El Malo

  El Malo

  Copyright © 2018 K Webster

  Cover Design: All By Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor: Emily A. Lawrence, www.lawrenceediting.com

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Synopsis

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prólogo

  Capítulo Uno

  Capítulo Dos

  Capítulo Tres

  Capítulo Cuatro

  Capítulo Cinco

  Capítulo Seis

  Capítulo Siete

  Capítulo Ocho

  Capítulo Nueve

  Capítulo Diez

  Capítulo Once

  Capítulo Doce

  Capítulo Trece

  Capítulo Catorce

  Capítulo Quince

  Capítulo Dieciséis

  Capítulo Diecisiete

  Capítulo Dieciocho

  Capítulo Diecinueve

  Epílogo

  Playlist

  Books by K Webster

  Acknowledgements

  About Author K Webster

  Javier Estrada is the king of Mexico.

  Evil. Twisted. Psychopathic.

  A cruel madman with a killer smile.

  And he is my boss.

  My duty is to blend in, clean his home, and not make a peep.

  I’ve done my job well for years.

  Imbedded myself so deep in his world, he’s never going to get me out.

  But I am this king’s worst nightmare.

  Bad men like him took everything away from me.

  I will never forget.

  He will pay for the sins of many.

  I’ll just bide my time—watching, waiting, calculating—until the time is right.

  When I strike, he won’t know what hit him.

  The monster who rules Mexico with an iron fist may not bow to anyone…

  But I’m not just anyone.

  He will bow to me.

  To my husband—

  Thank you for always having my back, honey.

  El amor no respeta la ley.

  Love doesn’t respect the law.

  Warning

  This book is a dark romance and not recommended for those with triggers.

  Rosie Bear

  Ten years old…

  “Mamá, please,” I beg, doing my best to give her the puppy dog eyes she can’t ignore. Mamá may be hard around the edges, but she’s soft for me. My grandmother says it’s because Papá went to prison. Mamá has to be both a good mother and father to me. She’s firm when she needs to be but soft too. Always soft for me.

  “I need to get ready for work,” she tries, but her dark brown eyes twinkle.

  “Work isn’t for three more hours.” I scrunch my nose and pout. Plenty of time to go to Ciudad Juárez to my favorite restaurant just across the border.

  She purses her lips and turns off the iron. My mother takes pride in ironing her uniforms she wears for the motel she works at. I love how pretty she looks before she leaves. The black dress hugs her curvy body and her white collar is always crisp. I notice men and women alike admiring my mother. It makes me proud because she’s so beautiful.

  “Fine, mija,” she says, giving in. “Grab a jacket in case it gets chilly in the restaurant.”

  “Yay!” I squeal and throw myself into her arms. She smells heavenly like lavender and her. There’s just a fragrance to her that makes her unique.

  Thirty minutes later and we’re driving over the border into Mexico. We make this trip often and as long as we go during the day, we don’t run into any issues. Once, Mamá forgot to bring a second identification card and we got held up on our way back in. But Mamá always smiles real big and pretty to get her way. I try to smile big and pretty like her too.

  “They’re so busy,” she complains as she circles the parking lot for a spot. “I hope the wait isn’t too long. I don’t want to be late for work.”

  I frown, hoping we can get right in. Ana, the old woman who works the front counter, usually finds a place for us, though. I’ll give her one of the bracelets I made for my friend Amanda. Maybe she’ll find some chairs in the back for us to sit at.

  “Ah, the luck!” Mamá cries out as a big truck backs out of a spot. I hoot in excitement as we pull in right in front of the building.

  She calls after me when I burst from the car and run inside. As soon as I open the door, the spices fill my nose and my stomach grumbles. This is my favorite place. I love everything they make and could eat here every day. Mamá says if she eats here every day her butt will be bigger than Texas where we live. I just giggle, trying to imagine a butt that big.

  “Dearest Rosa!” Ana calls out and opens her arms for a hug. I run into her arms and squeeze the woman who reminds me much of my grandmother. “How are you today?”

  I beam up at her. “Great! Mamá thinks we’ll have to wait.” I tug a bracelet from my pocket and tie it around her old, wrinkly wrist. “But maybe you could find us a table,” I whisper.

  She narrows her eyes as she inspects the bracelet. “You sure know how to drive a hard bargain,” she says, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “There’s a table in the kitchen you two can sit at. I’ll make sure Miguel cooks you up something special today.”

  “Thanks, Ana,” Mamá tells her and tugs at my ponytail. “You’re spoiled, mija.”

  I giggle as we follow Ana toward the back. She gets us settled at the dinky table in the corner. It’s exciting to be in the kitchen and watch the guys cook. Miguel is as old as Ana but real big and fat. I bet that’s because he eats all the good foods he makes. Maybe he’ll be as big as Mexico if he keeps eating like that.

  “What are you laughing about?” Mamá asks.

  I point at Miguel. “Look at his belly, Mamá!”

  “Shhhh,” she chides. “Don’t be rude, Rosie Bear. That’s not nice.”

  Pouting, I scan the kitchen, hoping to see something exciting. My eyes land on a man wearing a blue bandana. It reminds me of the pictures of my father. The pictures my mother only lets me see on occasion. Papá has tattoos on his neck and face like the man beside Miguel. Both he and my father have the same hard stares. I wonder if the man knows Papá. Maybe they were in the same gang? I’m about to open my mouth to ask when the man raises his voice at Miguel.

  More men, dressed just like the man pour in through the back door. They all carry shiny guns and knives.

  “You leave my restaurant!” Ana yells and points out the back door.

  Mamá turns and lets out a garbled sound. She stands and presses her butt against me, squishing me against the wall.

  “¡Este hijo de puta me debe dinero!” the scariest man yells at Miguel. This motherfucker owes me money!

  Miguel mutters something about not having it. I blink, trying to see past my mother to watch.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Explosive gunfire shatters the air and Mamá pushes me to the floor, her body covering mine in a protective way. More shots fire, over and over again, and glass breaks a
ll around the kitchen. I scream at the top of my lungs, overcome with terror. Mamá pushes her hand against my mouth, but her hand is wet.

  Tears spill from my eyes and I try to hide from the scary men. They’re not like Papá. Papá would never shoot up my favorite restaurant. Papá would never yell at a nice cook like Miguel. I may not remember Papá, but I feel this in my heart.

  “My sweet Rosie Bear,” Mamá whispers against my hair, her hand sliding from my mouth. “Be a good girl. I love you.”

  I can hear screams within the restaurant but aside from some shuffling, the kitchen is quiet. Those bad men finally left.

  “Mamá,” I whisper. “They’re gone.”

  But Mamá is so protective, she keeps me smashed to the floor under her weight. Maybe her butt is going to be the size of Texas soon because she is heavy.

  “Mamá!” I cry out. “Move, Mamá!”

  She doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak. I squirm out from beneath her and my eyes land on Ana. She’s on the ground, a pool of blood around her body. Her arm lies twisted out in front of her, my bracelet I gave her soaking up blood. Everything is broken around me.

  “Mamá!” I scream. “They hurt Ana!”

  Mamá doesn’t care. She’s sleeping and I need her to be awake. I shove her over onto her back.

  Blood.

  Blood.

  Blood.

  No, Mamá, no.

  “No!” I wail. “No!”

  Bright red blooms of blood cover her shirt like big roses in several spots. She’s been shot all over her chest. Her eyes that always twinkle with delight are open but dulled. Mamá’s mouth is parted and unmoving.

  My mother is not dead.

  She is not dead.

  “Mamá!”

  She. Is. Not. Dead.

  Rosa

  Present…

  “Your corners are messy,” I chide as I unfold the sheet and show my newest charge how to properly fold the linens. “Like this, Araceli.”

  Araceli, an eighteen-year-old Mexican woman, watches with wide eyes as I show her. With time, she’ll learn how things run around here. I run a tight ship and they all must stay on their toes to keep up with my level of perfection.

  I’m borderline OCD when it comes to this house.

  No dust. No crinkles. No mess.

  It must remain as clean as possible, for who lives within it is far from so.

  “Let me try,” she says, determination in her tone. I love the fierce woman who lives beneath the unsureness and slight awkwardness. Araceli reminds me of myself ten years ago when I was her age.

  I’ve grown into this hard, formidable woman.

  Strength hidden behind a soft, sweet, compliant package.

  I watch her fold the sheet, my eyes scrutinizing her work for errors. She flawlessly folds it and pride surges within me. “Excellent work, querida.”

  She beams under my praise as I don’t give it often. Araceli has been working in the Estrada home for three weeks now and this is the first real compliment I’ve given her. When you work at a place like this, there’s no room for vulnerability and softness. You must always be striving for perfection and watching for danger.

  “Run along and make the beds.”

  Her dark brows scrunch together. “¿Señor Estrada?”

  All warm thoughts leak from my body as cold settles in my bones. I lift my chin and pierce her with an icy stare. “No. Since when do you ever make Señor Estrada’s bed?”

  She cowers under my biting words. “Never.”

  “Never,” I agree. “Never. Only I am to be trusted in his room. I’ll make his bed and that is the end of this conversation.”

  Her bottom lip quivers as though I’ve struck her. True, I may have a soft spot for little Araceli, but I can’t let her get too comfortable here. None of my ladies are. It’s unsafe. We must always be on guard, stay out of the way, and keep the house looking impeccable.

  “I’m sorry, Rosa,” she murmurs.

  I don’t correct her for not calling me Señorita Delgado. She’s upset and I’ll allow it this once. “Run along,” I snip.

  Once she’s gone, I pick up the folded sheet and bring it to my nose. My heart clenches when I inhale the scent of lavender and detergent. I’d never realized the smell I associated with my mother was laundry detergent. And now, because of my job, I smell her every day. Each second of each day is a reminder of what I lost.

  My eyes prickle, but tears don’t form. I’ve spent almost twenty years learning to harden my heart and block my emotions. The last four, I’ve specifically honed that skill. I’ve become like them. A jaguar stalking my prey. I’m good. Very good. None of them, especially him, suspect a thing.

  And when the time is right, I’ll bring down every last one of them.

  Until then, I lie in wait. Crouched low in the grass. My mouth watering and my claws sharp. Javier Estrada, the leader of El Malo, will be ripped to shreds by the time I’m done with him.

  Patience is my friend.

  My fuel.

  My motherfucking sustenance.

  Clearing my head with a slight shake, I carry the sheet to the closet. Once I’ve neatly tucked it inside, I smooth my palms over my crisp black uniform and stride through the massive almost eighteen-thousand-square-foot seaside mansion. All the windows are open facing the Pacific Ocean. The breeze is warm and it fills my lungs with a sense of purpose. I’m silent, my shoes not even making a squeak as I slip through the house. I check for dust on picture frames along the way. Yolanda and Silvia tend to get starry-eyed around the men at times and slack off. I have to stay on those two. Both women are too beautiful for their own good. One day, their beauty will get them hurt.

  I stop in front of a giant mirror in the hallway and stare at my reflection. I study the glass for smears but really, I look at myself. I look at her. The spitting image of my mother. Wide brown eyes. Dark, almost black, sculpted brows. Full, naturally pink lips. My mocha brown hair that normally hangs in loose waves halfway down my back is pulled tight into a bun at the base of my neck. At work, I remain plain and hidden. I don’t want any attention on myself whatsoever. The diamond stud earrings that belonged to my mother are the only shiny piece of me. They catch the light and sparkle in my reflection.

  Blood.

  Blood.

  So much blood.

  I blink away the memory of myself sitting on the bathroom floor of my grandmother’s house scrubbing my mother’s bloody earrings with a toothbrush. Every day for weeks, I’d scrub at those earrings. Grandmother said the blood was long gone, but I could sense it there. I wasn’t satisfied until I’d cleaned them every day for a month.

  Sometimes I still wonder about the blood.

  Giggles resound from a nearby room and I jolt. The girls. I storm down the hallway, a scowl on my face. As soon as I enter Marco Antonio’s room, Javier’s second-in-command, I discover Yolanda and Silvia. Neither of them is working. No, they are tossing a pair of his boxer briefs at one another. Such foolish behavior could get them killed.

  “¡Suficiente!” Enough! I snap as I rush over and tear the underwear from Silvia’s grip.

  Yolanda starts laughing and my blood boils with the blatant disrespect.

  “I suggest you two separate and do your jobs. I’m writing you both up over this. That makes two for each of you now. You know, one more and you’re gone,” I warn.

  They both lose their smiles and hang their heads. On one hand, I feel guilty for taking away such a small pleasure as giggling over a man’s boxers. But he’s not just any man. Marco Antonio is vicious and cruel. I’ve had to clean up his bloodshed more than I’d like to remember. Half of his clothes end up in the trash because some stains simply don’t come out. Violence is a stain that imbeds in the fibers and never lets go.

  I wave them away and they run off, their heels clacking the wood floors in their wake. No matter what I try to impress upon them, they don’t listen. It will be their end one day. I hate that for them. I hate that these young girls
grew up in the ravished parts of Guerrero, Mexico, and think this place is their happily ever after. That they feel safe here. They aren’t safe anywhere. Acapulco isn’t what it used to be in the ’50s and ’60s when The Kennedys and Frank Sinatra would vacation here. Back then, it was family oriented and a true attraction for tourists.

  Now, just beyond the mansions that line the beaches and the fancy resorts is a city overrun by corruption and out of control violence. Violence that is fed morsel by morsel by none other than my boss.

  Javier Estrada.

  I quickly fold Marco Antonio’s boxers and place them in his drawer. His weapons are stuffed in the strangest places. I never touch them, but I catalogue them in my head. If I ever need an out, it’s in Marco Antonio’s room I’ll find that out. He’s got an arsenal ready. And just like he always wants to be quick to annihilate if things go south and quick, so do I.

  The last thing I need is for young, silly girls to ruin that for me. As of today, I’ll add his room to the ones they aren’t allowed to touch.

  Booming voices jerk me from my inner thoughts and I hurry from his room. Javier and his men have arrived home from some business in the city. Usually, someone comes back injured or wearing the blood of someone they’ve injured. Always, I’m stuck cleaning up after their mini wars they have each day.

  Quickly, I rush through the hallways to peek in at them. Marco Antonio, Arturo, and Alejandro are gathered around Javier’s favorite leather chair in the living room. I can’t see him, just the backs of his men, but I sense him. Javier is evil personified. Death and corruption and sadism all rolled into one magnificent package.

  I try not to think about that part of him. The part that has my girls’ cheeks turning pink any time he glances at them. Javier is handsome. Charismatic even. But behind his wide, flirtatious grins are hate and fury and madness. I wish I could throttle each of my girls and remind them we are in the lion’s den. They’re simply meat for him to bite into if he gets hungry.