Page 7 of Don't Trust Him

I’m a faithful fucking dog to Zario, though he does his best to treat me like a son because his other fuckwad actual sons could never be trusted with any part of the business.

Still, this is that moment where I know something is different.

The orphan boy who lives like a spartan, nothing of value to him, sees something he wants.

I don’t fail.

I know then that I will have her.

The other details seem way less important.

Like how I’m supposed to kill her?

Yeah, I’m pretty goddamn distracted.

I mentally shake my head, telling myself that this is how I get killed.

I don’t believe in distractions.

Or someone like me is going to be showing cop photos from vice to Zario of my mutilated fucking body.

Four

Eliza

“This better be good, Lorenzo,” I groan, sitting up on the bed with my phone pressed against my ear. I glance at the digital clock on the nightstand, and sigh heavily as 3:47 am blinks repeatedly on the screen.

“I wish.” From the tone of his voice, I can tell that he has just woken up as well. Good, at least I’m not the only one in pain right now. “I got a call from my contact in the Envigado.”

Shit. What do these fuckers want? Envigado is cartel that inherited the majority of Pablo Escobar’s operations when the policía snuffed him out over twenty years ago. Calling them a cartel is a misnomer though. Mostly, they keep to themselves and even act as mediators whenever there’s a major dispute in the international drug trade. Still, to get a call from them...that’s not a good omen.

“What the hell do they want?”

“The Mexicans are making a move,” Lorenzo breathes out, and I can feel the nervousness coating the words of my capo. The Mexicans, huh? Juan will probably shit his pants when I tell him. Or when he finds out.

“What kind of move?” I ask

“They know about what we’re looking for. Coke squared. And they’re looking for the formula as well,” he tells me. “The guys in Envigado got word that Zario’s men have been asking questions about the lab, trying to connect the dots. And they’re been rough about it, leaving a pile of bodies on their wake. Like Mexicans do.”

“Fuck,” I hiss through gritted teeth. I knew that the Mexicans would eventually show up to this dance, I just never thought they’d start making their moves this early in the game. “Who are we dealing with? Sinaloa? Juarez?”

Jesus fucking Christ, just not the Bonita Muerte assholes. I don’t want to spend the next few months dealing with those psychopath murdering fucks.

“Bonita Muerte,” Lorenzo whispers, almost as if he was too afraid to say the name of the cartel out loud. “Which turns our situation into a bonita mierda, Eliza.”

Well, at least he’s still trying to crack jokes, as lame as they might be.

“Fuck, we’ll have to move faster now.”

“Yes,” is all Lorenzo says. A moment later, he hangs up. He never says goodbye.

I sigh and look at my phone. It’s time to let Juan know.

“You heard?” is the first thing he asks when he picks up.

“The Mexicans?” I ask.

“Bonita Muerte,” he says with a sigh.

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