Page 11 of Girls Night
La Carnicera – Yolanda Olson
Prologue
I lean back in my chair and blow out a cloud of smoke. I’ve been waiting for this piece of shit to wake up for hours now, and I’m starting to get bored.
Patience is a virtue, and I didn’t earn the title as one of the best sicarios of El Señor by being sloppy.
Information is a delicate thread that needs to be carefully unraveled as to not undo the proverbial sweater before its time.
Raising my legs, I bend my knees and run a hand down my thigh. The feeling, the taste, and the sight of blood has always been something of an aphrodisiac for me but not this time. And definitely not with this fucking traitor.
One of the men that were supposed to guard the second most prosperous farm in Culiacán was not only caught sleeping on the job but, more importantly, allowing sicarios from a rival cartel to come in and reap El Señor’s profits.
Was he upset about it?
No, but I was.
I asked him to let me take care of it. To make an example out of this fucking pig so that no one else would ever take advantage of his goodwill, and when he agreed, I felt my heart swell with pride.
“Anything for my little girl.”
I smile at the memory.
He ruffled my hair and gave me his blessing as he often tends to do when I really want something because he knows I will always be eternally grateful for his hospitality.
I think he also knows that I’m on the hunt for the bastards that shot down my innocent family during the turf war.
It’s been fifteen years since it happened, but the wound is still fresh and bleeds regularly.
Tatianna, the young girl I met the day he took me home, the one that would become my new sister, has always tried her best to take my mind off the past, and sometimes, she succeeds.
But it’s moments like this that I revel in, and even she knows that my lust for revenge isn’t something that will be quenched until I’ve killed the men responsible.
With each bastard that falls at my feet, I feel like I’m closer to accomplishing my goal.
Maybe one day,I think with a chuckle as I place my bare feet back on the dusty, wooden floor and stand up.
“Levántate,” I command the traitor loudly as I roughly shove the handle of the knife into the gaping wound in his neck. “I don’t have all fucking day for this.”
A whimper.
A gasp.
A sob.
The smell of fresh piss as it runs down the legs in fear.
It’s always the fucking same.
Next will come a plea of mercy, which I’ve become quite good at ignoring. No one listened to my mother’s cries for mercy before she fell to the ground, cut down while holding me in her arms. She did her best to protect me from the gunfight and, in return, forfeited her own life.
I’ve had a slight limp ever since.
A stray bullet ricocheted and hit me just below the knee as I ran, but I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t.
If I died too, who would restore my family’s honor?
