is there something troubling you today? A problem I’m not aware of?” A flash of fear crosses his features, but it’s gone soon after. I saw it, though. Just like I took notice of the blood on his holster when inside my home office after delivering Marin to me. “Now is your only chance to get this off your chest, Chiquito. Lie to me, and it’s your funeral your wife will be attending next.”
“Just problems with the missus. Nothing big.”
“You need time off?” I’m not buying his excuse or the clear lie; something’s up with him, and I’ll find out. “Maybe take her away for a few days?”
“That would be amazing.”
“Then you’re dismissed.” At my words he sputters, almost looks indignant, but is smart enough to snap his lips shut when my brother re-enters the hut a few seconds later with the woman he almost assaulted.
“He told you.” Not a question, and the way my brother glares at him makes Salazar shrink back.
“He did.” Looking over at the young woman, I crook my finger at her. “Come here.”
“Am I in trouble, Patron?” She looks young. Almost too young to be here, but I leave it alone, knowing that the age we accept any involvement within my units is twenty. “I’m sorry if—”
“What’s your name?”
“Karla Jimenez, Patron.”
“How long have you been with the group, Ms. Jimenez?”
Her hands shake at her sides, but she holds my gaze. “Six months.”
I nod. “Karla, if I asked you to do something for me, would you? Without questioning me?”
“Yes.”
“Hagale.” My eyes shift to my brother, and I nod at him. He’s quick to move into position, grabbing Chiquito’s arms and pulling back, forcing the man to his knees with his face unobstructed. “Strike him.”
“Alejandro, you can’t—” Karla surprises him with a backhand across his cheek that leaves my general in shock and enraged. His body tenses and eyes cut fire at her, but before he can even attempt to fight my brother off, I crouch down to his line of sight. Anger still dominates his body language, but the hijueputa is smart enough to stand down.
“I have never hit a woman.” His bottom lip is bleeding, and I wipe it with my thumb, then clean it off using his uniform shirt. “I have never hit a woman.”
“Patron, I—”
“Karla, please leave and join the others. Thank you for your help, and I ask that this stay between the four of us.”
“My lips are sealed, sir.”
“Gracias.” The second she exits, Emiliano releases Chiquito, who looks at me with fear as he takes his place in front of the door to guard it. My right-hand—my highest-ranking soldier—is shaking. “I HAVE NEVER HIT A WOMAN,” I growl out from between clenched teeth as the hand with drops of his blood lands straight across the bridge of his nose. One blow and the bone crunches, breaks, and the blood begins to flow from each nostril. “I have never motherfucking hit a woman, and those who work for me need to follow that rule. If I ever so much as hear that you ignored my order, I’ll hunt you down and expose your organs to the vultures roaming the city streets. Understood?”
“Yes, Patron.”
“Good.” Standing up, I extend a hand, which he takes, and I pull him up. He’s smart enough to keep some distance, but I’m a peaceful man and slap him on the back before returning to my seat. “Now, get out here. You’re dismissed for the next two weeks.”
“But what about Quintero and…” The look I give him shuts him up. Knowing there’s no changing my mind, he picks up all the papers I dropped, putting them in a neat pile before me. “Thank you, and I apologize once more.”
I don’t say anything, and he leaves after mumbling another apology to my brother.
His actions bring forth a few problems that I’ll be rectifying soon. Very soon.
It’s time for a change.
The city streets are deserted at this time of night, and the police aren’t paying attention to this building. Not when they need to protect the president and his guests as they discuss foreign diplomacy, fuck a whore or two, and plot ways to fuck the working class.
