Page 4 of Hit Man
“He’s a little boy. With a lot of energy.”
“He would have been hit by the other car if you hadn’t caught him.”
I nod in agreement, then realizing my faux pas, simply shrug my shoulders.
“I will make sure hismamáknows what you have done,” he tells me, ushering Sylvester away and toward the waiting limousine.
It’s unclear how he’ll communicate the events that have unfolded this afternoon without even asking my name. Still, I keep quiet, ready to put this entire day behind me.
I wait and watch as Sylvester climbs into the backseat. His father is about to do the same when I remember something.
“Hold on,” I exclaim. “I forgot hisfrazada. He refuses to sleep without it.” I learned this the hard way when the headmistress forgot to pick up the laundry, including Sylvester’s blankie. There was no quieting his temper tantrum. No blankie, no sleepy.
The limo driver knows it. His nanny knows it. Hell, half the block is well aware of the fact.
“He’s too old for this nonsense,” his stubborn father snaps. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, right.
I bristle at his tone.Have it your way.
Yet as Señor Nortega climbs into his car, he pauses, turns, and gives me such a stern, unyielding look, I feel myself stepping backward on the sidewalk. “You’re a smart woman but with far too much pride and a lot of goddamn luck. Do you know what would have happened to you if Lester was taken away or if he was hurt in any way?” His eyes feel like daggers matched by the cut of his threat.
Sirens sound off in the distance. Warning sirens coming a bit too late.
I shake my head. “I’d never let that happen.”
“See these beautiful gardens?” He gestures around but I don’t look away. These mansions have little curb appeal to speak of yet I’m too frightened to point this out to him.
“If Lester was harmed even in the slightest way, you’d disappear off this planet without a trace. You’d be shredded into tiny bits and pieces and become fertilizer for the plants. Hismamáwould demand it.” He slides into the backseat and slams the door shut and the Cadillac takes off with a screech.
Stunned, I watch them go, Sylvester’s little face peering at me from the rear window as he frantically waves at me.
And as if I don’t have enough to worry about with bombs going off, chaos erupting around me, this horrible man’s subtle threats, and all in all how my stay in Mexico City has become one unexpected challenge after another, what does Sylvester still have clutched in his hand?
My passport.
1
Aubrey
There are to-die-for views and then there are views that can kill you. And right now, I’m standing at the precipice of both, feeling nervous and breathless and a bit overwhelmed.
“This has to be easily a hundred-foot drop,” Zoey murmurs, awestruck and as unnerved as I am by the beautiful, reckless architectural feature of the one-of-a-kind infinity room we’ve wandered into.
“In the States, this would be a lawsuit waiting to happen,” I reply.
“Yet whoo, what a view.”
“Just mind your footing,” I warn her, glancing at the three-inch heels my friend is wearing, their sexy affect wasted on me. Her boyfriend, Renaldo, is a friend of Juan Carlos Mendoza, the owner of Casa Bella. With a little passive-aggressive insistence from Zoey, Renaldo arranged for us to attend one of the infamous parties always being held at this luxurious estate. Though my reasons for this week-long visit have nothing to do with socializing per se and everything to do with the host.
Less than a week after my explosive departure from The Linguistic Academy, Zoey handed me an English version of the magazineFilantrópica,featuring the absurdly wealthy Juan Carlos Mendoza. Not only is he a self-made billionaire with a head for numbers and an eye for pretty women, he evidently has a philanthropic heart.
I tried to reach my new perspective sponsor by calling his office, with no luck. So I ventured downtown to his office located in part of the city called City Reflection, the outcome of a “regeneration” project Juan Carlos completely financed. Turns out it seemed more of a degeneration of nature project than anything, with the dismal absence of greenery in the area. His office was closed, its door locked and I went home wondering why anyone would tear down centuries-old buildings and replaced them with mirrored steel structures. The intense sunlight reflecting off those mirrors do nothing for the environment. Yet I reminded myself how Juan Carlos simply financed this project. I pin the blame on his architect, who is probably just another modern day barbarian much in need of a woman’s sensibility.
Yet with Zoey’s help, I didn’t let things end there.
Sometimes in life you need to make your own opportunities. And didn’t Juan Carlos say in the article he was “looking for his next cause?” Except a few days later, I discover I’m too early, and am forced to wait to make my pitch as Señor Mendoza isn’t expected back at Casa Bella until tomorrow.
“It’s awfully quiet around here. And we haven’t seen any of the house staff since this morning. Are you certain Juan Carlos is even hosting a party? You don’t think he’ll be annoyed that two strange women have arrived so early?”
