Elizaveta snapped out of whatever had gripped her. She scooted next to Jack. She bent over him, examining his head. A massive, bleeding bump had already formed on the side of his skull. “Jack?” she said. “Jack?”

He didn’t respond.

She checked the pulse in his neck. It was beating.

She whirled on Jesus, eyes raging. The belt lay next to his feet, coiled liked a snake. He was now aiming the pistol at Jack’s limp body.

Pita was yelling at him: “Put the gun down, Jesus!”

“You don’t understand!” he said.

“Put the gun down!”

“Shut up, Pita!”

“You can’t shoot him!”

“There’s no choice!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Eliza,” Jesus said. “Get out of the way.” His face was feverish. The pistol trembled in his grip.

“Stop this, Jesus!” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Eliza, move!”

“Jesus!” Pita shouted.

“He’s going to rat me to the police!” Jesus snapped, glaring at her.

“So what! You didn’t do anything. You didn’t kill—” She bit off the rest of the sentence.

“You killed him,” Elizaveta stated. “You really did kill him.”

“Nitro?” Pita said.

“You don’t understand.” Jesus ran the back of his hand across his lips. He took aim at Jack again. “He was a cop.”

“Nitro was a cop?” Elizaveta said, dumbstruck.

“Nitro was not a cop, Jesus,” Pita said.

Jesus flourished the pistol in a declamatory way. “This gun! It’s a Beretta 92. Marco has the same one. He told me it’s his service gun from when he was a cop. They let him keep it.”

Marco was one of Jesus’s bodyguards: big, overweight, greased hair and a goatee.

Pita said, “That doesn’t mean—”

“No, it doesn’t, Pita,” Jesus said. “But it got me thinking. What does Nitro actually do?”

She frowned. “He has his father’s money—”

“His father who builds highways in Spain. Right. Convenient he’s across the ocean. No way to run into someone in the Mexican construction industry who might know, or not know, of him. And did you ever see Nitro spend much of this money he supposedly had? He gets around on a fucking Honda motorcycle. Does he even have a car? Have you ever seen his car? And what about his place? Where does he live? Napoles? Conveniently across the city from me. Did you ever go to his place? All that time you were fucking him, did he ever invite you over?”

Pita glanced at Jack. He remained out cold. “No…” she said quietly.

Jesus shook his head. “It was a lie. Everything, a lie, so he would fit in with our crowd. Think about it, Pita—when did Nitro and I meet?”

“At Ana’s birthday party,” Elizaveta said.