Page 50 of The Love Language of the Cartel

Before I could muster up a response, Ozias stepped back inside. His domineering presence filled the small, smelly space almost instantly. His razor-sharp gaze sliced through the tension in the air, darting between my father and me as he assessed the situation.

“What about me?” Ozias growled, stepping protectively in front of me with his finger wrapped around the trigger of his gun. “You don’t deserve to be in her presence any fuckin’ longer. And if you ever open your mouth to speak to my wife like that again, I swear to God I’ll be on your ass quicker than a rabbit fucking his bitch.”

“Do what you gotta do, mothafucka. Dying is the easy part.”

“No,” I interrupted, placing a hand on Ozias’s muscular arm. He turned to me with rage etched into his expression, but I swung my head. “I can handle this.”

Ozias hesitated, but after a few seconds, he nodded, slowly lowered his gun, and stepped aside.

“You can’t hurt me anymore, Daddy,” I asserted as I stared at him. “Your hurtful words and reckless actions don’t mean shit to me anymore. You may be my father by blood, but that’s it. I’ll never let you control me again. And when you’re sitting here in this filthy, dark cell, all alone with your racing thoughts, I hope what you did to me fucking eats you alive before the rats do. They like the taste of despair.”

For the first time, my father remained silent. He had no rebuttal or hurtful remark. Instead, he looked away. He didn’t have to respond. The silence between us told me everything I needed to know. His fate had been sealed, and he was too prideful to even acknowledge it.

I twisted my neck toward O, who stayed close behind me like a shadow, his protective instinct still simmering just beneath thesurface. I knew all I had to do was say the word, and he would’ve slaughtered my father like fresh cattle, but that wasn’t what I’d come here for.

“Open his cell,” I instructed.

Ozias’s eyebrow lurched toward his hairline. “What? Hell no.”

“Open his cell and give me your gun. This ends here,” I said, outstretching my hand palm-side up.

I could tell Ozias didn’t know whether to be turned-on or afraid. Either way, he obliged me with a nod before passing me his pistol. The minute I felt the cold, dark steel hit my hand, I wrapped my hand around the grip. He fished around inside his pocket for the keys to my father’s prison cell. The keys jingled against the lock before I heard the groans and creaks of the iron bars as the cell door opened. I stood at the cell entrance, hesitant but ready to do what I had to do.

I rushed toward my father, not stopping until I’d rammed the gun far enough down his throat to obstruct his airway. The best thing he could do for me would be to drown in his own saliva, but that still wouldn’t have been good enough.

“Let this be a lesson to you and every other mafia or cartel boss out there. I’m the biggest, baddest Malone-Rivera there is.Irun this shit now.”

My finger squeezed the trigger, and my arm jerked back from the impact of the shot, blowing a bloody, gaping hole into the back of his skull, popping it like a bloody red balloon.

Ozias stood to my right and gently eased the gun out of my hand.

“Burn in hell, mothafucka,” he mumbled before he spat on my father’s dead body and made a call to his men to clean up the mess I’d made.

I turned on my heels and walked out of the cell with my shoulders back and my head held high. I’d come for answersbut left with something unexpected—strength, unshakable resilience, and the fucking crown.

The chilled air of the dark corridor leading from the cell gave way to the warmer Mexico weather as Ozias closed the thick front door behind us. My steps were minced, and all I felt was the nauseating churn in my stomach anytime I looked at the speckles of my father’s blood on my skin and clothes.

Ozias took one look at me and frowned, his protective instincts back at the forefront. “You’ve been on your feet too long,” he said, his voice firm but considerate. Without giving me the opportunity to protest, he bent down and swept me into his strong arms with ease.

“Ozias—” I whined, but he silenced my woes with a half-smile.

“You’re still healing, Demi,” he confirmed, his tone leaving no room for disagreement no matter how much I wanted to. “Plus, you’ve done enough for one day. Let me take care of you now.”

He carried me through the house, his heavy footsteps firm as they ascended the staircase. The slushy churn in my stomach seemed to intensify as we reached the master bathroom, where the faint scent of lavender hung in the air. He set me down gently on the counter before turning to the oversized freestanding bathtub by the window and filling it with warm, soapy water.

I watched the stream and the bubbles rise to the surface as the tub filled. As calming as my surroundings were, I couldn’t stop the image of my father’s head busting open like a juicy watermelon from replaying inside my mind. Out of nowhere, bile bubbled in my throat. I lurched forward, sprinting for thetoilet just as the vomit spewed from my mouth. I was mortified and could only hope the gentle sound of the stream drowned out my dry heaving. When I finished spewing my guts, I reached for the toilet handle to flush and slowly started to pull myself back up to my feet.

I turned back to Ozias with embarrassment on my face, fully expecting him to laugh and point out my weaknesses like my father used to. What he did next surprised me. Ozias knelt to my level, his hand lightly brushing the small of my back as he helped me back into an upright position.

“It’s okay,” he acknowledged gently as if he could read my thoughts. His eyes were filled with both compassion and understanding. “Just relax, Demi. It’s over now, and I got you.”

His words broke the levee. My lips curved into a frown, my tense shoulders finally weakening as I allowed myself to fully let go, at least for the moment. Tears poured out of my eyes like a raging waterfall. I was fucked up beyond measure. Never in a million years did I think my first kill would be the man who’d given me life.

“I bet you were smooth as butter the first time you killed someone,” I assumed as a tear slipped down my cheek.

“On the contrary. I was just as sick as you were.”

“Seriously?”

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