Page 2 of Savage Hero

Same charcoal eyes. Same severe jawline. And I’m sure if Bryan’s hair hadn’t become salt-and-pepper colored, it would be the same glossy black as Throat Tattoo’s.

Gotcha!

I realize I’m tapping my fingernail against the side of my beading soda can and hurriedly stop. I was given minimal intel about the Domingos, but I did my own research online. This juicy slice of key lime pie must be CaesarEl SalvajeDomingo, Bryan’s only son. But he could also be Vito, Caesar’s first cousin. There might be family resemblance there too.

Does it matter?

Nope.

What matters is that things have changed and I have to figure out if this is happening or not. I assess the restaurant again. There are five other customers. One of them is part of the cartel but pretends as if he isn’t. The other is a couple with a baby in a stroller, an old guy who apparently can’t get enough of this place’s refried beans, and a kid who should be in school and not hanging out at a Colombian restaurant.

I can’t blame the kid. I quit a year into middle school.

Am I doing this?

My heart skips a beat as I go through my plan. It’s perfect, of course—I made sure of it—but now there’s an unknown element.

A bell rings, barely audible over the Latin music blaring through the tiny speakers attached to the beams. That’s another reason Bryan likes this place—it’s off the main road, it’s not that busy, the food is great, and they play their music loud enough that I wonder how many of the staff have developed tinnitus after working here a few months.

The guy behind the counter turns and converses inaudibly with the man handing him a plate of food.

It’s mine, and I’ve timed it to perfection.

Fucking Throat Tattoo.

I shake off my irritation, keeping my head low as the cashier brings my plate over to me. I’m not in the least hungry—I never eat on the days I have to kill someone—but I make as if to pick up one of my tacos and then hesitate.

It’s all part of the plan.

I always order tacos. I always wait until the food arrives before realizingmy hands are grubby—I made sure of that by rubbing them in dirt and crusting some of it under my fingernails—and I always finish my soda on the way to the bathroom and toss it in the toilet’s trash can.

The men’s toilet. Because I’m dressed like a man.

I scratch my balls like a man.

I even pee standing up…like a man. Not because of rigorous training or some strange birth defect—but a clever contraption I found online used to fake urine tests.

I chose a medium-sized penis.

I didn’t want to attract attention or sympathy.

Chapter Two

Nyx

So far, so good. One half of the pair of bodyguards seated at the tables close to the back booth watch me as I pass. Just like every time before, they give me a single look but turn their attention away when it’s obvious I’m headed for the bathroom.

Just like clockwork.

Except for one tiny difference.

This time, it’s not just the bodyguards that watch me. Even though Mr. Throat Tattoo sat with his back to my table, he seemed to sense a disturbance in the force because I’m almost at the restroom door when he glances around.

We lock eyes across the semi-crowded room.

Then my legs decide to go in different directions. They tangle, and I fall forward. If I hadn’t been so close to the restroom, I’d have landed flat on my face. Luckily, I manage to brace myself against the door.

Which swings inward, so I end up fallinganywaybut at least I’m out of sight of Throat Tattoo and Bryan Domingo.

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