Half The Plot | Chapter 1
>> pairing: armando aretas x black!reader
>> rating: M 18+, NSFW, MDNI
>> summary: in between enacting his mother's revenge and running the Aretas Cartel, little did anyone know there was someone Armando had extensive plans for. They only had half the plot.
>> warning: explicit language, violence
>> author's note: hey y'all! Welcome to my first fanfiction on Tumblr! Let me know if you wanna be tagged :)
I really hope you enjoy. Please like, comment, and reblog!
1 | First Take
Great.
Traffic was just what you needed during another sweltering day in Miami, Florida. You were on your way to deliver some food because the hustle never stopped. You were in a lot of debt and your gig as a stripper wasn't cutting it lately.
So, Postmates it was. You were determined to not let the shitty circumstances of your life swallow you whole.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Messages from your boss, TJ, kept flooding in and you rolled your eyes. He was going off in the group chat again and you knew it was over some bullshit, because he was just that dramatic. You swiped away the messages quickly so you wouldn't lose focus.
"Turn right after the motel," the GPS directed, and you followed suit.
The food from a fancy steakhouse had to be delivered somewhere in Biscayne Bay, near Miami Harbor, and it was a massive order. Damn near $200 worth and the customer had already tipped a good 40%. You didn't usually hang around Biscayne since you lived on the other side of the Causeway, but you were in the area to say a final goodbye to a girlfriend who was moving out of state. You were already here, so you figured there would be no harm in taking some orders. It was tourist season after all. But this part of the Harbor looked a little…unkempt.
You expected to see at least one yacht in the distance, but there was none. Just cracked concrete and no signs of life. A long coated chain held the sign "Keep Out" restricting access to the pier. So you did as your GPS instructed and turned into an abandoned-looking gas station just before it.
The grass was overgrown, the roads were cracked, and everything felt so desolate. There hadn't been a human being present in the last several miles.
"You have arrived."
You frowned. There was nothing to arrive to. Just graffiti and trash.
"Bitch…what the...that can't be right," you groaned. You put your car in park to message your customer. Hopefully, they wouldn't be agitated.
A reply quickly came in.
Stephen: Sorry, mami. There's a gate just after the pump. Just wait there, I will come out.
You read it twice more and sighed.
It was slightly giving a lead up to The First 48.
You looked over at the big bag of food in the passenger seat and slowly blinked in frustration. The tip was too good to pass up. And you wanted a good delivery rating. If it turned out that this wasn't some human trafficking ploy, your account could definitely get shutdown for not delivering what this man paid for.
"Get rich or die tryin', I guess," you murmured hopping out of the car. You had your keys, wallet, and pepper spray in one hand and food in the other. You did as instructed and walked down less than a block to get to the rusted, sheet metal gate.
Male voices that were conversing in Spanish started approaching. The gate pushed open and you peeked inside like a mischievous cat testing the waters to see how safe it was to proceed.
You were met by a very nice looking guy.
He seemed to be your age, with sun kissed skin, full lips, and the most enticing dark brown eyes. He was dressed in all black, his biceps peeking out of his fitted shirt nicely.
Then your eyes dipped to the gun tucked in his waistband. Each guy on either side of him had the same. All three looked menacing.
Oh, okay. You were delivering to traffickers of some kind. Criminals, either way.
You weren’t too nervous...but there was always the possibility of this going all the way left.
"Delivery for Stephen?" You held up the heavy bag to show you came in peace.
The fine one narrowed his eyes at you then looked over at the man on his right.
"Es comida," the one you assumed to be your customer, shrugged. He leaned around Mr. Fine, who was still giving him the death stare and took the bag from you. "Thank you, mami."
"You're welcome. Have a nice day and enjoy your meal," you beamed, because your friendliness always earned you a five star rating. Before you were about to leave, Mr. Fine spoke.
"Don't come 'round here again." He slammed the rusted gate shut before you could respond.
There was a wrinkle in your brow when you turned to leave.
What a fucking asshole. Why did it always have to be the fine ones that had no home training?
The walk back to your car was a blur. You weren’t a stranger to rude customers, be it food delivery or at the strip club so you let it go because at least you got a fat tip out of it.
That had to count for something.
***
"Perdón, jefe! Please!" Esteban wailed, his face leaking blood onto the concrete. Armando punched the shit out of him again anyway.
Esteban was one of many in Zway Lo's crew who had been working under Aretas for the last few days.
A few days too long. Armando was ready to send Esteban to meet his maker.
"Pinche cabrón!" Armando yanked Esteban up by the collar and angled the glock to the underside of his jaw. "You don't put the address of a fucking drug operation into a fucking app!" His growling of the last several words made the other man cower. Everyone else was dead silent as they watched.
"I didn't put the exact address. I put the gas station! I put the gas station!" Esteban pleaded. "I used a fake name!!!"
This motherfucker is stupid, Armando presumed. Any person with half a brain cell could link a Stephen to an Esteban. It was Miami of all fucking places, the unofficial capital of Latin America. Nobody on Miami PD was on their payroll yet, so they had to be careful. One wrong move and everything he’d been working hard on to re-establish his mother and the family name would be for nothing.
Armando shoved him into the ground, disgusted.
His right hand, still cradling his glock, ticked with irritation before he padded toward Zway-Lo. He pointed his gun at Zway's temple. This would be the second time Armando had threatened his life. The lack of tact from everybody agitated Isabel Aretas's son greatly.
"The next time one of your guys fucks up," he said slowly, "you'll be sinking to the bottom of the fucking ocean with them. Claro?"
"Claro."
A moment passed. Zway-Lo breathed a sigh of relief when the gun was pulled back and holstered.
"And clean yourself up," Armando barked at Esteban, who was still on the ground. He was whimpering and nursing what might have been a broken nose. "Deja de estar chingando."
Armando strode to a backroom that was now his makeshift place of rest. All that decorated the small area was an air mattress, a few go bags of carefully folded clothes, and a door that led to a utility bathroom. A hanging punching bag was there for Armando to de-stress during moments like this. He began laying into it. When he was done, he did fifty push ups, then another fifty one-handed. Huffing, he stripped himself naked and got into the shower stall.
The cold spray hit him and he closed his eyes, replaying the last 24 hours.
Besides being surround by a bunch of amateurs, his mother was angry with him. Apparently he'd fucked up by trying to take out that cop first instead of going down the list as his mother requested. For some reason, she wanted Mike Lowrey to watch the list dwindle, and Armando had foiled that plan. He'd planned to remedy it by continuing as she instructed, but now he had another problem.
You.
Nobody, except for those who worked for and directly with his cartel, should've known about this area.
When he saw you, what he should have done was yank you inside, threaten your life, and interrogate you until he knew for sure that you weren't law enforcement or one of their honey traps. But he didn't and he felt fucking stupid for it. He followed his instinct that you were innocent, and now he was regretting it. He didn't know what to do. This shit could come crashing down at any moment and he wanted to do nothing more than fulfill his mother's wishes and avenge his father.
Armando leaned his head against the wall as the water ran the soap suds down his body. His mind was racing a million miles a minute and he couldn’t relax. He was a perfectionist and prided himself in that. What was going on right now wasn’t what he was used to and it bothered the fuck out of him.
After getting dressed and collecting his thoughts, he walked out of the base without a word of where he was going. But he made sure to stare down a bandaged up Esteban who refused to meet his eyes.
“Try not to fuck anything else up.”
He planned to get some food in the city, and his car, like the others in the crew, was parked in a free for all lot that was several blocks down. But as soon as he closed the gate, Armando spotted a little card wallet on the ground. He picked it up carefully, observing its contents. There were loose $1 bills, a weathered debit card, and something else that made him feel like his luck was turning.
It was your license.
***
A day after finding your wallet, Armando finally found time to watch you. It was the logical thing to do before he could move on to anymore targets on his mother’s list. He had to make sure you weren’t a problem. And maybe he was paranoid, but he'd rather be safe than sorry. Your information had come into his possession for a reason, and he chose not to ignore it. His meticulousness with these things had kept him alive over the years.
You lived in a rundown apartment in Liberty City and he’d arrived just in time that early morning to you hopping into your Honda Civic.
He stayed two cars behind you as you both waited in the worst hour of Miami traffic. Armando much preferred his motorcycle, or his array of sports cars back home, but the Camry did its job. It was unremarkable, with tints that would barely raise suspicion and fake plates that were taken care of by his connect in the DMV. He used his blacked out bike for his executions and the Camry for everything else.
He watched you attempt to do some shopping at a thrift store in Little Haiti, which was cut short because you must have have realized you'd lost your wallet. Your sagging shoulders and pronounced pout gave it away as you walked out. You looked so defeated. When you drove back home, Armando patiently waited in his car. Hours passed and night came, and you finally emerged from your apartment again. He gazed at your little tube top and tight shorts until you got your car. It was unlike him to deny that he liked what he saw, but it was the wrong time for him to be distracted by the female form.
He tailed you again, right up to when you got into the parking lot of a strip club named Treatz.
Armando sat there unblinking, wondering if you were going there to be entertained or to work. His question was answered when you disappeared through the clearly labeled employee entrance.
The club was set to open just an hour from now.
Perfect.
a/n: This is a series that will eventually have explicit sexual content. It takes place throughout Bad Boys 3 & 4. I hope to fully release it before summer is over this year. Idk how I'll pace it though. Btw, series title is inspired by "Half the Plot" by Lil Tecca. I thought the lyrics and vibe fit. Anyway, what did you think? see you next chapter!
