Page 40 of Reaper
“Unless you reform your bullshit act and get the fuck out of town — and I mean far the fuck away, all the way to the other fucking coast — there’s going to be some destructive news put out about you.”
“Do your worst. I ain’t fucking scared of you.”
A sinister light comes to life in Adriana’s eyes. I smile. This son of a bitch has no idea what he’s just stepped into. To my left and right, Maria’s buddies, who were lounging in their chairs on the blasted front yard, get to their feet and take several steps back. Even those fucking assholes know it. But Mario? He’s too wrapped up in whatever machismo a guy who likes to fuck pumpkins while jacking it to an old car mag can muster. I have no fucking clue if that’s a lot or not — and what the fuck do I know? I never reached that level of being a fucking lunatic; I just sold and shot up heroin and joined a motorcycle club.
“Like I said, I’m not touching you. I don’t want the diseases.” Adriana takes out her phone. She holds it lightly in her grip, like she’s ready to play fucking Candy Crush. “I hit one button, I say one word, and it goes out to everyone that you’ve been ratting on the Artesi family and the Fourth Street Mob. You become a rat. What do you think they’ll do to you? You know, I heard the Artesi family, a few years back, they caught someone who had flipped, and they skinned him from the waist down. They kept him alive with blood transfusions while they took the flayed skin to make a whip with it, and then they beat him to death.”
Behind me, the shotgun guy coughs, then takes several bigger steps backward. “Fuck me. You know, I just remembered I left the burner going at my meth lab. I’ve got to get home. See you later, Mario.”
He runs. The other guy does, too, but only after scratching his ass.
Mario blinks and crumbles, taking a step back. His face loses color so fast it's like watching a time-lapse of a corpse. The tough-guy act melts away, and what's left is just a sniveling coward with piss-poor tattoos.
"I'll leave," he says, his voice cracking. "I swear to God, I'll leave town. Tonight. You won't see me again." Tears well up in his eyes, and a stream of snot leaks from his nose. His hands shake as he raises them in surrender. "Please don't tell anyone I ratted. They'll kill me. They'll do worse than kill me."
Adriana doesn't soften. Not even a little. "When?"
"What?" Mario sniffles.
"When are you leaving? I want a time. I want details."
"I... I'll pack my shit right now. I've got a cousin in Arizona. I can crash with him."
"Not good enough." Adriana steps closer. "East Coast. Like I said."
"But I don't know anyone — "
Adriana's foot shoots up between his legs with surgical precision. Mario doubles over, a high-pitched wheeze escaping his lips as he drops to his knees, clutching his groin.
I wince despite myself. That had to hurt.
"I don't give a shit about your tears," Adriana says, standing over him. "An asshole like you who hurts innocent women doesn't have the right to cry." She crouches down to his level, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You dragged Roxanna by her hair. You terrorized women who were already running from men just like you. Do you think your pathetic tears mean anything to me?"
Mario gasps for air, still clutching himself. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean..."
"You didn't mean to what? Get caught?" Adriana stands back up. "East Coast. Tomorrow. And if I hear you've so much as looked at another woman wrong, if I hear you've even thought about coming back to California, that phone call gets made. Understood?"
"Yes... yes, I understand."
“That’s not good enough.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s acceptable. You have twenty-four hours. And you know what, I still might change my fucking mind and make that call — you are such a fucking astounding piece of shit that it boggles my mind that someone hasn’t put a slug in your head already — so you better get the fuck out of this part of the country right the fuck away. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll go even further. Cross the fucking ocean. Or, even better, just fucking walk into the ocean. Let nature take care of you, you lost fucking cause.”
I smile as I watch Adriana destroy this piece of shit with nothing but words and one well-placed kick. She's magnificent—terrifying, but magnificent. The way she stands over him whilehe cowers, the cold precision in her voice, the absolute certainty that she can and will follow through on every threat. It's like watching an artist at work.
Mario stays on his knees, whimpering promises while clutching his bruised manhood. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
"Remember," Adriana says, leaning in close enough that he flinches. "Twenty-four hours. Then I make the call."
"I understand. I swear," Mario croaks out.
She straightens up, gives him one last withering look, then turns and walks away. I follow, resisting the urge to kick the bastard while he's down. That would be overkill after Adriana's masterful performance.
The walk back to our stolen Sebring feels lighter somehow. The sun seems brighter, the air fresher. There's nothing quite like watching justice being served for a woman like Roxanna to improve a day.
"You really had the juice to do all that?" I say once we're out of earshot.
