The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2) (20 page)

He’d started to believe he might deserve it.

Then reality showed up and reminded him that he didn’t.

Chuito was in deep more than ever since he finally found a way to buy Marcos’s way out of gang life when it was either get him out or bury him. Money hadn’t worked, so Chuito had to sell his soul to the Italian mafia instead.

Marcos was still pissed off with him about it, but he was also happy in Miami with his new wife, Katie, a schoolteacher he had picked up in Garnet. Now she taught at Chuito and Marcos’s old high school in Miami and did a decent job of keeping Marcos respectable.

Figured it took Marcos one week in Garnet to do what Chuito hadn’t managed to do in five years.

Marcos had always been the lover.

Chuito was the one born to be a gangster.

Now Chuito was back where he’d started, neck-deep in Los Corredores issues that were huge right now, but there would always be some reason to drag his tired ass into the gym and bleed just for the fucking fun of it.

’Cause they were crew too.

And his family.

His life had become a series of contradictions in the past few months. One minute he was on the phone with a mafia underboss, talking in code about gang politics and stolen cars. The next, he was teaching self-defense classes or helping mop the floors of the Cellar when their cleaning guy quit.

Starting today, Chuito was in charge of babysitting some green fighter from California, because this new fighter was Mexican and Chuito was Puerto Rican and in the eyes of Garnet, that made them practically brothers.

Different fucking culture, but that shit was totally lost on Garnet.

He was tired before the shit with Alaine got real, and he ended up on his knees in her bedroom, tasting what he’d been fantasizing about for five years.

Now he was cranky as fuck.

Horny as hell.

Still hungover.

Queasy and sucking down coffee like liquid cocaine.

He turned off his car and sat there, drinking his coffee while blinking at his windshield. He needed to center himself, because this guy was not part of his crew, had stolen a fighting spot from his cousin, and had forced Chuito to come in when he needed a lot more recovery time after last night.

The Mexican was currently public enemy number one.

Hopefully he was as tough as they said he was.

Chuito jumped when someone knocked on his window, which made him angrier. This shit with Alaine was forcing him to let his guard down left and right. It was the worst possible time for everything with Alaine to come to a head. Now more than ever, Chuito couldn’t afford to get lazy, and his life in Garnet was falling apart instead.

He was one very small step away from a gang war in Miami.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Valentino “Tino” Moretti said in a singsong voice and then, just to make Chuito’s afternoon better, tugged down his fighting shorts and pressed his bare ass against the driver’s-side window. “Awake yet?”

Chuito caught a flash of tan skin and a tattoo over Tino’s left ass cheek.

100% Grade A Italian

He wasn’t in the mood for Italian attitude any more than he felt like dealing with a Mexican one. He opened his door. Hard. Forcing Tino to stumble with his ass still hanging out for anyone to see.

A lesser man would have fallen, but that was the annoying thing about Tino.

That motherfucker never fell.

“Guess what I heard,” Tino said as he tugged up his shorts.

“No.”

Chuito grabbed his gym bag and locked his doors before he reluctantly crawled out into the late-afternoon sunshine.

“I heard that your punk ass got plastered last night,” Tino went on as if he hadn’t noticed Chuito’s disinterest. “Jules told Wyatt, who told Romeo that you were too fucked-up to get out of bed. Two hours late. That’s bad even for you.”

“But I’m still here,” Chuito reminded him and then kicked the back of Tino’s knee, making him stumble.

Asshole still didn’t fall.

“Where was I when you decided to have a party?” Tino sounded genuinely hurt. “Bros who fight together drink together.”

“I drink without you all the fucking time,” Chuito assured him.

“Drinking alone is never a good sign.”

Chuito flipped him off, letting him know what he thought of his signs. Tino might have ended up as his best friend somewhere over the past two years since he’d arrived in Garnet, but that didn’t mean Tino’s high-energy, ballsy Italian attitude didn’t grate on a hangover.

Tino laughed and followed after him. “You think you’re pissed off now, wait until you meet the Mexican.”

Chuito stopped at the front doors to the Cuthouse Cellar and turned back to Tino as he growled, “What about him?”

Tino laughed harder. “I’m not gonna tell you.”

“Gracias for that,” Chuito said sarcastically as he opened the door. “I’ll remember that, motherfucker.”

“I’ve hung around for the past three hours just to see this shit,” Tino went on as if he was immune to any threat from Chuito.

Which he sorta was.

Even if Chuito hadn’t sold his soul to Tino’s brother Nova, he was still immune, because Tino might have the rednecks hosed, but Chuito knew what he really was.

Tino had a past darker than Chuito.

Not too many motherfuckers could claim that.

It was the reason they became friends in the first place. One washed-up gangster in this backward, redneck town was weird. Two was downright bizarre. An Italian mafia hit man and a Puerto Rican gangbanger weren’t supposed to be friends.

Unless they both landed in Garnet.

Chuito could thank Jules for that. She seemed to have a real knack for picking up reformed criminals. Her husband, Romeo, had a record, but he’d never been a gangster. The same couldn’t be said for his brothers. Romeo came with baggage, and part of the baggage was following after Chuito with a spring in his step as he walked to the MMA training cage in the Cellar.

Chuito stopped as he looked into the octagon.

Even through the cage, he could see the tattoos on the guy training with Clay.

Chuito could see them because he had spent a lot of years in Miami looking for tattoos like that. Sometimes out of paranoia, other times out of a wild, rabid need for revenge.

This was not happening.

He could not have Los Corredores shit in Miami going on.

Alaine.

And a Latin Bloods gang member training in his gym, with his crew and bleeding on the mats he had helped lay down.

Tino snorted behind him. “Why have two washed-up gangsters in Garnet when they can have three instead? Can you fucking believe that shit? They signed on a Latin Blood. I don’t even think they know it. Not even Romeo recognized the ink.”

No, he
could not
fucking believe it.

His cousin lost the fighter spot to that motherfucker.

God officially had a vendetta against Chuito.

“No cobweb, so they fucking sign him,” Chuito mumbled, thinking of the cobweb tattoo on his cousin’s elbow that signified how much prison time he’d served. “Someone needs to tell Wyatt the good gangsters don’t get caught.”

“Right?” Tino snorted. “Let’s draw straws to see who wins that honor.”

“Fuck it. Let the Mexican explain it to him.” Chuito turned around. “I’m not training a Latin Blood.”

“You can’t leave,” Tino called out when Chuito started walking toward the door. He ran up to him after a moment and grabbed Chuito’s arm when he got to the front desk. Tino looked at the receptionist and pulled Chuito outside. When the two of them stood on the walkway in front of the door, Tino said in a hushed whisper, “You’re
that
upset about another gangster? You didn’t lose your shit when I showed up. Is this about Marcos? He’s happier in Miami. You said it yourself.”

“That motherfucker is
not
just another gangster.” Chuito gestured to the door furiously, his voice loud whether he wanted it to be or not. “He’s Latin Blood. They’re our rivals in Miami.
Your rivals
. Don’t forget, your family is tied up with Los Corredores now too.”

“But he’s not from Miami,” Tino reminded him. “He probably doesn’t know who the fuck Los Corredores are.”

Chuito stiffened with insult.

“Look, you’re gonna get vain about this shit? Having a mark anyone recognizes isn’t easier.” Tino gave him a look of incredulity. “Try walking a mile in my shoes. Madonn’, everyone knows the Morettis are mafia. My birth certificate made me a criminal.”

“
So did mine
,” Chuito said with a growl. “Are we really comparing? Between the two of us, who do you think ninety percent of these gringo assholes will cross the street to avoid?”

“Get over yourself,” Tino barked. “In case you missed the memo, you’re famous now, dickhead. People cross the street to get your autograph. You got two UFC Light-Heavyweight belts. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, you switched weight classes and just killed it like a boss and won a Heavyweight belt too. Me, I look like some asshole from
Jersey Shore
.” He winced and then added, “Except I have better hair…and better style.” Tino shook his head. “Just completely forget I ever compared myself to them.”

Chuito snorted in spite of everything and couldn’t resist saying, “You do look like you’re from
Jersey Shore
.”

“Motherfucker, I’m a New Yorker.” Tino’s dark eyes narrowed. “And I have way more class than the
guidos
on that show.”

“Whatever.” Chuito shrugged. “It’s all the same difference to me. Short Italian motherfuckers with big attitudes. You pendejos are probably trying to compensate for something.”

“I’m six feet tall. That’s not short! And I’m not from Jersey.” Tino shoved him. “And I have a fucking amazing dick. I can give you a long list of references!”

“Oh wow,” Wyatt said when he opened the door. He shut it quick and looked behind him. “Carrie heard that, Tino.”

“Carrie’s seen it!” Tino shouted at Wyatt.

“Really?” Chuito turned to Tino in surprise. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“You screwed our receptionist?” Wyatt barked at him. “Tino—”

“It was one time.” Tino held up his hand. “That doesn’t count.”

Wyatt opened his mouth, looking back through the glass doors, and then shook his head. “Do y’all want to tell me what’s going on?”

“He said I act like I’m from Jersey.” Tino gestured to Chuito accusingly. “That’s like me saying I can’t tell the difference between him and that Mexican you signed on. Eat any tacos lately,
esse
?”

Chuito decked him, hard.

So hard, in fact, that Tino ended up on the pavement.

He actually fell down in the face of Chuito’s repressed fury.

“Oh hey!” Wyatt pushed Chuito back, clearly on the defense. “We’re not on the mat!”

Okay, correction, Tino fell sometimes but recovered quickly. He reached around Wyatt and grabbed Chuito’s foot, jerking violently and knocking him off his feet. It had been a long time since Chuito had been in a street fight. He’d forgotten just how unforgiving cement was, but he recovered quickly too.

He ignored the white-hot burn in his forearm and kicked Tino in the ribs, and then he kicked Wyatt too, because the pendejo was in the way. Scrambling his way around Wyatt and fighting off Tino’s blows wasn’t easy, because one of them used to be a hit man, the other was a sheriff, and both of them had spent a lot of years training to be professional fighters.

But Chuito was the only one of the three with several title belts.

When Tino swung at him, Chuito grabbed Tino’s wrist and jerked hard enough to hear a pop. There was white noise all around him, Tino swearing in Italian, Wyatt cursing in English. Chuito might have felt victorious if Wyatt hadn’t got him in a choke hold, tightening his forearm hard enough that Chuito couldn’t breathe.

Tino, dirty fighter that he was, caught Chuito in the eye with a punch that nearly blinded him with the pain.

“Fuck me, Tino!” Wyatt screamed. “Clay, hold him!”

Chuito kicked back, catching Wyatt’s knee, but not hard enough to break free. Tino clocked him again. This time his world spun, and he thought for one moment that he was either going to black out or puke right there in the front walkway of the Cellar.

Chuito was off his game.

The drinking wasn’t helping, and he knew it.

He blinked, seeing that Clay now had Tino in a similar choke hold, but Tino was still fighting like Chuito was, kicking back, trying to hurt Clay bad enough to loosen his hold. Clay was the world’s greatest ground-and-pound fighter. No one broke out of his hold once he got them locked in.

Good.

Maybe the bastard would black out.

“Chuito,” Wyatt growled in his ear. “Am I gonna have to arrest you?”

“Fucking arrest me.” Chuito’s voice was a whisper rather than the growl he felt inside. “I dare you.”

“Oh my God, really?” Wyatt snapped. “’Cause he called you Mexican? That shit’s racist.”

“He is a Mexican,” Tino grunted.

“Jersey much? Keep him away from an open flame,” Chuito rasped back. “He’s got enough product in his hair to be flammable.”

“I’m starting to get a little offended, esse.”

Chuito fought to lift his head and glared at the Mexican who was leaning against the wall, bare-chested and sweaty, showing off all his tattoos without shame, as if he weren’t insulting Chuito just by sharing the same air with him.

“Fuck off, Blood,” Chuito said in Spanish. “You should be dead right now.”

“Yeah, you’ll do a good job with that.” The Mexican snorted in disbelief and then, just to add insult to injury, flashed the Latin Blood gang sign at him. He was obviously confident their conversation was private in Spanish and went on, “You got out, and now you think you’re better than me? Where do you think I come from, motherfucker? What do you think I’ve been doing while you were earning your fancy title belts? You can’t handle someone from the streets anymore. You’ve been living with the gringos too long.”

And all of a sudden, the Mexican became someone else.

Not more than twenty-one, with that hard, angry look Chuito had known so well because it glared back at him every time he looked in the mirror. He didn’t want to, but he saw himself, and that sucked all the anger right out of him.