Page 2 of Marrying the Mobster
“Go in peace and with God,mi hijo.”
I stride toward the open double doors and out through the vestibule. Pausing on the top step, I close my eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath. The humid Miami air floods my senses as I consider my penance. By the time I reach the black Rolls-Royce idling at the curb, I’m still not certain I’m up for it. I’ve given Santiago ample time to pay up—more than I typically allow for someone who has defaulted on their loan. The fact that he’s a father stayed my hand. My relationship with my little sister is more like that of a papa and his daughter, so I sympathized with the man.
But my patience is even thinner than my soft spot, and there’s nothing left to do but send a clear message to anyone who thinks they can swindle me. I may not need the money, but principles guide my every action—depraved as they might be.
Sliding into the backseat, I glance through the open privacy screen. My best friend, top lieutenant, and driver, Jovan Flores, meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. His hands—snug inside black leather driving gloves—are tight on the wheel, his index finger tapping in an impatient rhythm.
“Let’s go,” I tell him, making myself comfortable in the plush backseat. The car is an indulgence, a need to reflect prestige and power to anyone I come across. When I want to feel the wind on my face and have a moment alone, I drive one of my other cars. But the Rolls is a symbol, a calling card. Anyone who finds it parked outside their home or company knows Diego Pérez has arrived, and he means business.
Sensing I don’t want to talk, Jovan turns up the radio but leaves the screen down. Jovan is my most valuable asset, one of the few people I trust with every detail of my life. I didn’t make him my driver because he’s subservient to me—even though, as the head of the Pérez Cartel, he answers to me in all things. I trust Jovan with my life, whether it be behind the wheel of my car or at my back in a gunfight.
Killing Santiago doesn’t have to be my burden; the family is filled with hundreds who would do it at nothing more than a word from me. But my mother taught me that a boss who can order a life taken should be man enough to do it himself. It’s another one of those things that makes me seem larger than life to those who either fear or follow me.
I roll down my window and take up the glass I was sipping from before arriving at the church. There’s still a swallow of Scotch at the bottom, so I toss it back and then reach for the bottle to pour another. It annoys me to take time away from other pressing matters to deal with Santiago. I have more important things to worry about—like the pending alliance between my family and the Russian Yezhovs. There’s also the issue of the Armenians—a gang of bloodthirsty, unprincipled savages who have been causing me trouble for years.
Knowing my time is better spent on those issues makes me want to stride right into Santiago’s house and put a bullet between his eyes. No talk, no negotiation. One and done.
But Father Moya’s voice nags me, as it always does after a confession. I’ve given up on hope of redemption, knowing God would never allow me through his pearly gates. If my fate is already sealed, what’s the point in changing my ways? Putting aside my commitment to the family would have me dying of boredom—except for the rare occasion when some fuckwit decides to try to take me out. There is no such thing as a fully retired mobster. Someone out there is always thirsty for our blood, hungry for revenge.
Eventually, we arrive at the Aguilar house—a sprawling bungalow in the High Pines neighborhood. How Santiago can afford to live in such an exclusive part of town is beyond me. When looking into his background and finances, I found out he’s heavily in debt and digs himself deeper by accepting loans from people like me. His mistake was using the money without knowing how he would pay it back. As I’m not the little prick’s accountant, it isn’t my job to help him figure it out.
Jovan follows me from the car to the front door. We trade silent glances, then simultaneously reach for our weapons. Within seconds of knocking, we’re greeted by a plump housekeeper in uniform. She opens her mouth to scream, but snaps it closed when I level my silver, 9mm Smith & Wesson Glock at her chest.
“Don’t scream,” I threaten, my voice only slightly higher than a whisper. “Mr. Aguilar is in,si?”
“Si,” she replies in a shaky voice, tears filling her eyes.
“Don’t cry,” I croon in a comforting voice. But I don’t lower my gun. In my business, everyone is suspect until proven otherwise. I once knew a man whose maid carried a .22 in a thigh holster beneath her uniform. “We aren’t here to hurt you. We just want Mr. Aguilar. Where is he?”
The maid backs away as we advance, not bothering to put up a fight. She points down a hallway to her left with a trembling hand. “His office … third door on the right.”
“Gracias.” I flick the barrel of my gun in the other direction. “Get lost. Call the cops and I’ll shoot everyone in this house in the head.”
The maid’s orthopedic shoes slap against the tiles as she runs, muffling choked sobs. That she didn’t put up a fight is telling. It wouldn’t surprise me to know that Santiago is rude to his staff and stingy with their pay. He can hardly afford them as it is.
“Remind me later to find new positions for all of Santiago’s staff,” I tell Jovan. “Well-paying ones.”
“Got it,jefe.”
We don’t bother to muffle our footsteps or slow our pace to go undetected. This place isn’t guarded and no one who lives here poses a threat. Santiago’s children are adults living away from home. There should only be him, the staff, and maybe one of the bimbos he parades around town.
The office door is open a crack. Jovan goes ahead of me, peering inside before kicking the panel wide. The slumped form of Santiago Aguilar jolts upright at the slam of the door against the wall. The fucker had dozed off at his desk with a half-empty bottle of cheap booze and an empty glass at his elbow.
He blinks unfocused eyes, which widen when he looks at me. Pressing himself against the back of his chair, he shakes his head like a dog drying off.
“M-Mr. Pérez!” he exclaims, holding his hands up and out—as if it would be enough to stop a bullet. “I was just getting ready to call you.”
“Save it,” I snap, as Jovan strides to the desk and hauls him up by his shirt.
Santiago is a small man, rail thin and swarthy-skinned. His dark hair is slicked within an inch of its life, and gaudy Cuban link chains decorate the opening of his floral button-up shirt. The man is a walking stereotype; a tacky shit-stain no one will miss once he’s gone.
“Shut the fuck up!” Jovan roars as Santiago pleads and begs for his life.
He’s a pitiful sight as he’s pushed to his knees at my feet, snot and tears running down his face.
I cock my gun and aim it between his eyes. “Your time is up, Santiago. I didn’t want to have to do this … I really didn’t. But you forced my hand. Your loan is so overdue, it would take the rest of your life just to return the interest.”
“I-I have five thousand in the safe right now!” Santiago stammers, inclining his head toward an ugly landscape painting. He’s even unimaginative when it comes to hiding a goddamn safe.
