Page 24 of The Twins

Amira Romero.

Over the two years that I’ve known of her existence, I kept her in my mind to motivate me to do better so that the next time I’d have an opportunity to save her, I’d grab it by the fucking balls.

I flex every muscle I’ve worked on for weeks.

There’ll be no stammering or tears tonight. Fuck that.

While I might be considered a pussy for my weapon of choice while on duty, today, I’ve brought a machine gun like my besties downstairs. I hear them as they rummage through the property, destroying the house and killing Martí’s staff.

It gives me the strength to continue my search.

“Vení!” Come here!

The words make me stop dead in my tracks. Oh, this is better than fucking. I’m enjoying this more than I’ve ever enjoyed anything in my miserable rich white boy life.

I haven’t even reached the final floor, and there he is, the infamous prick, Máximo Martí. His pants aren’t buttoned, hanging low and showing me half his ass. That’s fucking disgusting. He wears no shirt. That’s another major gag attack for me.

The biggest no-go?

He’s yelling at Amira to move her ass and join him. I don’t look at her, just in case he’s hurt her, and it affects me like it did the last time I witnessed her pain. It’s a pussy move, but I’m two seconds away from saving her tonight. I can act like a pussy if I want to!

Today, I don’t let him touch her with his nasty words or his filthy hands. I charge at him from behind, forgetting all about my gun. I won’t let him die on bullets. I’ll kill him with my hands.

I’ll feel the excitement of his death tickle my fingertips.

I want to carry the dirt of his final moment under my nails.

Martí folds underneath me like he knows that his end is near. I don’t have to secure him. He doesn’t see me, but he’s bowed down to the fact that I run the show now.

“Any last words, fucker?”

He spits at my feet, and I kick him in the groin. He moans around enough for Amira to gasp. Not on my watch. She’s done seeing this bitch as her husband. He isn’t. It’s time for somebody who deserves the name to fucking bear it.

Then again, thinking that I have a right to own her now is backward. I’m solely saving her. Since she’s the wife of a boss down here, she’ll be better off on my side of the border and under the Chief’s protection. If, of course, he’ll grant it to her. Which I hope he does or else.

I’m here to get Amira to America safely through my chosen set of traffickers. That’s a decent cause, isn’t it? Strange and certainly not heroic, but it’s good enough.

I’m a killer. I do as told, taking care of my assignments without any issues from Big Daddy or any other superiors. I’m not known for my torture skills. I’m in, and I’m out. It’s the easiest way not to get caught up on an ego trip.

Yes, I’ve got the upper hand right now. My friends are killing Martí’s people downstairs, and I’m up here with my hand around his throat. But I don’t have to gloat. For what? He spent years raping and abusing this woman.

He doesn’t deserve special attention on his death day.

Martí arches his back the moment he senses that I’m adding pressure to his neck, but it’s too late for him to fight back. He’s had enough fights in his life. This will be a one-sided affair.

I inhale sharply and I shove him off my body. As he crashes with the floor, I pounce on him. He wakes up, and he fights back, but my adrenaline spikes. I smash his head against the cold surface of the floor, and I don’t stop until I’ve heard enough beautiful sounds, the cracking of his skull engraved in my memory. His arms flop around, and his legs lift for an attack, but I sit my weight on him.

I break him until he bleeds out, forgetting that Amira is watching.

“Máximo?”

Her voice is raw with hurt, unlike anything I imagined on my way here. Of course, she’s not a soft-spoken angel. She’s a woman, a human with flaws and needs.

Right now, she has to be removed from this site. Lucky for me, she’s not visibly hurt. She’s in jeans and a loose shirt, seemingly having dressed in a faster fashion than her fake husband.

I step away from Martí, who’s currently heaving on the floor. I cover the sight with my body, and Amira shifts to see him.

Her eyes are wet. I can’t decide whether she’s crying or drugged. She murmurs his name, whispering it to the depths of my soul.

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