Page 20 of The Twins

Vegas

OLÓN, ECUADOR - SEVEN YEARS AGO

My careerunder Big Daddy’s expiration date looms close.

In a run-down car that stinks of fish, I sit on a faint hill overseeing a secluded set of villas near Olón’s beach.

I’m a creep. I’ll admit that. I haven’t showered in days. I’m cranky, on edge.

Since I left Katantia, things haven’t been the same.

I came home to San Ricardo only to feel alienated by my own life. The pretending wasn’t fun anymore. The lies didn’t amuse me. Watching a mobster bitch’s son wasn’t all that Big Daddy had outlined it to be.

Thankfully, my brother’s been busy overseas this time of the year. He hasn’t come home to witness my mental breakdown.

I left San Ricardo the moment I could, and I made my way down south.

And now, I’m in Ecuador.

Olón, to be exact.

I’m going to be fired soon, but I don’t care. This is unprofessional, but I don’t fucking care. I used resources solely meant for the government? I DON’T CARE.

I’m down here now, and I’ve got a clear vision of Márti and his… wife. He’s not raping a bloodied Amira right now. Her clothes aren’t torn. Her hair’s not messy. She’s not numbed out, unconscious.

The jury’s still out on the numbed-out part.

They’re at the beach, surrounded by ten men.

My sources say that Martí has 150 men at his disposal, frequently exchanging guards to keep up the unpredictability of his security plans. He travels with fifty men, most of whom are dispersed around town, keeping an eye on anything suspicious.

AKA people like me, people who want to harm the motherfucker. I had my chance in Katantia, didn’t I? He roamed around the palace without a care in the world. The royals had their own security there, and it supposedly covered every corner of the island. I infiltrated their lousy system on my first day there, and I abused their negligence until Travis Cross, the head of security, sent me packing.

Outside of Katantia, Máximo Martí employs an army of cunts to protect his tiny ass.

Fifty men stay back home to protect his property from invasion.

The other fifty are all over the country, doing God knows what.

My sources say he’s trimmed down his operations in the past four years. They also say that he’s pussy-whipped by Alexis Nina Blanco. Isn’t this the most precious coincidence? Blanco. White.

She’s legally named Blanca, but they refer to her as Blanco. It’s an intimidation tactic.

The bitch is here, too. I’ve seen her torment Amira in public more often than I can count and thinking of it makes me lose my appetite. I may not sleep these days, but I eat. And the food is delicious. I’ve tasted half the town’s calamari, bolón de verde, and patacones while stranded out here, studying Martí and his entourage from afar.

It’s only been a couple of weeks, two at most.

Amira’s healed. There are no visible scars. The first time I set eyes on her on my drone feed, I cried. I was glad that she was alive. I studied her behavior, her movements. In Martí’s presence, she’s timid.

Once he turns away, her face changes. She watches the surfer waves, plays with the sand. She soaks in the sun like she’s on vacation alone, finding herself after being lost. There isn’t much left in this woman, and it breaks me to see her like this. I wish we’d have met under different circumstances, but we didn’t.

The first time I saw her was in Katantia, and she had just been beaten bloody by her husband, Máximo Martí. To add insult to injury, the moment I found them, he’d been raping her while she was unconscious.

And what did my silly ass do?

I let my body take over, sending me into an early departure from the scene. I fucking fainted like a weakling when all I’d wanted was to rip this bitch’s head off for abusing his wife like that.

It’s been weeks since I met her, but she’s stayed with me ever since. She’s my guiding light in all of this, and the end goal is to get her out of here.

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