Page 3 of El Malo

Rosa

Present…

“Your corners are messy,” I chide as I unfold the sheet and show my newest charge how to properly fold the linens. “Like this, Araceli.”

Araceli, an eighteen-year-old Mexican woman, watches with wide eyes as I show her. With time, she’ll learn how things run around here. I run a tight ship and they all must stay on their toes to keep up with my level of perfection.

I’m borderline OCD when it comes to this house.

No dust. No crinkles. No mess.

It must remain as clean as possible, for who lives within it is far from so.

“Let me try,” she says, determination in her tone. I love the fierce woman who lives beneath the unsureness and slight awkwardness. Araceli reminds me of myself ten years ago when I was her age.

I’ve grown into this hard, formidable woman.

Strength hidden behind a soft, sweet, compliant package.

I watch her fold the sheet, my eyes scrutinizing her work for errors. She flawlessly folds it and pride surges within me. “Excellent work, querida.”

She beams under my praise as I don’t give it often. Araceli has been working in the Estrada home for three weeks now and this is the first real compliment I’ve given her. When you work at a place like this, there’s no room for vulnerability and softness. You must always be striving for perfection and watching for danger.

“Run along and make the beds.”

Her dark brows scrunch together. “¿Señor Estrada?”

All warm thoughts leak from my body as cold settles in my bones. I lift my chin and pierce her with an icy stare. “No. Since when do you ever make Señor Estrada’s bed?”

She cowers under my biting words. “Never.”

“Never,” I agree. “Never. Only I am to be trusted in his room. I’ll make his bed and that is the end of this conversation.”

Her bottom lip quivers as though I’ve struck her. True, I may have a soft spot for little Araceli, but I can’t let her get too comfortable here. None of my ladies are. It’s unsafe. We must always be on guard, stay out of the way, and keep the house looking impeccable.

“I’m sorry, Rosa,” she murmurs.

I don’t correct her for not calling me Señorita Delgado. She’s upset and I’ll allow it this once. “Run along,” I snip.

Once she’s gone, I pick up the folded sheet and bring it to my nose. My heart clenches when I inhale the scent of lavender and detergent. I’d never realized the smell I associated with my mother was laundry detergent. And now, because of my job, I smell her every day. Each second of each day is a reminder of what I lost.

My eyes prickle, but tears don’t form. I’ve spent almost twenty years learning to harden my heart and block my emotions. The last four, I’ve specifically honed that skill. I’ve become like them. A jaguar stalking my prey. I’m good. Very good. None of them, especially him, suspect a thing.

And when the time is right, I’ll bring down every last one of them.

Until then, I lie in wait. Crouched low in the grass. My mouth watering and my claws sharp. Javier Estrada, the leader of El Malo, will be ripped to shreds by the time I’m done with him.

Patience is my friend.

My fuel.

My motherfucking sustenance.

Clearing my head with a slight shake, I carry the sheet to the closet. Once I’ve neatly tucked it inside, I smooth my palms over my crisp black uniform and stride through the massive almost eighteen-thousand-square-foot seaside mansion. All the windows are open facing the Pacific Ocean. The breeze is warm and it fills my lungs with a sense of purpose. I’m silent, my shoes not even making a squeak as I slip through the house. I check for dust on picture frames along the way. Yolanda and Silvia tend to get starry-eyed around the men at times and slack off. I have to stay on those two. Both women are too beautiful for their own good. One day, their beauty will get them hurt.

I stop in front of a giant mirror in the hallway and stare at my reflection. I study the glass for smears but really, I look at myself. I look at her. The spitting image of my mother. Wide brown eyes. Dark, almost black, sculpted brows. Full, naturally pink lips. My mocha brown hair that normally hangs in loose waves halfway down my back is pulled tight into a bun at the base of my neck. At work, I remain plain and hidden. I don’t want any attention on myself whatsoever. The diamond stud earrings that belonged to my mother are the only shiny piece of me. They catch the light and sparkle in my reflection.

Blood.

---