The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2)(91)

Chuito was sort of stunned they set bail.

They sure as f*ck wouldn’t have set bail if a Latino shot at a sheriff. It didn’t matter where it was in the country; Chuito would bet his career that if this rapist bastard, Vaughn Davis, hadn’t been white, his ass would still be rotting away in jail.

He even had a record.

He still got bail.

It just made Chuito angrier as he walked up the stairs to Vaughn’s trailer, keeping his steps light. Thank God they didn’t creak. He leaned in, staring at the lock when he got onto the porch, seeing that there wasn’t a dead bolt. He didn’t think there was, because he had been glancing at this door for two weeks.

Bonus.

He’d worn light gloves on purpose—the kind he’d used when he was younger and robbed houses, because cars weren’t all he’d stolen in his youth.

Marcos used to say Chuito had a rare gift when it came to picking locks. So much so that when they talked about going straight, Marcos would suggest that Chuito would be an amazing locksmith because there wasn’t a car or house he couldn’t break into.

It turned out Chuito hadn’t lost his touch, even if his fingers were near frozen. His old key chain, with all the tools a thief would need, felt like it had never left his hand. He opened the door in less than ten seconds and had his gun out faster than that.

The pendejo on the couch didn’t have a chance to pump the shotgun in his hands. There was a reason gangsters didn’t use them. They were a poor self-defense choice.

“Drop it, motherf*cker,” Chuito growled at him as he used his foot to kick the door shut. “We both know your aim sucks.”

Vaughn Davis’s hands were shaking on the shotgun. His eyes were bloodshot. His brown hair was stringy and unkempt, making it clear he probably hadn’t showered since he got out of jail. His voice was scratchy as he shouted, “I told the Italian—”

Chuito put a finger to his lips, his gun still leveled at Vaughn’s chest, because this motherf*cker was strung out.

Chuito had promised to do things the Italian way, but if Vaughn moved, if he kept shouting, they were going to do this Boricua style. Life was going to take Chuito out eventually, but it wasn’t going to be with a shotgun shell fired by a redneck rapist junkie.

Chuito would shoot him in a f*cking heartbeat and deal with Nova’s bitching later.

“The Italian said—” Vaughn went on, after stuttering to a stop at Chuito’s warning. “He said! He said if I didn’t say anything.”

“Motherf*cker, do I look Italian?” Chuito asked him in a calm, quiet voice. “Set the shotgun down. We’ll talk, okay? Do you wanna f*cking talk to me? Or do you want me to shoot you?”

Vaughn took a deep breath, his gaze darting from Chuito to the door behind him. Then he set the shotgun down on the table and slid back on the couch, his eyes wide and stunned, making it obvious he knew he was about to die.

“The Italian told me,” he whispered, looking lost. “He said—”

“Yeah, what’d he say?” Chuito asked as he looked at the table that was covered with half-full glasses of booze and drug paraphernalia. This place was a real shithole, so filthy Chuito had the sudden need to set his gun down and go wash his hands. Instead he sat next to Vaughn on the couch and kicked the shotgun off the table. “I’m honestly really f*cking curious what he said that kept you from singing to the Department of Justice about Wyatt.”

“He, um—” Vaughn scratched at his arms, which were raw and scarred, as if this was a habit he’d had for a long time. “He said that, uh—”

“Me cago en ná.” Chuito rolled his eyes. “You make me glad I gave up drugs, man. You’re like the worst-f*cking-case scenario over here.” He looked at the table, spying crack rocks, and that didn’t help Chuito’s well-being. “I was a fan of cocaine too. I never got into rocks, ’cause motherf*ckers who start smoking it turn out like you, but I was getting there.”

“Yeah?” Vaughn asked as he looked at Chuito. “What happened?”

“Wyatt happened, actually.” Chuito kept ahold of his gun as he rested his hand on his leg, pointing it at Vaughn on purpose. “And you f*cking raped his wife. You and me, we have an issue, cabrón.”

“But the Italian—”

“What’d he say?” Chuito asked again. “’Cause I’m gonna be very surprised if Nova wrote you a free ticket for keeping quiet.”

“He said, um—” More scratching as Vaughn stared ahead. “He said he’d cut off my balls and feed ’em to me if I snitched. Yeah, that’s what he said. I didn’t snitch.”

Chuito winced at that image. “Good plan, motherf*cker. The Italians are creative. Very creative. Co?o. I bet he was serious too.”

“He sounded serious,” Vaughn agreed. “You think he was?”

Chuito nodded. “Yeah, they do some f*cked-up shit in the mafia. My ass wouldn’t snitch on them.”

“So you’re not gonna kill me?”

“I’m not gonna cut off your balls,” Chuito clarified. “I’ve done some f*cked-up shit in my life, but I don’t think I can stomach that, even for a rapist motherf*cker like you.”

“It was, like, twenty years ago. That shit with Tabitha.” Vaughn’s voice was whiny. His pupils were wide and dilated, making it obvious he was high as a kite. “Conner already shot me. See?”