Page 55 of El Malo

At some point.

I can feel it buzzing in my veins as though it’s a living, breathing entity. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’ve chewed my once long nails down to tiny, bloody nubs. He says I’m not to clean the house, but I sometimes find myself going behind the other maids and dusting or mopping just to clear my head.

“Javier said no liquor,” Angel says from behind me.

I turn to face him and unscrew the lid. “Are you going to take it from me?”

His jaw clenches. “I don’t know.”

“You won’t because if you touch me, Javier will feed you your own teeth,” I snap.

“Miss Rosa,” he groans. “Please.”

Shrugging, I tilt the bottle and take a long pull of the liquid fire. His fists clench and worry dances in his brown-eyed stare.

“Don’t worry, runt,” Marco Antonio mutters as he enters the kitchen. “He knows how stubborn she is. You’re off the hook. Go follow the leads you texted me about earlier. I’ve got this.”

Angel relaxes, seemingly relieved before he bolts from the kitchen. Marco Antonio prowls closer but stops a few feet away, leaning his hip against the counter.

“Actions like that could get the kid killed,” he muses aloud.

“Trying to take my tequila will get him killed,” I snap back.

Marco Antonio chuckles as he holds his hands up in defense. “Noted.” His eyes are penetrating as he regards me. I hate how he’s always searching for answers. He’s Javier’s most trusted man, so he’s always under the assumption I’m going to betray Javier in some way. His instincts are good. I will betray Javier. The agency is probably pulling together a task force to extract me as we speak. I learned that Javier burned down the hotel, which was our intelligence hub. Everything is falling to shit and they’ll be forced to act soon. Each creak of the house or bang of a shutter from the wind has me jumping out of my skin assuming the CIA is moving in on us.

I need to speak to Stokes.

Problem is, Michael is my contact. I am only to reach out to Stokes via unsecured lines if Michael has been compromised because it’s a risk to the entire operation. But I can’t keep sitting around doing nothing, hoping it will all just go away. Truth be told, I’d much rather just get absorbed into Javier’s world and forget I’m a CIA operative. At least Javier cares about me. It’s evident in his words and actions. Hell, he’s on a murderous hunt for someone who hurt me. His loyalty is fierce and unyielding.

My loyalty is nonexistent.

That’s not true, though. My feelings for Javier have clouded my judgment. And with Michael doing what he did, I’m overwhelmed with confusion. Right and wrong have switched teams, leaving me spinning between them.

“You’re going to get shitfaced,” Marco Antonio warns, his head dipping at me.

I realize I’ve been chugging the bottle. My body feels warm and the edginess is beginning to bleed from me, leaving me languid and relaxed. “So?”

“You need to stop. Javier will not be pleased.”

I arch a challenging brow at him, emboldened by the alcohol. “Touch me and he’ll kill you,” I threaten.

At this, he rolls his eyes. “I don’t want you, Rosa. Javier knows this. My loyalty is with him, and by proxy, you. However, if forced to choose, I’ll always choose him. He’s my brother.”

I know he doesn’t mean his actual brother, but they’re close as though they’re related. Sticking my tongue at him, I make a great show of taking another long pull of the alcohol. He glowers at me.

“I’ll forcibly take that from you,” he warns.

“You can try,” I snap.

With quick movements, he prowls my way. My movements are clumsy and sluggish, but I haven’t forgotten my training. I’ve taken down men bigger than him. I set the bottle down and reach for something to use as a weapon. The closest thing is an apple. I lob it at him and it thunks him in the head. It only serves to anger him. He lunges at me and I dip out of his intended grip. The knife block is close. I reach for it and grab hold of the meat cleaver. I swing it around, aiming for his fat head. His strong hand grips my wrist.

“You’re a fucking psycho, Rosa!”

I kick at him and land a hard hit to the side of his knee that has him faltering in surprise, but he doesn’t let go of my hand holding the knife. When I go to kick him again, he shoves me against the counter, using his weight against me. I’m no match for his two hundred plus pounds.

“Let me go!”

“No,” he growls. “You’re wasted because you haven’t fucking eaten anything in days and you’re losing your damn mind.”

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