For the past few weeks, I foolishly forgot about the evil tainting his aura. In my mind, I had placed him on a pedestal in the clouds—my secret hero. A man completely different from his merciless father. And now, he’s shown himself to me. The real beast I should fear more than anyone else.
“Get down!” Shane rushes up from behind and launches himself at Tomás, bringing them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs. “You need to get the fuck out of here, Tommy.”
Elias’ signet ring tumbles and bounces, stopping shy of my boots. While Tomás coughs, the wind knocked from his lungs, I reach out and grab it. Heavy gold burns my skin, the ring a trinket of justice, and a souvenir of karma’s work. I stuff it into the tiny pocket of my dress and then regret it.
The thought of Elias’ death, how it unfolded—it terrifies me. Tomás had switched from a loving son to The Reaper in a single heartbeat.
The death-soaked atmosphere splits with persistent shooting. “Kill them all!” Tomás bellows, his thunderous tone dripping with wrath. “Kill every fucker in sight.”
Rolling to his side, Tomás fires bullets at incoming henchmen, kneecapping them with a round. When they crumple, he scrambles onto all fours and athletically jumps to his feet. As he rises, his entire posture flexes, showing zero fear. “Bomb the fucking Mexicans and their entire family tree.”
“Wait,” Shane pants, his white motif t-shirt almost transparent from the downpour and showcasing his muscular physique. “They’re fighting with us. It’s not them.” Silvery light catches the web of thread-like scars exploding over one side of his face as he checks for more ammunition.
Tomás’ lungs expand in bursts. He’s brandishing two guns now, firing round after round into the street where a few armed men shoot back at him.
He’s indescribable. Saturated by a deluge of rain and tarnished in so much blood that his smart suit is forever ruined. Terrifyingly brutal in his retaliation. Unnerved by the mortal danger he appears to be in. And most importantly, oblivious to my identity.
A sleek SUV reverses at speed and skids to a halt, quickly followed by another. Doors open. Men jump out. Twisting his neck around, his rage fueled gaze settles on me.
“Her.” He jabs his gun into the air sideways, pointing it at me. “Grab the bitch. She’s in on this.” Tomás doesn’t wait, he storms toward the farthest vehicle with a murderous cloud swirling in his wake.
I’m abruptly hauled to my feet and yanked by the hair.
“Cover her head,” One man orders while the others heave Elias’ corpse into the closest waiting Escalade.
“Shane!” I finally find my voice. “Please… it’s me… Carina…”
Shane glances over his shoulder as I’m manhandled and dragged. His unfriendly glower chills me to the bone. “You?”
“Please… this is a mistake.”
“You’re in it up to your fucking eyeballs, kid. He doesn’t give second chances. You're all outta luck.”
3
TOMÁS
I’m one breath away from detonating.
Papá’s blood is everywhere. The suit I’m wearing is swamped in the one thing I despise more than deceit–helplessness. He was dying and there wasn’t a single thing I could do to change it.
His time was up, so I did the only humane thing a son could offer his dying father. A quick shove into the arms of death. Not before I blanked out for a beat. As he would undoubtedly predict, I hesitated—the very thing he tried to beat out of me.
I shirk out of the seven-thousand-dollar jacket ruined by blood like it's scalding my torso. Blind panic tightens my ribs, making me mentally unsteady. I repeatedly punch the headrest in front of me. My filthy fist leaves an ugly streak of gore on the leather.
Knots wrangle in my stomach, the uncomfortable ache creating waves of nausea. But it’s the sharp pain in my heart, the very thing I swore would remain forever impenetrable, that shatters under the weight of memories. Flashbacks that are too similar to the shitshow in the street behind our convoy.
It’s a waste of time loving a soul when death is inevitable—it’s the only absolute promise in this life. The emotion is a hex. A curse from the gods to weaken us with its complexities.
Maybe if I shed a tear, the hell galloping free inside me could escape, but I’m void of tears. I slip into the mental coma I’ve lived in since my uncle was mutilated by war. Since the boy with stars in his eyes had ended his life in an act oflove.
Lost in anarchy, I don’t see the city lights fade or feel peace as the vehicle eats up the slopes to my isolated mountain refuge. From up here, amidst abundant greenery and swaying palms, I'm able to survey the domain we rule over.
A chill spikes my pulse. Papá’s dead. And now—now it’s my turn to rule.
“Tommy.” The driver twists in his seat to see me. It’s only then I realize we’re parked outside my home. “You want us to come in?”
I stare him in the eye and cock my head. This madness whirring through me is a motion picture of past and present. It’s misting my usual level-headedness and quickly flipping me to psychotic.