Page 7 of His Gilded Cage

I turned the heat up in the shower as high as possible and stood beneath the hot spray.

I hated the fact that I’d fucked another man’s wife. I respected marriage. I did not take the holy bonds of matrimony lightly. Had I really become so sloppy and careless that I’d committed accidental adultery?

I lathered up soap and ran it over my body promising myself again that I would change my ways. I would be the man that my mother had believed I would be. I owed her this, especially on the day she’d died.

I stepped out of the shower, dried myself off and pulled on a robe.

In the kitchen, Veronica stood at the counter. She’d changed into a cobalt halter dress and tied a bright yellow scarf around her hair. She was statuesque, drop dead gorgeous and at times like this I thought my only friend.

Veronica shoved a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me and plopped a bottle of ketchup on the counter with bravado.

“Tada!” she said, grinning. Her dark brown eyes sparkled.

“This is not a proper breakfast,” I said. “There are no beans. You’ve been Americanized.”

“No country can claim me,” she said. “I am from Johannesburg, Guadalajara, and New York City and I can tell you right now that this greasy miracle is the best hangover killer you’ll ever find.”

“Speaking of the world. Now that you work for the Americans, what’s the latest with your top secret clearance.” I used air quotes to tease her and took a seat at the breakfast bar. Thank God she’d made coffee. A fresh carafe sat on the countertop. I poured myself a cup.

Veronica smiled and picked a piece of bacon off my plate taking a crunchy bite. “You know I can’t talk to you about that,” she said. “I would tell you but then I’d have to kill you and women across the globe would mourn the loss of Marco Amador, the hottest and most eligible billionaire bachelor on the planet.”

“Seriously, is that true,” I said.

“About the women? I have no idea. But it is true. I am a trained assassin.”

“You are scary, you know that.”

Veronica held a cup with her slender fingers and leaned against the stove while she talked. “I’ve made a change since last year. I work for the DEA now.”

“Drugs.” I almost choked on my eggs.

“Yes, drugs. I’m working on a few things in the area.”

“In Sayulita?” I asked, my heart racing. I didn’t care about protecting my father at all, but I suddenly felt nervous and embarrassed. I did not want Veronica to know anything about my father’s shameful practices.

“No, I don’t care about the reefer smoking surfers who fill this town,” Veronica said. She leaned down and grabbed another piece of my bacon taking a bite and lowering her voice. “I’m after the big bad, scumbags that turn women and children into mules. Men who use drug money to exploit young girls and control the poor. There are some seriously evil people out there, Marco. You don’t want to know the things I’ve seen.”

“Speaking of the things you’ve seen, I need to make a couple of calls and see if I can clean up the shit storm I caused last night.” I spun around on my bar stool anxious to change the subject.

“Marco,” Veronica said. “When will you learn my friend?”

“Apparently I need to suffer more and potentially write a check to the manager of el Pescador.”

There was a knock at the front door.

“You expecting visitors?” Veronica asked, eyebrows rising.

“No,” I said, picking up my phone. Eleven missed calls.

My stomach clenched. Was it possible Carmella had taken my unresponsiveness as a call to action? “She wouldn’t come here, would she?” I asked, thinking out loud.

“She?” Veronica asked.

“So, it might be Carmella. She called ten times this morning maybe eleven. It’s possible she’s pretty pissed off.”

“I see.” Veronica glanced at the door. “This may seem strange, but don’t tell her I’m here.”

“You visit me every year. She’ll know . . .”

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