The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2)(92)

He pulled up his shirt, showing Chuito the wound that was swollen and infected, as though he hadn’t cared for it since he got out of the hospital. Chuito grunted and looked away, feeling like he needed to shower for a month.

He needed to get out of this place. The smell alone was making him sick.

Chuito reached into the back of his pants and pulled out one of the two small black satchels Nova had driven all the way to New York to pick up. Chuito had met him halfway to get them from him.

The other one was still sitting in his top drawer, waiting for Tabitha’s brother, who had unexpectedly moved to California a few weeks ago.

Probably after Nova threatened to cut off his balls.

“This is a gift from the Italians,” Chuito said as he held it out. He thrust it at him when Vaughn didn’t take it. “For not snitching.”

Vaughn took it and opened it, looking at the syringe and tourniquet, neatly displayed, like only an Italian would do.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s smack.”

Vaughn turned to him skeptically. “Really?”

“Oh yeah, it’s heroin. Top-shelf. Anything from the Italians is gonna be top-shelf.”

“Is it gonna kill me?” Vaughn looked so broken all of a sudden as he stared at that black bag in his hands. “Is that why they sent you?”

“It’ll definitely kill you. I know Nova; he’d make sure it’s a lethal dose.”

Vaughn stared at Chuito and confessed, “I use heroin.”

“I’m pretty sure he compensated for that,” Chuito said as he looked at the syringe in the bag. “Personally, I think it’s f*cked-up you get to ride the smack gravy train to hell. The f*cking Italians, crime with them is so neat and pretty. But it’s your choice. You don’t have to use it. We can do it the Boricua way instead.”

“What’s a Boricua?” Vaughn asked, still staring at the bag in his hands.

“I’m a Boricua,” Chuito snapped as he leaned in, giving him a hard look. “And you want to know what happens when you rape one of my friends’ wives? I hurt you. Badly. I drag that shit out until you’re f*cking begging me to kill you, and then I drag it out longer ’cause I don’t like rapists. I f*cking hate them. The Italians have been begging me to keep my cool for two weeks, and now I’m sitting here in this shithole hoping you don’t shoot up so I get to take a lifetime of anger out on your ass.”

“Y-you’re not. You can’t—” he stuttered and scratched his arm with his free hand. “You wouldn’t—”

“I would,” Chuito promised him. “In some ways, Tabitha reminds me of the woman I love. It’s sorta crossed the wires in my mind since I found out. I look at you, and I think this motherf*cker could’ve raped my woman. You really don’t want to test me, bro. I will piss off the Italians in a New York minute to beat you until I get that image out of my head. I do not want to f*cking be here. I did not want to be running in the f*cking snow for two weeks. I do not want to keep running in it just to cover my ass. You know what, f*ck it—”

Chuito went to reach for the bag, deciding that Nova could kiss his ass.

“I’ll do it,” Vaughn said quickly, as though he saw just how serious Chuito was. “I’ll do it! Is that what you want?”

“No, it’s not what I want. I just told you what I want,” Chuito countered as he lifted his .38 and put his finger on the trigger. “And I’m starting to think I like the Italian’s first idea better. You believe in karma, cabrón?”

Chuito lowered the gun to Vaughn’s lap and pointed it at his crotch.

He kept it there, watching with a cold, dispassionate gaze as Vaughn shot up with shaking hands. It was only when he dropped the syringe to the floor that Chuito lifted his gun, waiting for the * who raped Wyatt’s wife to die.

Never underestimate the Italians.

Vaughn fell back against the couch and stopped breathing in less than three minutes. Chuito just looked at him for a while afterward, wondering if he was going to run into this motherf*cker in hell one day.

Chuito locked the door on the way out, and he didn’t pass one car as he took a back route home, running the whole way. He was sweaty when he walked into his apartment, despite the icy temperatures.

He pulled off his gloves and tossed them in the garbage.

He wanted to burn his running clothes, ’cause he could feel that nasty place sticking to him. He threw them in the washer instead. He tossed his gun and holster in his top drawer to rest next to the other black satchel, reminding him he had to drive to California and do this shit again in another few months.

His hands were shaking the entire time.

More than all the demons dealing with a rapist caused, it was the idea that he could have ended up like that. Strung out and scratching the skin off his arms, with a festering police bullet hole in his shoulder.

Crack was one very small step away from blow.

He had even considered the shit when he was detoxing those first few weeks in Garnet. He would have done anything to escape back then.

If he hadn’t had Alaine, he might have gone looking for it.

He was so grossed out and disgusted he showered until the water got cold. He scrubbed his skin so hard it burned. He washed his hair four times and had the thought that he was going to shave his head tomorrow.