Kiss Kill Vanish (34 page)

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“Are you smiling?”

“No.”

“You think this is funny?”

“Not at all. I'm just picturing you swinging a lamp into Emilio's head, and it's a nice image for me.”

I allow myself a grin.

“How badly did you hurt him?”

“I don't know. There was a lot of blood, but he was still trying to run after me, so it's not like I killed him. I could hear him calling my name.”

“I can't believe I delivered you to him,” he mutters. “You realize if you hadn't cracked his head open, you'd be handcuffed to his refrigerator right now.”

I shake my head. “Maybe he was going to arrest me.”

“For what? You hadn't done anything. He just wanted you out of the way so you couldn't warn your father.”

“And do you think I'd do that?”

“Warn your father?”

I nod.

“I don't know. Would you?”

I don't have an answer. It seems like something I should know instinctively, something I shouldn't have to weigh out to decide.

Marcel picks up my left foot and examines it. “This one isn't as bad, I don't think.”

But the left isn't numb from picking yet, so it's excruciating all over again as he digs out the first sliver. My right is still throbbing, but it's a different kind of pain now that the shards are out. Pulsing but no pressure. “I don't want my father to go to jail for the rest of his life, even if he deserves it. Which he does. I should hate him now that I know who he is, but he's still my father. I—” I stop short of saying
I still love him.
I don't know.
“But I don't want to save him, either.”

“Doesn't seem like you'll have to.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Whether you warn your father or not, Emilio has to assume that's what you're doing. He's probably already called off whatever he had planned for tonight.”

I sift through the fragments of my conversation with Emilio. It's all so muddled. I wish I'd been clearer headed. “I don't think so. Emilio wants to catch him with the drug shipment that comes in this morning.”

“That was before you got away,” Marcel says. “I bet you anything he's changing his plans now.”

I laugh. It feels surprisingly good. “Maybe you're right.”

“Of course I'm right.”

“He's been doing everything to avoid having his cover blown, and now, because of me, he's totally screwed.”

“He deserves it.” Marcel wipes the tweezers on the towel, leaving a streak of blood behind them.

“He might just forget the shipment and move in on Papi faster, though.”

Marcel is quiet for a moment. “What do you want to do, then? Whose side are you on?”

I look away, out the sheer curtains into the bay where yachts are bobbing like toy boats. They're both liars and killers. They both used me. “Neither.”

“So do nothing. Go back to Montreal, or to Spain, or wherever you want to hide, and let whatever happens happen.”

“But if I walk away and my father ends up—”

“It won't be your fault. Nobody forced your father to be who he is.”

What he's saying is true. The picture of Yolanda Rojas still burns in my mind. I know what Papi deserves.

“You aren't even flinching,” Marcel mumbles. “Doesn't this hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

He holds up another sliver. “I think this is the last one. Pass me the Neosporin.”

I hand it to him. “I don't want Emilio to win either.”

“You want them both to lose.”

“What if I convince Emilio I've turned on Papi and want to help?”

“Might be a little hard. You did just try to kill him.”

I run a hand through my hair. The humidity has changed it already, made it wavy again. It feels like mine. “That can be explained—I overreacted, I thought he was going to hurt me.”

“Why would he believe you?”

“Because he knows how repulsed I am by the things my father has done. He showed me pictures. . . .” I can't explain that part. I shake my head. “I could make him believe that I want Papi behind bars.”

“And then . . .”

“And then sabotage whatever he has planned for tonight.”

“Valentina, it's the FBI you're talking about messing with. And sabotage? Seriously? What do you even have in mind?”

“I don't know, but if I walk away, Vizcaya is going to be a bloodbath. Papi and his guys aren't going to go down without a fight, and obviously Emilio and whatever team he comes storming in with will all have weapons. Innocent people will be there. My sisters will be there. Emilio isn't thinking about anything but his own ego and about taking Papi down in the biggest way possible.”

“Should I bother pointing out that you can't walk, or is that not a concern?”

I look down at my feet. Strips of white medical tape wrap around the tops, holding the gauze in place. The throbbing is fading. “I'll be okay. They hurt much less now that the shards are out.”

Marcel stares at the floor. “You're crazy, and I'm not taking you back there. He could do anything to you. There's no way the FBI knew he was using you like he did.”

“Which is why he'll
want
to believe that I've turned against Papi.”

“But he's safer if you're out of the picture, and you already know he has no problem breaking rules.”

“I have to call him.”

“Listen to yourself! That's insane! Why don't we just take off?”

“I'm not running away again!” It comes out too loud. I don't want to be yelling at Marcel. “You have no idea what it's like to find out your entire life is a lie, and that the people you loved the most were using you.”

“Right.” He moves the pillow and my feet off his lap and stands up. “No idea.”

I glance around the room, spotting the phone on the far bedside table. “I have to call him now. Before he does anything drastic.”

“Before
he
does anything drastic?” Marcel waves a hand at my feet. “You're a mess, still bleeding all over the place, and you're going to go running back to him so you can blindly screw with a federal investigation?”

“I'm not letting him get away with using me!”

“So you'd risk your life for revenge.”

My life. I don't even know what that is anymore. It's a reaction. It's a lie. It's being an object for other people to use. “Yes.”

Marcel holds up his hands and walks toward the bathroom without looking at me. His fingers and knuckles are caked with my blood, and he's muttering something I can't hear.

Over the sound of the faucet I shout, “I'll tell him I want to be there to see him arrest Papi.”

The water turns off. “And why would he let you do that?”

“Because he's afraid of me. Like you said.”

Marcel reappears in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he's afraid to come back in.

“Help me,” I say.

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you're my friend. Because you hate Emilio.” I swallow, and close my eyes. He deserves to know. “Because Lucien didn't kill himself.”

He freezes. His lips are parted slightly, his eyes are trained unblinkingly on the gauzy curtains and out into the bay of toy boats. The air between us is dead. He's stiller than a painting, all the blood and breath far from the surface. He's a statue held captive in a moment of agony.

I swing my legs off the side of the bed and stand. Painful, but not debilitating. I hobble toward him. Every muscle in his face is tight, like a cage around his mind. I put my hand up to his jaw. Nothing happens. His skin is warm, his jawbone rigid, and I realize I thought he would melt or respond in some way. He's not melting.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“You think, or you know?” he mumbles.

“I know. Before last night, I only suspected, but when I confronted Emilio, he didn't deny it.”

“But . . . why?”

“He said it was because Lucien would tell my father we were together in Montreal, and that would ruin the investigation. He needed to stay in my father's inner circle.”

Marcel swallows and says it first. “Maybe Lucien found out who Emilio really was.”

“Maybe.”

Marcel blinks, still lost in the bay.

I wait for his sadness, but when it doesn't come, when his eyes narrow, I know I've won.

I put my hand on his chest, half expecting him to flinch or push me away, but he doesn't. “You'll help me?” I ask.

“I'll help you.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
dial Emilio's number. My hand trembles as I bring the phone to my face. It's ringing. I've rehearsed every word with Marcel, but now all I can think of is the sound of Emilio screaming my name as I ran. Like a monster.

Marcel sits across the room on the couch, frowning at the room service menu, pretending he isn't listening. I twist my body around so I'm facing the head of the bed, dragging my aching feet with me and propping them on a new pillow.

“Hello?”

I close my eyes and make him wait.

“Hello?” He sounds angry.

“It's me.”

“Valentina.”

My name.
My
name. And like that, my nerve is back, because he has no right to say
my
name like that, like he owns me, like he thinks he only has to say the right words and I'll do whatever he wants me to do.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“At a hotel.”

“You didn't go to your father's?” I love the disbelief in his voice. He must've spent the last two hours freaking out.

“Of course not.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Of course not. Just because I hate you doesn't mean I'm running back to him.”

Emilio is silent, appraising my answer, recalculating his plan. “You shouldn't have attacked me. We could've talked about this like reasonable human beings.”

“I'm not very good at talking like a reasonable human being when I'm handcuffed and sedated and whatever else you were going to do to me.”

“What are you talking about? You know I'd never hurt you.”

“I don't know that,” I say.

“My head's still bleeding, by the way.”

“Good.”

“Come back,” he says, suddenly gentler. “We can talk about this.”

Does he really think I'll forget who he is and what he did if he talks sweetly enough? I don't answer.

He must assume I'm considering the offer, because he keeps needling. “You didn't let me explain. Just because I'm undercover doesn't mean that I don't love—”

“Shut up,” I say flatly. “That's exactly what it means. Lucky for you, I have no intention of wrecking your perfect plans for tonight.”

“You don't.”

“I don't. Papi deserves to rot in hell, but I don't see why you're putting a bunch of innocent people in danger.”

He snorts. “Innocent people? That party will be packed with people who feed off the cocaine industry, just like it was last year and the year before and the year before. Innocence is checked at the door.”

“But my sisters will be there.”

“That's not ideal,” he admits. “But it's your father who's put them in danger. Not me.”

“You know what I think? I think you're willing to gamble with all those lives because you have to come out looking like the hero. Am I right? You're picturing an award, a promotion, your face in the news—whatever it is they give to the agent who takes down the great and terrible Victor Cruz. I get it. It'll make your entire career. And the bigger, the more spectacular, the more of his goons you get, the more public the whole scene is, that all just makes you look better, right?”

Silence.

I push on. “And what do you care if Papi's guys kill a few people in the confusion? Nobody can blame you for that. You're a hero. Who knew heroism could be so complicated?”

“Enough,” he says. “I put my life in danger every single day I spend with your precious Papi. You don't get to talk to me about heroism. You're on the wrong side of this, Valentina.”

Is he right? I meet Marcel's empty stare and remember the grotesqueness of Lucien the last time I saw him. There is no right side of this. I take a deep breath. “I'm going to stay out of your hair tonight, but you have to promise me that whatever you have planned doesn't go down before midnight.”

“This is an FBI, DEA, and ICE operation years in the making,” he says. “Since when do you think you're calling the shots?”

“Since I decided there should be consequences for statutory rape. Unless you want to lose your job and go to jail alongside the Cruz cartel, you're going to promise me that a team of FBI agents doesn't storm Vizcaya before midnight.”

He doesn't say anything. I wish I could see his face.

“Why midnight?” he says finally.

“That's when my sisters will be leaving.”

“And how do you know that?” he asks.

“Don't worry about it. I'll get them out of there. And I don't care what happens to Papi after, but before midnight, no raid, no arrests, no SWAT team or whatever else you do. Deal?”

I hold my breath. He takes his time. I try to picture his face again, but I can't.

“You know,” he says, “it's my word against yours. Nobody's going to believe a drug lord's teenage daughter over an FBI agent. You don't have as much leverage as you think you do.”

“Leverage,” I say coolly. “You're right. I would need proof to have real leverage. Something like a recorded phone conversation where you admit to it.”