Page 87 of The Crowned Garza

“Of course, of course.” He waves us in, and I don’t miss the way his deep-set eyes under bushy eyebrows linger lecherously on my cleavage.

Neither does Saint.

The apartment is an unkempt mess, but underneath it all is a luxury suite with quality furniture and high-end appliances.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.

“No,” Saint answers before I can. “Won’t be long. We have a plane to catch.”

The man nods and moves to sit on the arm of the couch as he lights up his cigarette. “What did you want to check up on, boss?”

Guy slips his hands into his pockets, assuming a relaxed stance. “The tenants in D403, no idea how they got my contact, but they’ve been leaving me all sorts of complaints about you.”

The man’s jaw clenches before he quickly clears all signs of anger and takes another puff of his cancer stick.

“According to their reports,” Saint continues, “you’ve been messing with their electricity and plumbing in order to get into their apartment to sexually harass them. Also said the female tenants have stopped going out to the pool area because you, and I quote, ‘keep going out there to harass them, make vulgar comments about their bodies, and try to feel them up. And if they push back, you threaten to get them evicted.’ Any of this true?”

“Ah, come on,capo, of course none of that is true.” He squeezes the butt of his cigarette. “Those two cunts in 403 have been trying to hop on mycazzo for months now. But I see, it looks like this is how they are trying to get back at me for not being interested.”

Saint nods, as if he understands. “Yeah, whores can be like that. I should have known that was the case when they said they caught you forcing a little girl to suck your cock in the emergency stairwell. That you pulled a gun and threatened to sic your ‘cartel friends’ on them when they intervened. Shit sounded made up, you know?”

Why’s Saint talking like that? It’s weird. Like he’s emulating a douchebag. Also,what the fuck?

“Of course it’s all made up!” the man booms. “You don’t give a cunt the time of day and this is the kind of stunt they pull.” He straightens from the arm of the couch and shakes his head, hands on hips. “You should evict them,capo. Those bitches clearly have it out for me. There is no way I can work here like this. It’s either me or them.”

“You’re right. That seems to be the only course of action. I don’t have the time for these games, you know?” He checks his watch. “Anyway, I have to run, get this girl on her flight.” He holds out his hand. “But in the meantime, keep up the work you’re doing here. All’s good.”

The man puffs out his chest with pride as he steps up and shakes Saint’s hand. “Thank you,cap—”

It happens in a literal blur. Too quickly for me to see it happen, let alone process that it did. One second they’re shaking hands, and in the next second blood is spilling from a precise slash across the man’s thick neck.

I saw it all. And still… I. Saw. Nothing.

Eyes wide, the man drops to his knees, his tattooed hands clutching his throat, scarlet red seeping through his fingers. As he gurgles to his death, Saint plants one foot to his chest and applies just enough force to knock him onto his back. Then, unhurriedly, he moves to crouch by the man’s head and uses the tip of his barely visible knife to carve a cross in the center of his forehead.

When he’s done, he straightens and looks down at him with a blank expression, waiting patiently for him to die.

“Cigarette,” I tell him, pointing to the man’s cancer stick that’s burning a small black patch into the area rug.

Saint cocks his head and stares at me for a beat, a slight furrow between his brows, before he blinks, shakes his head, and outs the cigarette with his shoe.

There isn’t even a smidge of visible blood on his white shirt.How?

A minute later, possessing less patience than he does, I grumble, “He’s taking a long time to die.”

“Death is lazy about its job sometimes.”

“What, you mean it might be down in its abyss Deathflix and chilling and doesn’t wanna be bothered?”

“Or in the middle of getting its rocks off.” He shrugs. “Sometimes it requires a stronger call. But I’m trying to be…clean. Because you’re here.”

“Just…do what you would do if I weren’t here.”

With that, I leave in search of the bathroom.

First door on the left down the hall. Hands slightly trembling, I dig around in the cabinets for disinfecting wipes and alcohol, while taking slow, deep breaths to calm my racing heartbeat.

When I return to the living room, the man is stiffly dead, a gaping hole in his clavicle.