But then again, I’m not really in a position to judge another person’s sins.
After all, Ernesto never murdered anyone.
As massive as the sums are, they don’t even approach what I know he’s worth. I spend approximately twenty minutes running queries in the terminal to scan the hard drive for any files or programs that could be related to the investment portfolio the cartel knows he has. Another search through his webmail client reveals no communication with a financial advisor or even anything business related.
I chew my lip and pick up the phone to text Xavier.
Natalia Esposito: there’s nothing on here about his investments. Only his personal accounts and credit cards. Nothing business related either.
X Reyes: that doesn’t make fucking sense
X Reyes: ur missing something, u stupid cunt
X Reyes: scan that shit again
Bristling at his words, Iscan that shit again.
Still nothing.
Natalia Esposito: it’s not on here. I think he must have a dedicated machine for it. He might have it with him.
X Reyes: i don’t give a fuck what u think
X Reyes: fine. When does he get back?
Natalia Esposito: Later this week.
X Reyes: when he’s back, look for the other laptop. If u don’t find one, get the info straight from his fucking mouth.
Natalia Esposito: what about J?
X Reyes: keep him distracted until it’s time to do the job.
Natalia Esposito: ok
X Reyes: don’t fuck this up or it’s back to the room with no hope of sunshine for the rest of ur life.
Natalia Esposito: I know
Clearing the browsing history of the couple of sites I visited, I log out, shut it down, and then thoroughly wipe every key and surface of the laptop, I close the lid and wipe that, too. Standing up from the chair, I shift it to ensure it’s positioned exactly as it was when I came in here. If I left even a trace of DNA in Ernesto’s private study, the horde of maidservants will dust and vacuum and polish it away first thing in the morning.
With the nightly task of snooping for info accomplished, I can go back to bed and enjoy plenty of sleep because of Joaquin’s spoiled habit of not getting up until well past ten a.m.
I creep back into the bedroom and close the door, silently spinning the lock behind me. Stripping off my clothes, I toss them haphazardly into the pile where Joaquin threw them earlier after undressing me with haste. I gingerly slip back under the sheet next to him and curl up on my side.
I’m just on the cusp of sleep when Joaquin’s hand fumbles across the bed and wraps around my waist. He easily pulls me across the mattress, my back flush to his chest and nestles his face against the nape of my neck.
He inhales deeply, then utters a sleepy, content moan. “Baby doll… querida… amor.”
Amor.
I say nothing because it’s clear he’s sleep-talking, but I don’t like that he said that—even though I’ve calledhimthat. I have a strategy that involves calling him that. He has no strategy because he’s oblivious. Him murmuring such a thing in his unconscious state indicates that he’s either falling in love with me, or he’s already there. And that just adds to the difficulty of the entire job. That, and what he said about the murders that made him my target to begin with.
The fact that he killed to protect his sister and avenge the atrocities committed against her. The fact that he doesn’t have a single regret over it. The fact that he’d do it again if he had to.
Joaquin is a good man. And as they say, good men are hard to find.
And when you’re grappling to salvage what’s left of your own soul, they’re even harder to kill.
