by Ophelia Bell
“You and I both know Dad never laid a finger on Elle. I think he’s known she wasn’t his for a long time and that if he touched her, Arturo would end him. But Elle hasn’t stayed in our old house in two years, brother. She and Sam both live in San Diego full-time now. I usually take Mom to visit them, but they came up for Christmas because Mom wants us all together this time of year.”
He pauses and gives me a more direct, pointed look. “It isn’t just Christmas for her, you know. December 17th is the anniversary of her second son’s death. Your death. Having her family together—even Dad—means everything to her. And, trust me, Arturo has his watchdogs looking out for Elle, probably a little too closely, if you ask me.”
I sit back, dazed by the revelations. I knew my two youngest siblings had moved, but it hadn’t really hit me they’d been living in another city for so long. That was a relief. I’m a little chastened at the reminder that I’m still dead to them too. But Arturo’s hatred of our father is no secret.
“So it’s just Mom?” I ask. “Then what’s stopping him?”
“He made her a promise,” he says with a shrug. “And if he’s not good for it, he’d be compromising his integrity.”
My jaw clenches, but the smile that creeps across my brother’s face makes me narrow my eyes. “What?” I snap.
“Do you know you get that look every time Dad does something that makes you want to murder him? Then you agonize over it because you think that means you’re just like him. That you’ll wind up beating your wife and kids someday like he does.”
“You don’t think it’s a valid fucking concern? He wanted me to live up to the name so much he beat it into me. What if I have kids someday and all that fucking vile shit comes out? All the parts of him that make me who I am?”
Maddox shakes his head and waves a hand at me. “Don’t you get it? This is proof that you’re not like Dad. I don’t know why you always beat yourself up over a hypothetical, but I don’t think you have to worry. You changed your goddamn name, for fuck’s sake. Erasing that asshole for good isn’t going to change who you are at your core, so don’t keep wasting your energy on it. Anyway, if fatherhood is in the cards for you—hell, for any of us—I think we’ll all do just fine. We have enough of Mom in us, brother.”
I clench my teeth, holding back my argument. Wiping Dad off the face of the planet would go a long fucking way to easing my mind, even if it wouldn’t erase who I really am.
The door latch clicks, and Maddox turns and reaches for the handle, opening to reveal a pair of faces that seem familiar, but it takes me a second to recognize them. The twins, Benny and Baz Quiñones have grown up and filled out since the last time I saw them more than three years ago after they witnessed what was probably their first shooting. They’re the same age as my youngest brother, Sam, so they can’t be more than twenty-two, but they have a dangerous edge to them now.
Their discipline shows when they step inside and flank the door, standing with their hands clasped in front of them like a pair of Secret Service agents in bespoke suits. They’re both clean-cut, their young faces looking like they barely shave, though their physiques make it evident they train hard. Traces of blackwork peek out from their collars and cuffs, betraying the gangbanger identities beneath those expensive threads.
It’s bordering on theatrical, and I can’t help but wonder if Arturo chose the twins for appearances’ sake. But I know better. My brother just said as much too: Flores doesn’t do anything if it won’t benefit him somehow. He also wouldn’t choose a pair of bodyguards based on optics. The twins are as close to sons as the man has, even though they’re his housekeeper’s kids. My gut tells me they were probably trained by Amon, the same cold-eyed killer who trained me for my mission, which means I really shouldn’t fuck with them no matter how tempting it is.
I eye them anyway, then look at Arturo as he enters. “You’re being pretty liberal with my secret, Flores. How long have they known I’m alive?”
“My business is their business. But you can be assured I only tell them what they need to know to do their jobs. The most important thing right now is your assignment. Your brother hasn’t shared much in the way of details, so I hope your presence here means you’ve succeeded.”
“It’s complicated,” I say and shoot a quick glare at Maddox when he snorts a laugh. I sigh and stand up, fishing into my pocket for the flash drive Zavala sent me away with. “This isn’t all the intel we want. It’s just a sample. You may as well see it, since it’s going to affect you once the Feds get a peek.”
Arturo’s disconcerting hazel gaze rests on my face, giving me the sense that he can read my mind. It makes me itch, but I manage to remain still and don’t look away until he glances down at the drive. He plucks it from my fingers and holds it up and points it at my bruised face.
“Your condition suggests things didn’t go well. Zavala’s using the rest of the intel as collateral for something, isn’t he? What does he want, and why is he sending you to get it?”
I’ve seen the dirt Zavala has on Arturo—he made sure to show me before I left, claiming I needed to know the man I was in bed with—but now I realize it just means the old man and I have something crucial in common for a change.
“Zavala is using more than just the intel as collateral,” I say, nodding at the drive. “He also knows about the deal you have with the feds. He wants in, plus he wants his brother released from custody or he’s not giving us the rest. Worse, if we don’t give him what he wants, he’ll go to Amador with it instead. Trust me, we don’t want that. None of us want that.”
I don’t elaborate, but I’m all too aware of the pair of sentinels by the door and how the secrets would affect them. There’s no telling what else the twins know, but I doubt Arturo has shared his darkest secrets with them. Secrets that somehow Zavala has managed to discover and store away like a fat little squirrel hoarding all the meatiest nuts for the winter.
Arturo nods. “Thank you,” he says in a low voice, the subtext clear enough in his look: Thank you for not spilling my secrets. He’ll find out soon that his secrets weren’t the only ones I was keeping to myself.
He turns, gesturing to one of the twins. I can barely tell them apart after all these years, but think it’s Benny who reaches into a small messenger bag slung over one shoulder and pulls out a thin laptop with an adapter dangling from a port.
Arturo takes it and sets it on the rolling table by the patient bed, powers it on, and attaches the flash drive to the adapter. He turns the table so that only he can see the screen, but I’ve already seen what he’s looking at and can gauge which specific piece of intel he’s viewing when he pauses and clenches his jaw. For a man as inscrutable as Arturo, the small tic may as well be a scream of rage. It disappears just as quickly, then a moment later, I’m positive he got to the section with photos of the leverage Zavala has on me.
He lifts his gaze from the screen and meets my eyes. For a second I’m sure what passes between us is empathy, but neither of us would ever admit to it.
“César Zavala is going to need proof this was delivered before he gives the rest. It’s what I would do,” he says.
I nod. “I have to bring that drive back to him with some kind of written assurance that the deal is done added to the files, along with copies of the paperwork approving his brother’s release. There had better not be any holes in that data or he’ll know. He’s counting on enough people learning what’s on this to keep us honest.”
“Everything is still there, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how important it is that no one sees this who doesn’t need to. You’re heading to Denver next.” It isn’t a question, which gets my hackles up because I don’t actually answer to Flores anymore, but he isn’t looking at me. He closes the laptop, detaches the flash drive, and hands it to me. “Even though they rely on me for intel on Amador, I can’t be the one who delivers this to the Feds.”
“I never planned to let you keep it,” I say, taking the drive and sh
oving it back into my pocket.
“I’m sure you understand it’s in my interest to make sure you complete this assignment.” At a nod from him, the twins step up behind me. Baz grabs my shoulder, and I shoot him a glare that makes him back off with hands raised.
Turning back to their boss, I cross my arms. “I’m not one of your dogs, Flores. You saw the drive. You know I have a stake in this too. I don’t need any more incentive to get this done, so you’d better believe I’m taking care of this personally. What you can do is make sure that they’re expecting me and grease whatever wheels or palms you need to so they say yes.”
The old man smiles. “If there’s one thing I appreciate about the Santos men, it’s their ability to commit to a job. Even your younger brother seems to have developed the same work ethic. I don’t think your father has any other value, but at least you inherited that quality.”
I’d love to punch the smug look off his face—as if he has any right to condescend to me about my own family. I know what we’re made of, and exactly how much influence Dad had on how we turned out. But no matter how much I hate the bastard who gave me his name, how I feel about him is none of Arturo’s business. Still, I can’t keep my mouth shut.
I jab a finger at the door. “That woman lying in a coma down the hall is the only reason my brothers and I wound up with any redeeming qualities. She’s the one who deserves the credit. Not Dad.” I turn to my brother. “Can I borrow the keys to your place? I need to catch a flight later, and I’m pretty sure I’ll raise an alarm if I try to get through TSA looking like this.”
He shakes his head. “Sam and Elle are crashing there, so it’s not the best place for you to show your face.” His gaze shifts between Arturo and the twins. “But most of my shit’s at the Flores estate anyway. If you want to borrow some things to pack for your trip, you should head up there.” He reaches into his pocket and holds out a set of keys, but Arturo waves him off.
“Elena is at the house. I can call ahead and let her know you’re coming. If you don’t mind waiting, you can ride home with us.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I say, “but I have an errand to run first.”
6
Mason
I park the bike a block down the street from my old house, adrenaline already a sickening rush through my veins. The street is quiet. A few of the houses have holiday decorations in the yard, though ours is limited to icicle lights strung above the front steps. Just beyond the front window the lit Christmas tree twinkles, its merry color belying the monster I know is somewhere within those walls.
I shouldn’t be here, but after the conversation with my brother, an irrational need has been monopolizing my mind—the need to do more than just change my name to distance myself from my father. There are too many men like him in the world, and if I’m going to be the man I should be after this assignment is over, there’s no room for a man like him in my life. I need to destroy his connection to me, to my siblings, and to my mother. And there’s only one way to do that.
If I know him, he’s probably swimming in the bottom of a bottle right about now. Just in case he isn’t, I slip quietly through our gate and around the side of the house, peeking through windows until I find him.
As predicted, he’s sprawled face-down on the unmade bed in the master bedroom, an empty Stoli bottle resting on the nightstand. Heading to the back door, I find it unlocked and grit my teeth. This isn’t the safest neighborhood, so Mom always made sure to lock the doors to preserve what few nice possessions we had.
Stepping in, I remain quiet and cautious. The place is a wreck, the congealed remains of what was probably Christmas dinner still strewn around the kitchen and dining room. Jesus, he couldn’t even tidy up after Mom’s stroke?
It makes my gut roil to stand here and envision the incident, which my brother said happened while Mom was in the middle of saying grace. Her words apparently turned to gibberish halfway through before she collapsed. Dad was making fun of her when it happened.
The table is only set for five, but the fact that our brother Marco wasn’t able to come home for Christmas doesn’t offer any absolution. My younger brother is a Navy SEAL, and a saint, so no doubt he spent the holidays saving lives in some remote part of the world. I know he’d be here if he could, but I’m glad he isn’t, because I wouldn’t be able to face him after what I’m about to do.
I turn down the narrow, dim hallway and step into the master bedroom. The room is an even bigger wreck than the rest of the house. Empty bottles litter both nightstands and the floor. Dirty laundry is scattered everywhere. For such a stickler for discipline, the asshole on the bed sure doesn’t practice what he preaches. It’s fucking disgusting, and it’s only been two days since Mom collapsed.
My hatred for him has been brewing on high heat since last night when Mad gave me the news. The rage kept me warm on the cold ride from San Diego to Los Angeles, and it was only through sheer force of will that I didn’t charge out of Mom’s room earlier and strangle him then.
Now he won’t escape it. He’s the worthless waste of space in this family, despite how little he thinks of us. His litany of insults and derision are on a constant loop through my head as I consider how to get this done. I’d do it with my bare hands, but when I spy his boots lined up as precisely as soldiers by the bed, I have a better idea.
I bend down to grab one of the boots. My fingers are sure and quick as I unlace it, then drop the boot, wrap each end of the lace around my hands, and stretch it taut with a snap. The nylon digs into my fingers as I step toward the bed, a dark haze creeping in around my vision. My focus shrinks to a pinpoint on the back of my father’s shaved head where the ball chain that holds his dog tags lies across a neck weathered deep brown from hours working on helicopter engines in the elements.
I’m already halfway onto the bed, ready to sling the garrote around his neck when the front porch creaks and the door latch clicks open. My sister’s voice is soon joined by my youngest brother, Sam’s, the sound snapping me back into myself. I freeze, blinking down at my hands.
Elle’s voice is exactly like Mom’s, and the sound forces my conscience to do an about-face. I suddenly see myself in this moment, about to commit murder. Worse, I see how my mother would react.
Fucking hell no; I want to be a better man than my father was. As much as he deserves it after all he’s done to her, to us all, I can’t do this, even though I know I can get away with it—you can’t charge a dead man with murder, after all. But I especially can’t follow through now that my youngest siblings are in the next room.
I back up off the bed and step silently into the master bathroom, pulling aside the shower curtain just enough to slip behind it, where I wait, ears trained on the rest of the house.
“You clean up the food, I’ll take care of the dishes,” Elle says with such authority she’s almost indistinguishable from Mom. Then, “What are you doing? Sam?”
I hear footsteps coming down the hall and Sam calls out, “Just making sure he’s not awake. Mad said he was drunk at the hospital this morning. Security had to haul his belligerent ass out.”
“Not surprised,” Elle says.
Through a gap at the edge of the shower curtain, I can just see the area between the doorway to the bedroom and the bed itself. Sam strolls halfway in and stands, staring down at Dad. He’s so unimpressed he practically sneers as he lifts a foot and gently kicks at dad’s leg where it hangs over the side of the bed.
“You are one drunk motherfucker, aren’t you?” he mutters, leaning over to pick up the Stoli bottle and shaking it. There isn’t even a slosh of backwash left.
What stuns me is how grown-up my baby brother looks. Last time I saw him he was eighteen, still soft around the edges despite some half-assed attempts at joining team sports in school and spending hours in the gym to prove himself. He barely scraped by with grades sufficient to graduate after his second try at senior year. We always knew he had a wicked mind if only he’d apply himself, but his true
love was art, which Dad hated with a vengeance.
Now he’s twenty-two and has filled out at least as much as the Quiñones twins, but with the Santos height to boot. He evidently went full rebel after Dad’s constant insistence on a haircut and now sports a thick head of dark, wavy hair that falls to his shoulders. He rakes his fingers through it, then scratches his jaw in a mannerism straight out of Dad’s playbook. Hell, it’s a tic of mine too.
He doesn’t have as much ink as I’d expect for a tattoo artist—only a pair of plain black bands around each muscled forearm. Nothing to indicate how talented he is. Even his very first design, the one on my own back, was a masterpiece.
Like the rest of the Santos men, Sam hasn’t gone to college. It wasn’t in the cards for any of us. Instead, partly thanks to the tattoo on my back, he landed a sweet gig as an apprentice to a celebrity tattoo artist in San Diego named Toni Valentine.
It is literally his dream job, but I wonder if he knows his boss’ real name. Thanks to the intel on the tiny drive in my pocket, I’ve learned that Toni Valentine was born Antonia Valentina Quiñones, and that her mother Elena, Arturo Flores’ housekeeper, had an affair with her boss thirty years ago. That the man she believed was her father was hand-picked by Arturo to raise his own daughter. After Elena married Hector Quiñones, she had the twins, Benedito and Baltasar—Benny and Baz, Arturo’s sidekicks.
Does my brother have a clue that leaving Los Angeles to work for her didn’t exactly gain him any distance from the tangled web between our family and Arturo’s?
He worries at his hair some more, makes a face, then turns and strides straight toward me. I blink and hold my breath, fading back into the shadows as quietly as I can. I lose sight of all but a tiny sliver of the room beyond, hoping like hell he doesn’t sense me somehow. Leaning the tiniest bit, I see him paw through the cabinet over the toilet and come away with a hair tie, which he proceeds to use to pull his hair back into a short, tight half-ponytail.
