by JB Salsbury
“Entre el coche, Emilio.” Omar’s eyes are as lifeless as his voice.
“You expect me to just crawl in there and let you take me to—”
“Milo?”
My eyes widen at the sound of Julian’s voice.
I turn around as Sebastian mutters, “Fuck.”
Julian is standing just outside of the back door with Mercy and Miguel. Mercy’s squinting hard. Miguel looks similar, but he’s not trying to see; he’s glaring.
“’Bastian!” Jules takes off running, but Miguel snags him by the shirt and reels him back in hard enough that Jules almost comes off his feet.
“Go inside!” I try to communicate to Miguel how fucking serious I am about him getting Julian and Mercy behind locked doors. “Now!”
Miguel’s eyes glisten with moisture, but he ushers Julian inside. When he tries to do the same to Mercy, she throws his arms off her and stomps down the steps.
“Mercy, no!” I yell, but the words seem to get lost in the wind as she continues toward me. “Give me a second,” I say to the guys. I meet Mercy halfway across the yard, catch her face in my hands, and force her eyes to mine. “Mi alma, I need you to go back inside.”
She tries to look around me, but I keep her gaze on mine. “Who are they?”
“I’m gonna take care of it, but I can’t until you go inside.”
Her lip quivers and she closes her eyes, squeezing a tear from each one. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Mercy.”
Her clear blue eyes pop wide and she studies me as if trying to suck the truth from inside me. “I’m scared.”
“I know.” I press my lips to her forehead. “I love you, Ghostgirl. Never forget that.”
“Milo, no . . .” Her words dissolve on a gut-wrenching sob. “Don’t go with them.”
“We’re just going to talk. That’s all.” Lie. “Save me some dinner okay?” All lies.
“Are you sure? You’ll come right back, right?” She sniffs, and I wipe the tears from her cheeks.
“Emilio! Vamanos!” Omar calls, probably worried Miguel has called the cops and they’ll be here soon.
“I gotta go.” I press my lips to hers, tasting her tears, grateful that at least she has a chance at living free from the pain that comes with being in love with a gangster. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I release her and she reaches for me, but I jog and jump into the back of the car. ‘Nesto crawls in after me, and Sebastian peels away before the back door is even fully closed.
“That was fucking adorable, Milo.” Bastian meets my gaze through the rearview mirror, smiling. “I almost shed a tear, ese.”
I scowl at him, hiding the pain in my chest. “Fuck you.”
Milo
I WOULD’VE THOUGHT the last few minutes before I die would’ve been filled with flashes from my past. I imagined when the time finally came, I’d be given some kind of insight on life and faith and . . . fuck, there is none of that shit. Just pure undiluted fear and a lot of regret.
There’s no blindfold or threats as we make our way to an old abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of east Los Angeles. Makes sense, I guess. No need to keep the location a secret from a dead man. Sebastian pulls the car in through an open garage door. The moment the car is inside, shadows emerge from the dark to close the door behind us.
I do a quick scan of the numbers. Looks as though they managed to get the entire LS here to watch my death. My pulse hammers in my throat. Even though, I’m fucking terrified of what’s to come, I’ll be damned if I let these motherfuckers know it.
‘Nesto and Ramon pop the back doors and fold out. I’m supposed to follow, but I hesitate.
I chew my lip as dread crawls up my spine and makes a home in my fucking skull. I fix my eyes on Sebastian’s through the rearview. “You’re really gonna do it, huh?”
His gaze is that of a stone-cold killer, completely emotionless.
“Can you make it fast?”
He shrugs. “Get out of the car and find out.”
I nod, but I can’t get my legs to move. I could run, but they’d only shoot me in the back. With at least eighty guys here, all of ‘em packin’, there’s no way I’ll get more than three steps before they drop me.
Julian and Miguel will always know I died a coward.
I clear my throat and slide out of the car. I brace my weight on the door as the blood makes a slow trip from my head to my legs. The men slowly circle around me. Omar and my cousin join them. As much as I hate to admit it, I can’t keep hiding behind a car door, and once they draw weapons, it’ll do nothing to protect me anyway.
My fate was sealed the day I walked away from Esteban to go to Mercy. Even though my death is inevitable, I don’t regret my choice.
I step around the car door and slam it as my fear morphs into anger. The fire of an unfair life kindles embers in my gut. The lack of choices, the inability to find my own way stir those embers into flames of fury, and my hands shake at my sides. I fist them, and my breath comes harder and faster.
I throw my arms out, and all the pent-up years of hurt and agony come hurling from my chest in a roar of injustice. “What are you waiting for?”
They all remain silent.
“You’re all his fucking pawns, you know that? None of you have a fucking choice, so just do it!”
Sebastian studies me with curiosity as if I’m a rabid animal in a cage. He palms his Glock, using the barrel to scratch his cheek. “I couldn’t do it, ya know?”
I blink at him, wondering what the fuck he’s—
“Josephina?” He shakes his head.
My chest squeezes at the mention of my mom, and my muscles grow painfully tense.
“He gave the order, but I don’t fucking kill women and children, and I fucking loved your mama.”
“Who—” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “Who did?” I scan the crowd of LS soldiers for any sign of guilt.
“Don’t know. My guess? One of his cholos south of the border.”
Faces from Esteban’s crew in Mexico flicker through my mind, and I keep landing on Sancho, that kiss-ass fuck. A hissing sound comes from my mouth as I breathe through my teeth with the need for blood.
“Ya know”—Sebastian takes a few steps toward me, but he keeps his distance as if I might bite—“I never liked Esteban after that.”
There are a few grumbles from the group. I notice from the corner of my eye that Omar’s nodding in agreement.
“You know how many times I took the fall for Esteban?”
I don’t know the exact number, but I’m guessing Sebastian does.
“When he took off to Mexico to get into the cartel business, I was fucking happy.”
I can’t do anything but stare helplessly while I wait for him to get to the point.
Sebastian sets his cold, dark eyes on mine. “Esteban’s gone because of you.”
I shift on my feet, my body telling me to run as my head tells me there’s no point.
“You did us a favor.”
I blink, sure I misheard, and sway on my feet as the adrenaline leaves me light-headed. “So what . . . what is this?”
Omar steps closer, and my eyes dart between them, waiting to see who pulls a gun first. “We’ve decided rather than kill you, we’ll free you.”
“Free me?” What the fuck.
Sebastian holsters his gun. “You’ve earned it.”
The eighty-plus members advance slowly until I’m in the center of a circle.
“Are you saying—”
“There’s only one way in . . .” Sebastian’s expression grows cold again, losing the little bit of emotion I saw when he spoke of my mom.
“And one way out,” I say and brace for what’s coming.
My cousin comes closer, so close I can feel the heat from his breath when he says, “It’s the only way, primo.”
And in those five words, I hear, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’
m ready—”
His fist slams into my head before the last syllable is out of my mouth. I go down hard. I curl into a ball to protect my vital organs as I get jumped out of the Latino Saints.
I only pray I survive it.
Mercy
THE CALL CAME in hours after Milo left with his cousin Sebastian and a few other guys I recognized from the night they rescued me. After they drove away, I asked Miguel if we should call the police. He said telling the cops would make things worse.
So we sat and waited for Milo to come home. We tried to play games and started a movie to keep Julian entertained.
Milo said everything would be okay. They were just going to talk. I believed him.
When Miguel’s phone rang, I pressed my cheek to his to listen. A man’s voice said we could find Milo at Los Angeles Community Hospital and hung up.
“We have to go,” Miguel says and jumps up to grab his keys.
I follow him then turn back to Julian, who’s fixated on Big Hero 6. Laura and Chris are at dinner and a movie, so we have to take Julian with us.
“Jules? We have to go get Milo.” I think that should be enough information to get him moving without scaring him.
His eyes dart to mine briefly then go back to the movie. “But this is the best part! Beymax gets his suit and—”
“Julian!” Miguel tosses his brother’s shoes at him. “Let’s go.”
A flicker of worry crosses Julian’s face. I pick up his shoes and squat to help him slip them on.
“What crawled up Miguel’s butt?”
I force myself to sound calm even though I’m not feeling it. “Milo’s been hurt. We’re going to check on him at the hospital.”
Julian blinks at me. “Hurt like I was when I got hit on my bike?”
“Something like that. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Come on!” Miguel calls from the back door.
I grab Julian’s hand and lead him out to the car, then I make sure he’s buckled before I climb into the passenger side. Miguel speeds toward the hospital, his jaw hard and his mouth in a firm line. I want to comfort him but find it difficult when his emotion matches my own.
“He’ll be okay, guys.” Julian’s voice pipes up from the back. “He will. Mom will keep him safe until Mercy brings him back. Just like she did for me.”
I close my eyes as a fierce pain grips my throat.
If only I could be a real healing Angel.
If Milo’s gone, there’s nothing I can do to bring him back.
Mercy
THE REST OF the drive to the hospital is a blur as my thoughts race with what we’re about to see. What happened to Milo after he left with those men?
My teeth clench when I consider the evil those men are capable of. The only thought that keeps me grounded is that injured men go to the hospital. Dead ones don’t.
Miguel pulls the car into the emergency entrance parking lot, and I grab Julian’s hand, trying to keep up with Miguel as he sprints to the door. The sliding glass doesn’t open fast enough. He pushes them open and darts to the desk, weaving in front of people in line.
“Emilio Vega! Where is he?”
“Excuse me.” The woman behind the desk glares at Miguel. “You’re going to have to—”
“Tell me where my brother is!”
She jerks away from her computer. I’m afraid she’ll leave, so I step forward with Julian in front of me, my arms draped over his shoulders. She blinks at me, and I give her a moment to check the shock displayed plainly on her face.
“I apologize. He’s just worried about his brother,” I say.
She seems to calm when she hears the steadiness in my voice. It’s taking every ounce of energy I have to keep from screaming like Miguel.
“Emilio Vega? We got a phone call that he was brought in a little while ago?”
Her eyes dart to the line of people behind us. I turn and apologize to them, but when they see me, they all nod in a kind of stunned silence.
“Um . . . okay, let me see.” She types something on the keyboard of her computer while Miguel paces with both hands fisted in his hair. “We have a Hispanic male who was brought in an hour ago.”
“That’s him!” Miguel leans over the counter.
I place a hand on his shoulder in a silent request that he calm down.
“Oh, good, well, I’m glad you’re here. He’s pretty drowsy on the pain medication and we need information—”
“Pain?” Julian’s small voice catches the woman’s attention.
Her expression softens, and she picks up the phone. “Let me get someone out here to bring you back.”
I thank her, and we move to hover by the big double doors that lead into the belly of the emergency center. Miguel continues pacing while staring at the doors, and Julian stays with me, his hands gripping mine.
“Dearest Holy Mother, let him be okay.” I repeat my whispered prayer.
Julian leans his head on me, whispering along with me. Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I can’t be the healing angel for Milo, but I can be the strength for his brothers.
After a few minutes, the door opens and a man in a white coat comes out and spots us. Dr. Michael Monroe is stitched above the breast pocket, and his gaze is set on Miguel. “You’re the family of our patient?”
Miguel nods. “We got a call.”
“Interesting.” He studies me but only for a second, not seeming nearly as surprised as most people seeing me for the first time. I wonder if it’s his medical background that makes me less of a freak in his eyes. “Come on back.”
We follow him through the doors and a series of hallways that, despite their bright lights, make me feel as though I’m back in the basement of Papa’s house. My heart races and my palms sweat. Julian seems to notice a change in me because he keeps looking at me in suspicion.
I smile and squeeze his hand. “I’m okay.”
We enter a large room filled with beds separated by curtains.
Dr. Monroe brings us to a bed but turns to us. “He’s in pretty bad shape, but nothing that seems to be life-threatening.”
At our collective sighs of relief, he slides open the curtain. My breath catches in my throat. The person in the bed is unrecognizable. I step closer, leaving Julian with Miguel.
My gaze lands on Milo’s neck, the tattoo of the Holy Mother discolored with bruising, but still—“It’s him.”
His eyelids are a painful mix of purple and red, swollen shut and framed in fresh cuts and bruises. His jaw sits at a weird angle, and his lips are black and blue.
“He’s suffered three broken ribs, a broken arm, and multiple contusions, but his brain scans all came back clear. His jaw is swollen but not broken. He’s lucky.”
I look at the doctor, and he seems a little embarrassed. “Lucky?”
“Most of the gang jump victims we see are in a lot worse shape—”
“Gang jump?” Miguel growls from the opposite side of the bed.
“Oh.” The doctor frowns. “I assumed with the Latino Saints tattoo and the way he was dropped at the hospital doors, it’s my belief that your brother just got jumped into a gang.”
“That can’t be it. He was already . . .” Miguel’s whispered words are cut off by an abrupt shake of his head.
I don’t know what to make of any of this. Miguel crosses his arms and frowns at the doctor as if he’s not buying the story.
“You’re his blood relative?” the doctor asks.
I assume he’s not talking to me, so I ignore him while Miguel answers his questions. I reach to touch Milo’s hand but hesitate when I see the severe bruises and cuts. “Oh, Milo . . . what did they do to you?”
For the first time since we got the phone call, I allow myself to cry. The tears fall in silent streams hidden from everyone except Milo, and thankfully he’s asleep. I watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest and pray my gratitude to the Holy Mother for sparing his life.
“Please let this be the end of it all,�
� I whisper.
Milo’s eyebrows jump, and his puffy lids struggle to open.
“Milo?” I wrap my hands around a section of his forearm that doesn’t seem as discolored as the rest. “It’s me. I’m here.”
He licks his lips. “Mi alma.” His voice is so weak.
“Yes, I’m here. Miguel and Julian are too. We’re so happy you’re okay—” The last word breaks on a sob, and I hate that I can’t keep it together and be strong for him.
“Don’t . . .” He winces as though talking hurts his throat. “Cry.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I press a kiss to the side of his head.
“He’s awake, great.” The doctor circles the foot of the bed to stand at Milo’s head across from me. He pulls out a light that looks like a pen and pulls up Milo’s eyelid to shine it in his eye.
I cringe at the whites of his eyes, which are blood red with broken vessels, but he doesn’t seem to be in too much pain. The doctor runs through a few tests, checking monitors and asking Milo questions about his level of discomfort.
“I’m going to have him admitted overnight so we can monitor him and make sure we didn’t miss anything. I’ll refer him to an orthopedic specialist to get his arm casted in about a week, after the swelling goes down. With some pain management and strict instructions to take care of those ribs, he should be okay to go home tomorrow, next day latest.”
We thank the doctor, and when we’re left alone, Milo drifts back to sleep. The three of us sit in silence, just watching him breathe.
At the sound of Julian’s yawning, I check the time on the wall. “Laura and Chris are going to wonder where we are.”
Miguel holds up his phone. “They just texted me. They’re on their way.”
I nod and stare at my connection to Milo, my pale hand on his badly bruised but non-broken arm. “You guys should go. I’ll stay with him.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I will not leave him.” I feel the need to apologize for my quick and angry response, but instead I bite my lip.
The side of Miguel’s mouth lifts a tiny bit. “All right.”
Milo
I WAKE FROM a dreamless sleep to more darkness. At first I think it must be the middle of the night, but when I try to roll over to go back to sleep, my body cries out in agony. I moan and reach for a light, but my arm won’t listen to the command. It aches as if it’s stuck between my bed and desk and tweaked funny.
