Page 81 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Chapter One - Nyx

I like to think of myself as a cool, calculating bitch. Okay…maybe not that cool. I have a bit of a temper, especially when I’ve spent two weeks on the calculating part but then random shit like what I’m seeing right now happens.

Then I turn into a bitch.

Two weeks.

That’s a lifetime when you’re a freelance assassin. I couldn’t accept any other contracts either, because this is a big one.

This is the hit.

I do this, and it’ll be the last crooked soul I lay to rest. Ever.

So yeah, there’s a lot at stake here. Reason why I’m so fucking pissed off that my entire plan is about to be derailed by the tall, dark, and hunky stranger who’s just stalked into the La Buena Papa restaurant like he owns the place.

It’s got nothing to do with the too-tight sports bra I’m wearing. Or the hoodie I have pulled up that’s annoying the crap out of me. Or even the fact that my mannish clothes smell gross and everything I’m wearing, except the sports bra, is a size too big.

They may all be contributing factors to the irritation flashing through me right now, but the trigger was definitely Mr. Throat Tattoo.

Although holy shit , but if this was any other time, any other place, I’d be eating up the sight of him like a blind man whose eyes suddenly started working.

But there’s no time for more than a quick ogle because Throat Tattoo is fucking with my plans in a big, big way.

Instead of going over to the counter of the charmingly decorated restaurant—they have a fetish for Dia de Los Muertos around here—the newcomer heads for the back of the room like a handsome, brooding arrow.

No burrito to go. No grabbing a seat by the window with a waiter delivering nachos to his table, where the lettuce and cheese would disappear against the bright green tables and yellow condiments tray.

He’s missing out. This place makes amazing food.

I figured that’s why Bryan Domingo, the Capo of the Domingo Cartel, visited this place three times a week.

It’s not.

Bryan comes here to get paid. And by the looks of it, he’s making bank. Now why a capo would go to the risk of accepting cash out in the open like this is beyond me—well, it was until a few days ago.

Domingo has a standing reservation every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Today’s Friday, and it was supposed to be the last day I spent stalking this despicable man.

I’ve been popping in here as often as I dare, scoping out the place and, more importantly, creating a detailed routine for Domingo.I’ve made a comprehensive list of his comings and goings.

He’s very regular. I mean that in every way.

In five minutes, he’s scheduled for a bathroom break that’ll last for at least ten minutes.

Fifteen at the most. Depends if he had the burritos or the nachos the day before.

Today, I’m betting on fifteen. Which gives me more than enough time to finish the job.

Then Throat Tattoo waltzes in here.

Bryan’s eyes widen in surprise when he sees the man striding up to his booth at the back of the restaurant.

Throat Tattoo could be one of the guys coming here to pay off Bryan, but I dismiss the thought pretty much the instant it arrives.

Bryan only sees three payees a day, and that’s already been checked off my list. Plus, it’s obvious from the way Bryan’s face changes when he sees Throat Tattoo that their relationship is different.

Not better…just different.

Then there’s the new guy himself. He’s not some average Joe.

His clothes are casual—dark jeans, a white T-shirt, a faded leather jacket.

But he has an expensive haircut, shoes that probably cost more than my goddamn phone, and as soon as he pushes through the jangling door of the restaurant, he scans the place like he’s detecting land mines or police wires.

And he gives me a double take that sends my heart pattering slightly faster than it did a second ago.

I do my best not to flinch, and I guess I pass whatever inspection he’s giving every single customer in this place because he moves on to the handful of random locals who just happened to stop by the same time the head of a cartel is adding a few million to his bank balance.

Or the secret vault in his three-level, 6,000-acre villa. Whatev.

My suspicions about Throat Tattoo are confirmed when Bryan stands up and puts out a hand to greet him. Business partner? Partner in crime…family?

But no. All it takes is for Throat Tattoo to turn and glance back over his shoulder, surveilling La Buena Papa one last time, for me to see the resemblance.

Same charcoal eyes. Same severe jawline. And I’m sure if Bryan’s hair hadn’t become salt-and-pepper colored, it would be the same glossy black as Throat Tattoo’s.

Gotcha!

I realize I’m tapping my fingernail against the side of my beading soda can and hurriedly stop.

I was given minimal intel about the Domingos, but I did my own research online.

This juicy slice of key lime pie must be Caesar El Salvaje Domingo, Bryan’s only son.

But he could also be Vito, Caesar’s first cousin.

There might be family resemblance there too.

Does it matter?

Nope.

What matters is that things have changed and I have to figure out if this is happening or not.

I assess the restaurant again. There are five other customers.

One of them is part of the cartel but pretends as if he isn’t.

The other is a couple with a baby in a stroller, an old guy who apparently can’t get enough of this place’s refried beans, and a kid who should be in school and not hanging out at a Colombian restaurant.

I can’t blame the kid. I quit a year into middle school.

Am I doing this?

My heart skips a beat as I go through my plan. It’s perfect, of course—I made sure of it—but now there’s an unknown element.

A bell rings, barely audible over the Latin music blaring through the tiny speakers attached to the beams. That’s another reason Bryan likes this place—it’s off the main road, it’s not that busy, the food is great, and they play their music loud enough that I wonder how many of the staff have developed tinnitus after working here a few months.

The guy behind the counter turns and converses inaudibly with the man handing him a plate of food.

It’s mine, and I’ve timed it to perfection.

Fucking Throat Tattoo.

I shake off my irritation, keeping my head low as the cashier brings my plate over to me. I’m not in the least hungry—I never eat on the days I have to kill someone—but I make as if to pick up one of my tacos and then hesitate.

It’s all part of the plan.

I always order tacos. I always wait until the food arrives before realizing my hands are grubby—I made sure of that by rubbing them in dirt and crusting some of it under my fingernails—and I always finish my soda on the way to the bathroom and toss it in the toilet’s trash can.

The men’s toilet. Because I’m dressed like a man.

I scratch my balls like a man.

I even pee standing up…like a man. Not because of rigorous training or some strange birth defect—but a clever contraption I found online used to fake urine tests.

I chose a medium-sized penis.

I didn’t want to attract attention or sympathy.

Keep reading Savage Hero…