Chapter Eight – Zander
I used to think myself a man who always did what his boss told him to. Loyal, reserved, there to do anything for him. I was part of the Santos crew, though I’d only really gotten on Miguel’s radar because I ratted out someone who was in the process of ratting him and his illegal business out to the feds. It wasn’t just whiskey. No, the real money was had in other aspects, other merchandise. Miguel bartered and sold whatever he could get his hands on—drugs, weapons, whatever else you could think of.
But now… now I was starting to wonder.
It wasn’t the first time I’d caught myself wondering, but then again, this time was different. What he’d asked me to do was different. That day, when he and I had a little meeting outside of the house, one of the few times I wasn’t with Giselle during the daylight hours, when he’d sat across from me and told me in the most emotionless tone what he wanted me to do, was alive and vivid in my brain.
Miguel had sat there, sipping on whiskey that wasn’t his, for once. We were in what most would consider a gentlemen’s lounge, the lighting low and the tables small. Leather and black velvet all around; an establishment you’d only see in Cypress. He’d been wearing an all-black suit, even his tie. Black on black on black. Combine with his black hair and eyes, and he was the devil himself.
He had to be, with what he’d told me to do.
And I’d sat there, trying to take it all in, seeking to not give myself away even though I was pretty damned sure Miguel already knew. “Are you… this isn’t a joke?” That’s what I’d said, like a fool. Oh, what a fool I’d been.
The corner of Miguel’s mouth had smirked. The smallest hint of emotion, as if the man had any. “I am very serious, Zander. If you’re not up for the job, all you have to do is say so. You’re one of the best men I have. I trust you. Don’t tell me, after all this time, I’ve been wrong about you? I thought you were better than letting yourself get caught up by thinking with the wrong head.”
My cock. He’d meant my cock.
So, I’d told him what I had to in order to get out of that situation as quickly as I could: “I can do it.” Though I’d sounded quite confident, inside I was a ball of nerves. I wasn’t confident at all, not about this. This… what he’d asked me to do…
I never doubted myself, not really. Not my intentions, not the lengths I was willing to go to or the things I was willing to do in the name of loyalty, but this? There would be no coming back from this. No turning back time once it was done.
I’d hesitated. But then again, the whole night was full of hesitation. I’d watched her. She went to the Playground, probably to sleep with another stranger, or possibly in hopes that she’d find the same man she’d slept with the last time. It had ceased to matter to me, because I had other things to worry about.
Such as what Miguel had told me to do.
I’d waited in the shadows, wearing clothes that were much different than what I normally wore. A hoodie, baggy in size, its hood large enough to cover every discerning feature on my face, and its pocket more than big enough to carry the item that gave me so much trouble.
How many times had I used it? How many times had it been in my hands before, and I’d never thought twice of it? It was my fucking gun, for fuck’s sake. My bullets. My hot metal. Mine. I’d killed. I’d shot to inflict pain. I’d done so many things in life most people wouldn’t dream of doing, and yet there’d been nothing before quite like this.
Giselle had been in there for a while. I couldn’t count the minutes, my nerves too frayed. I’d simply stood there, waiting, my hands in my pocket, feeling the cold steel of the Glock. My mind was busy running back and forth, trying to find a way out of this, but I knew if I didn’t do it, Miguel would’ve just sent someone else to—and they would do it with no hesitation whatsoever, for they were not loyal to the daughter, but to the father.
Me? I worked for the father, but I couldn’t shake the thought that I had fallen so madly in love with the daughter I couldn’t imagine my life without her. As much as I didn’t want her to be with another man, if that’s what she had to do, then she could go do it. She could go do whatever it was she thought she had to, and I’d wait for her. I’d wait forever for that girl.
But those were thoughts of the past, because tonight I was supposed to kill her, leave her in a bloody heap on the sidewalk, abandon her in the middle of the night. Miguel hadn’t told me why, but I could put it together all the same.
He wanted to pin her murder on someone else. Maybe start something with the Hand. Miguel didn’t want to be on the Hand. No, he wanted to take the whole thing down and rule the city himself. Why share power when he could take it all for himself?
And what better way than to create an us versus them dynamic between the Hand and the rest of the wannabes? Miguel could lead them, use them, and then get rid of them when they tried to backstab him or became useless to him.
Miguel Santos was a man hungry for power, and he was ready to trade his daughter’s life in order to have it all.
What a sick, sick fuck.
I saw her right then, leaving the Playground in a hurry. She carried a quick pace, almost like she was running away. Though it pained me, I followed her. I crossed the street, walking behind her, making not a sound as I did so. She didn’t see me, too busy dealing with her own inner battle, whatever it was.
Even with her back to me, she was beautiful. Her long, yellow hair flowed in the night air, her slender body wearing nothing but a black dress. She was gorgeous, and I really did wish she knew it.
And then Giselle suddenly stopped running. She stood there just for a moment, her shoulders rising and falling as she endeavored to catch her breath. Her feet spread, and she was seconds from turning around, probably calm enough to go back to the home she’d snuck out of.
I pulled out the gun, lifted it just as she’d turned, aimed it right at her. My heart ached. Every part of me cried out in defiance. The man I’d strived to be for so long battled with the man I’d become thanks to Giselle, and I hoped, prayed that the hood’s shadows covered my face enough, so she wouldn’t know it was me.
Ironic. I didn’t want her to know it was me doing it, and yet I’d rather it be me than someone else.
It felt like it’d been hours since she’d turned and seen me with the gun, but in reality, only seconds passed. Her eyes widened, and though there had been thirty feet between us, it was like I stood inches from her.
Giselle wasn’t stupid. She knew there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. No cover to be had. And so, because of that, she didn’t do anything. There was nothing she could’ve done to stop the inevitable.
And this? This was inevitable, because of her fucking father.