Orlando grabbed my wrists, pulling them down until I had to relinquish my grip around his neck. He gasped for air. “I didn’t kill him! Your daughter did!”
For the second time I felt like the earth had dropped out from under me. I could only manage to mumble, “Paris?”
“Yes, Paris,” Orlando said angrily as he rubbed his throat. “I told you about her. We’ve all told you about her. She’s out of control, and now she’s killed Miguel, the only chip we had over Alejandro.”
“No, Orlando,” I said as I walked away in anger. “She didn’t just kill our only chip. She killed Alejandro’s only son. And she may as well have killed your brother Rio too.”
Paris
34
“Hey, watch it!” I yelled. I had just stepped over a puddle, careful not to mess up my shoes, but the two burly men shadowing me didn’t have such concerns. The heavy-footed one stomped down, splashing the back of my legs, as well as the Alexander McQueens I was trying to protect.
I glared at both of them, lifting my hand in a fist. One of them flinched, prepared to defend himself with the revolver he probably kept holstered inside his suit jacket, and I almost laughed out loud. If I wanted to take him out, he would have already been on the ground. I stopped to wipe the drops of muddy water off my calves, scowling at the stains on my shoes. Now my palm was wet and dirty, so I dried it on the front of the guy’s black jacket. Neither of them reacted—no complaining and no apology. Instead, they just motioned for me to continue walking straight ahead. Sucking my teeth, I turned and resumed trudging on the uneven ground.
As we entered the building, Orlando passed us on his way out, looking evil and not saying a word. He was not a happy camper when he busted in on me taking out Miguel, but now he looked straight up heated. What the fuck was up his ass? I was the one in trouble. Or was I? Perhaps Daddy saw things my way and Mr. High and Mighty was sent home with his tail between his legs.
At the end of my escorted walk, we entered a room where Junior’s men were huddled around him, talking, and my father was standing off to the side, talking on his cell phone. I walked over to Daddy, who immediately ended his phone call.
“Daddy, you wanted to see me?” I asked warily.
“She clean?” he shouted over my shoulder to the men who’d brought me there. It wasn’t like him not to look me in the eyes when he spoke. Under normal circumstances, it would’ve made me feel guilty and insignificant. Instead, it made me a little bit fearful this time. He looked almost too calm. Calm wasn’t good when it came to my father, because it usually meant he was about to explode.
“Yeah,” one of the men replied.
“No. They missed one,” I quickly corrected, kicking myself for being so honest. “I’ve got a thirty-two in my garter holster.”
“You fucked up!” He smacked me with a gloved backhand that knocked me off my feet. I went tumbling to the worn wooden planks and almost unholstered my stashed .32 on instinct. I bounced back up, shaking off any signs of weakness I’d just displayed. I was a soldier. I was his soldier.
“Daddy, I—”
“Shut up!” he yelled, punching me directly in the face as he would a man.
As I fought back the quivering of my bloody lips, his men remained still, not coming to my aid. It was better that way. I didn’t want their pity.
“Don’t you dare interrupt me!” he continued. “Do you understand? I sure as hell hope you do, because I am dead fucking serious.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” I answered, holding back tears. He ignored the fact that I was still strapped, or else he just didn’t care. I could have blown him away right then and there—but he knew I wouldn’t. That was why he let me keep it. He knew I loved him as any girl should love her father. I wouldn’t raise a hand to him.