Page 104 of Hit Man
I peer into my coffee as if the answers might be found within its dark depths.
She’s not fighting me anymore. And this milder, gentler version of her, of us, has my stomach in knots.
“Everything okay?” Aubrey asks.
My eyes meet hers and hold. “Just thinking.”
Her eyes widen.
“My mother was a do-gooder like you. I told you she was dead. But what I didn’t share was what happened to her, along with my father.”
I watch her swallow hard. Yet there’s no mercy, no pulling back and softening the blows. Whether or not it hurts like a bitch, what needs to be said needs to be said. For her sake. For my future peace of mind.
“They were shot down by a Loreto cartel while spending what little money we had on groceries for the poor. My father was helping her carry the bags. Murdered by the same people she was trying to help.”
Aubrey gasps.
“Her being a do-gooder did us no good at all.”
“Oh, Diego . . .”
It’s my turn to swallow hard. “If anything happened to you . . .” I softly repeat, glancing down at my half-full cup of coffee. Black, so black and bitter.
“Diego?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you.”
I nod, then abruptly stand. Time to make a few phone calls. “Be right back.”
“Where are you going?” I hear her ask, her tone full of worry. I feel raw. Open. Needing to get away from her and the pity party she’s about to cast my way. Like she somehow understands how deeply their deaths have affected me. How I think about my mother and father every damn day. Despite having taken my revenge and the time I’ve had to deal with the aftermath of my actions.
And now I’m sharing the deepest, darkest parts of me . . . with her.
“Love,” Hayden’s fond of saying, “is for fools, the old, and men with a death wish.” I’ve only ever loved three people. My parents and my sister, Luciana. I don’t allow myself the luxury of expanding on that emotion. I loved many women’s bodies. Taking pleasure where pleasure’s offered. Cautious. Careful. Never lingering too long. My wife, my soul mate, my love . . . TORC. I’m married to my job.
Or so I’ve always thought.
Yet just when I begin believing my life as a self-proclaimed bachelor is exactly what I need, the motherfucker of all explosions happens. And when the smoke clears, who do I see.
A thorn in my side from day one.
A pain in the ass.
A woman who makes me lose my mind. Who causes me to want what I shouldn’t want. Tear a piece off of what I don’t deserve. Steal a moment for myself. Make me rethink the direction my life is headed in.
I shouldn’t have touched her in that alleyway. Gone wild for her. Wanted her as desperately as I did. Said the things I’ve said.
I keep moving forward. No looking back. No regrets. Time’s ticking away. Moving forward is the way life goes. How do we say it in English? That’s the way the motherfucking cookie crumbles?
I have phone calls to make.
I head to the men’s room in the back ofthe teahouse. Locking the door behind me, I take out the paper El Chulo gave me along with my burner phone and ringSeñorita del Misterio.
The phone rings seven times before a hushed voice answers. “Who’s calling?” she asks.
So much forholas.
