The Viper (Untamed Hearts #1)(36)
If someone left this kind of car unlocked, they deserved to get jacked.
People with money never appreciated their shit.
At least he could give his cousin credit for that if nothing else. He wasn’t pretentious about anything. He still drove a Nissan, for f*ck’s sake.
He eyed the two car seats in back and decided to cut them some slack for being absentminded about locking the car. Marcos hadn’t stolen a car since he was fifteen. Once they got heavy into Los Corredores, he became too valuable in the shop, but even when they were young, Chuito and Marcos used to avoid cars with baby seats. Probably because they were raised by two single mothers. One time, right after his father went to prison, his mother’s car got towed, and Marcos would never forget her crying as she sat on the curb with him, Juan, and Chuito, and groceries melting while she called her sister.
What kind of * towed the car of a woman shopping for food to feed children? Even car thieves didn’t do that shit.
He sneaked in through the back, heading up the staircase like he was breaking in because he did not want to see that bitch Jules Wellings. Marcos added her to the long list of things he didn’t understand about his cousin’s life here. She was a part-time cop, and Chuito called her his friend. Whatever.
He heard people downstairs talking. Damn, that office was always busy. It was almost five, and it was still hopping. How many legal issues could be happening in a town like this? People didn’t even secure their cars here.
Chuito’s door was locked, and Marcos went old-school and used the mini tool kit on his keychain to pick the lock rather than knock. He had the split-second thought of seeing something he didn’t want to see if his cousin finally made his move with his neighbor, but after this many years, he figured he was safe and pushed the door open.
He saw a flash of movement and was able to throw up his arm to protect his face. He got nailed in the side instead, a hard kidney hit that knocked the air out of him and put every defensive mechanism he had on red alert. He lashed out on instinct, kicking the intruder in the cojones and then nailing him with every ounce of anger he had, catching him in the side of the head.
“They don’t teach you that in the cage!” Marcos shouted, ’cause he knew it was his cousin that had blindsided him. “I still live on the streets, muchacho!”
Chuito reached down and grabbed Marcos’s leg, pulling his feet out from under him and making Marcos hit the floor so hard it stole his breath a second time. His head smacked against the door frame, and it temporarily dazed him enough to have the UFC light-heavyweight champion of the world choking the shit out of him in some sort of f*cked-up jujitsu move that he couldn’t break out of.
“You ever talk about taking a bullet again, and I’ll shoot you myself,” Chuito growled into his ear in Spanish. “I can still take you. Got me, cabrón?”
“I know enough Spanish to say that’s cold.” A voice came from the kitchen, sounding bored as if watching family members kicking the shit out each other was an everyday occurrence. “Of course, my brother killed my father just ’cause I couldn’t get to him first. So who the f*ck am I to talk?”
Still struggling to breathe, Marcos lifted his head and looked to the kitchen, seeing a muscular, dark-haired guy sprawled out in one of the chairs by the table. He held an energy drink in his hand as he arched a bored eyebrow at both of them.
“Who is this pendejo?” he growled as he fought to break free.
“That’s Tino. Didn’t you see his car out there?” Chuito released him and rolled onto the carpet to cup his balls. “You low-hitting f*cker!”
“The GL is his?” Marcos was wheezing too as he took in Tino again, sitting there like he owned the world. “I should’ve stolen it and had Angel wash the title.”
“Fucking steal it.” Tino didn’t sound concerned. “I got LoJack, bitch.”
“You think I can’t disable LoJack?”
“I’m sure you can, but can you do it before I find you and make you eat my Beretta?”
“Si,” Marcos said with a laugh of disbelief. “No problema.”
“He probably could,” Chuito grudgingly admitted. “Yeah, definitely.” He lifted his head and looked to Marcos. “But don’t steal the car,” he warned in Spanish as if sensing Marcos would do it just to f*ck with him. “His people make Los Corredores look like pussies.”
That was a seriously f*cked-up insult that his cousin just made about his own gang, and Marcos stiffened on instinct. He didn’t love being associated with Los Corredores these days, but it was ingrained in him to defend them.
He was about to say something, when Tino lifted up his shirt, showing off the tattoo over the ridges of his stomach muscles.
Omertà.
Marcos dealt with the mafia enough in passing to know what that meant. Their presence in Miami was powerful, intimidating, and more than a little annoying to the rest of them, but he was saved from having to do something like apologize when Jules Wellings came upstairs.
“What the hell—” She paused at the open door, looking down at the two of them still lying on the floor. She just shook her head. “I have clients downstairs. You’re shaking the whole house.”
“At least they aren’t shooting each other. That’d really piss your clients off.”