Page 19 of El Malo

I flit my gaze over to her hands. She wrings the bottom of her dress in a nervous manner. If she was fucking spying like Mr. Conspiracy Theory thinks, she’d be relaxed. Not this. The woman is rattled. A bit curious but mostly uneasy. But she’s riding around with Guerrero’s biggest monster. A devil in an expensive suit with a disarming smile. She better feel unnerved.

She doesn’t ask any more questions until we pull up to the shed.

“Stay,” I bark, pinning her with a hard stare. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

Alejandro grumbles. “I don’t get to come, do I?”

He knows his job. Fucking babysit my hot maid.

“Nope.”

“Figures. I really hate that dickhead.”

I shrug as I climb out of the Hummer. “I’ll save you a finger.”

Rosa gasps, but I don’t spare her a glance. Most women in the city know the level of crime here. And, she of all people, knows I’m the one who stirs the fucking pot. I stride over to the key panel and punch in the code. I’m gained entry and I step into the dark metal building. As soon as the door slams closed behind me, I hear him.

“Help! Someone help me!”

Velez.

I crack my neck and roll it along my shoulders to stretch out the tension. Having Rosa on my mind is screwing with my thoughts. It’s not often I’d prefer to take home a woman than rip off a man’s fingers with a pair of pliers.

I walk through the empty building until I find the room in the back. Bright light shines below the door. Pushing into the room, I let satisfaction roll through me to see my victim sitting bound to a chair.

Naked.

Mayor Velez likes to get naked after all.

With fucking underage boys.

As soon as he sees me, his face crumples. Tears stream down his face and I haven’t even done anything. Yet.

“Buenas tardes, Alcalde.” Good evening, Mayor. I unbutton my smoke-gray linen Versace jacket and slide it down my arms. I hang it from a hook on the wall. This suit cost me nearly fifty-six thousand pesos. I’m not keen on soiling it with the mayor’s blood, sweat, and tears. A lightweight durable suit where you don’t sweat your balls off in the Acapulco heat is hard to come by.

“N-No, p-please,” he begs.

Ignoring him, I walk over to the far wall and pull down my rubber apron. I slide it over my head and tie it around my back. The putrid scent of piss fills the air and I groan. Thank fuck the little shit is sitting over a drain. When I’m done with him—whenever that might be—I’ll hose him down and all evidence of our fun will slide down the tiny hole at his feet.

“I can get you the money.”

“You didn’t, though,” I say as I unbutton my cuffs and start rolling one sleeve up.

“I needed m-more t-time, Señor Estrada.” He sobs. “P-Por favor.”

He begs and pleads as if this will sway my decision. I roll up my other sleeve to my elbow and then walk over to the toolbox. “You know how things work, hijo de puta.” I hold up a hammer and inspect it in the light before setting it down. “You obey or you don’t.” I pick up the pliers. “Sencillo.” Simple.

“Not simple,” he argues, his voice reaching shrill heights. “M-My wife. She would have killed me for t-taking the money from our savings and—”

“I. Will. Kill. You,” I roar as I stalk over to him. My Gucci leather shoe splashes in his piss puddle and it makes me want to grab him by his thinning hair so I can punch his fucking skull in. Dealing with this motherfucker was not on the agenda. Hours ago, I had my finger inside the tight pussy of a beautiful woman. Had this asshole not fucked up my day, who knows where I would’ve gotten with her. But now I have to go get back into the car with her smelling like this dickhead’s piss.

“I promised my bodyguard I’d bring him a souvenir,” I say with a manic grin. “I wonder what he’d like. A finger? A toe? Your tongue?”

He trembles, but there’s nowhere for him to go. His wrists are bound behind him and tied to the chair. Each ankle is tied to a leg of the chair. I lift my leg and step on his small, limp old man cock with my soiled shoe, pressing it into the chair beneath him. He howls in pain when I dig my toe forward, smashing his balls too.

“Please d-don’t cut off my penis,” he begs, snot running from his nose over his salt and pepper mustache.

“Oh, Velez, such little imagination. You’ve been watching too many American eighties movies. I’m not the bad guy from a Sylvester Stallone movie. Nobody is coming to save you. You’re not going to free yourself from your bindings and punch your way out of this shit.” I playfully slap his sweaty face. “And I’m not going to cut your little pecker off. I don’t have my tweezers with me to find the damn thing,” I say, my lips turning up in a predatory smile. “The things I have planned for you are much more violent.”

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