by Mia Flores
I gazed into his eyes and really considered what he said. This man is as caring and compassionate as my own dad, I thought. I feel truly safe with him. I hate what he does for a living, but this is the person I’ve been looking for my whole life.
I squeezed his hands. Just like that, I knew my baby was going to have a father, and I was going to have a new life.
CHAPTER 4
Peter
Mia
Even though we’d moved to West Lawn, I still went back to Little Village to see my grandparents and my good friend Ana. My mom and dad would let me spend the night at her house, but both they and Ana’s parents forbade us from going past their front yard since 26th Street, where she lived, was so infested with gangs.
Ana had grown up just down the block from these identical twins named Peter and Junior. She always talked about them, how cute and nice they were, and how they weren’t in a gang, but they were always hanging around the neighborhood. I didn’t get a chance to meet them all the years Ana lived there, though. My dad was in a unit that patrolled the area, and getting caught disobeying was not my idea of fun.
But in 1996, the twins moved to 72nd Street, which was only a few blocks from my house.
“Pete and Junior are your neighbors now!” Ana said when she came over one day early on in high school. “Let’s call them. I want to introduce you.”
Finally, I was going to meet the legendary Flores twins.
I knew Peter and Junior had moved into one of the nicer houses in our area. It was two stories, and if you had stairs leading up to your bedroom, you had money. I’d seen them walking around, and even though I couldn’t tell them apart, they seemed like they could be cool. They were handsome and wore nice clothes, and Ana liked them, so I supposed that was good enough for me.
I was petite for my age, with blond hair, but being Brazilian I was blessed with natural curves and exotic features. I didn’t look like your average sixteen-year-old girl, and boys in my high school were always gross, making comments about my body or my looks. When I’d meet a new guy, it would always go something like this: he’d look me up and down, throw his head back a little, and say, “Hey, babe, what’s up?” It was the total opposite of charming.
The Flores brothers couldn’t have been more different. When Ana introduced me to them, Peter shook my hand, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Hi, Mia, how are you? It’s nice to meet you.” It was like his mom had drilled those exact words into his head and made him say them, over and over.
Who the heck talks like that and shakes your hand? I thought. Especially a fifteen-year-old?
Soon, I started hanging out with them, and it was all innocent. We’d go to the lake, head downtown, or hit some parties. When the weather was nice, kids in West Lawn roamed around looking for something to do, but we were never up to anything. Not the Flores twins, though. The more I spent time with them, the more I realized that behind closed doors, something was just off with them. They were not normal teenagers. They were always wearing brand new clothes and shoes, which was strange to me. I’d ask myself, What fifteen-year-old doesn’t wear the same sneakers twice? Their older brother Adrian drove luxury cars, had tattoos all over his body, and wore jewelry that shined so bright I could see it from down the block. When I’d pass by their house I’d see random people detailing Adrian’s fleet of cars and motorcycles. He screamed drug dealer. I was no dummy, and I put two and two together and realized that it wasn’t just Adrian; their family was making money some way, and it wasn’t legal.
Pretty quickly, I stopped wanting to hang out with them. They were super cool, but their life was foreign to me, and I didn’t want to be around people like that. I’ll admit I was pretty stuck up and prissy then, but now that I think about it, I really was too good to hang out with them.
Plus, my dad told me they were bad news. “I raided their house when they lived on 26th Street,” he told me. “And their brother Adrian went to prison ’cause he’s a big kingpin.”
As time went on, though, something about them kept calling to me, especially Peter. He was so much fun to hang out with, but at the same time, such a gentleman. He was mature, not rude and obnoxious like the other guys my age. Sure, his family was up to no good, but he seemed good on the inside. He’d already gone through things in his life, and it showed. He was like this little grownup.
One day when I was sixteen, I decided to have a party at my house, with my parents’ permission, of course. I told my dad I’d invited Peter, and he was not too happy.
“I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again: that family is trouble.”
“But, Dad, he’s different. And besides, he’s bringing his girlfriend. Peter’s just a friend.”
When Peter arrived, my dad immediately had him cornered.
“I don’t know what you’re doing hanging out with my daughter,” he said, “but stay away from her. She’s a good girl.” Then, realizing the risk I’d put us all in, he added, “Don’t tell any of your little friends from 26th Street where I live.”
Honestly, having a relationship with Peter was the last thing on my mind. Sure, I was with my boyfriend, Mark, but it was more than that. I just couldn’t see myself with Peter. I liked his maturity, his whole demeanor, but sometimes, it intimidated me. I’d always dated selfish little boys, and now I was with a cocky cop-to-be. Maybe I wasn’t too good for Peter; maybe he was too good for me?
Still, I identified with him. I spent every afternoon and school vacation cleaning the house and babysitting my brother and sister, so both of us, in different ways, were already living adult lives.
While being grown up for me meant discipline and responsibility, Peter’s version meant making real money for his family. And for him, money came from drugs. I’d heard friends talk about the fact that he was dealing, but I shoved it to the back of my mind or denied it entirely. Growing up in the city, drugs were just accepted sometimes, especially if they weren’t out in the open. If you had to deal to get by, that’s just the way it was, as long as it didn’t spill out onto the streets and make a big mess. I imagined Peter’s dealing was small, something to put food on the table, not a lifestyle.
I soon found out that wasn’t the case at all. Ana called me up and told me that something terrible had happened to his family.
“Someone broke into Pete and Junior’s house, Mia. They tied up their whole family with masking tape, put guns to their heads, and stole a bunch of money they made from their business.”
I held the phone tight and thought for a second. “A bunch of money? What do you mean by that?” I didn’t even know they’d had a business.
What scared me even more was that a home invasion had happened right down the road from me. Stuff like that only happened on 26th Street. Who and what are they bringing into my neighborhood? I worried.
Peter and I didn’t grow closer or grow further apart after that. We just stayed friends and neighbors, and I tried not to let on what I knew about him and his brother. They could do what they needed to do to make a living, as long as it was discreet, and I’d do what I had to do. For me, that meant making good grades in school, getting into college, and marrying the right man at the right time. So many of the guys I’d been dating had turned out to be jerks, so I was willing to be cautious and wait. I’d make sure that whoever it was, my parents would be happy with him, and until then, I’d live at home.
I went to college for court reporting and did well. But despite that, I decided to take a year off because Mom and Dad just couldn’t afford my school bills and support my brother and sister. I wanted to help out, and luckily, Mom was in such a good position at her job that she could hire me. She and Dad had instilled confidence and a great work ethic in me, so I started working with her and earned good money. I made real goals: finish college, become a stenographer, and later on go to law school. I bought my own Mercedes and paid for the insurance myself, went to clubs on the weekend, and enjoyed mini vacations with my girlfriends. I just wanted to have fun, and
I loved the fact that I wasn’t tied down and didn’t have to depend on anyone. A lot of my girlfriends were in serious relationships, and they weren’t living life to the fullest, so I figured it was my time to be selfish. I was so giving at home that it was okay not to have a care in the world when I was out.
I never took my eye off the ball at work, though. Sometimes, I’d get home at six in the morning after a night out, just in time to take a shower and get lunches ready for my brother and sister. My mom would say, “You better not be late!” But I’d get ready fast and wave to her as I passed her on the highway, arriving at work before she did. When she’d walk in and spot me, she’d smile and say, “Mia, you’re crazy!”
It was the middle of 2002, and I was seeing Peter a lot, but just as friends. Even if we were dating other people, we always made time to call each other or go out to dinner. In fact, I rang up Peter as much as he called me. He’d always laugh and say, “Hey! I’m supposed to be calling you!”
Every time we saw each other, the chemistry between us grew. But still, nothing happened.
On one of his visits, he invited me to take a ride with him to talk.
“Mia, why are you always picking the same type of guys?” he asked while he was stopped at a red light. “You need to choose someone totally different than what you’re used to.”
What he said or how he said it didn’t feel too forward to me. I’d always felt comfortable venting to him, and giving each other advice was what we’d always done. But it got me thinking. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I have been looking in all the wrong places.
Peter and I made plans to go out the following weekend, and all that week, I couldn’t get him or what he’d said to me out of my mind. I thought to myself, Why am I ignoring my feelings for him? Is it because we’re “just friends”? By the time the weekend arrived, I’d decided to stop being so careful and just go for it. I went to the mall and bought the prettiest dress and heels I could find. I knew exactly what would drive him crazy. That night, I put on full makeup and did my hair, and when Peter picked me up—looking incredibly handsome—and opened the car door like a perfect gentleman, I thought I was going to die from nervousness.
We went to dinner at a beautiful restaurant downtown with some of his associates and friends, and I couldn’t believe I was so jittery. We’d been friends for so long and hung out so many times that not feeling comfortable was a strange feeling to me. Something was different that night. We just couldn’t hide the fact that we had feelings for each other.
After dinner we went to a club and laughed, danced, and drank until the wee hours. When we finally left, my feet hurt so bad from my heels that he had his bodyguard carry me to his car. We went to an after-party at his house, and Peter called me into the bathroom. When I walked in, I saw he’d filled the bath with water so I could soak my feet. I sat at the edge of the bathtub, he took my heels off, and before he got up and I stepped into the water I looked right at him and kissed him on the lips. You got it: I kissed him first.
A few weeks later, we were sitting around daydreaming, and I blurted out, “I love California so much. I went there once, and I’d love to go back.”
“Let’s go. Right now,” Peter said.
I looked at him like he was crazy. I was working full-time and I was so responsible when it came to work—I couldn’t just leave a job like that. I’d never been impulsive, but the idea suddenly felt good. I thought about it for a few minutes, then blurted out, “Okay! Let’s go!”
I didn’t tell my parents I was going with Peter. I lied and said the trip was with some girlfriends, and I’d be back in a few days. Because I’d been working so much, my parents were thrilled I was leaving on vacation.
Peter had booked a penthouse suite in Santa Monica, and it was like something out of the movies. When you walked into it through double doors, all you could see in front of you was the ocean. The windows ran floor to ceiling and wrapped around the whole penthouse. Our first night there, we ordered room service, had unforgettable sex, talked and laughed until dawn, and went shopping the next day. He took me to all the high-end boutiques, and I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I was sure I must be dreaming, and days later, when Peter said he had to leave early to fly to Mexico for a business trip, I was crushed.
“I’ll call you when I’m back, Mia,” he said.
Not ten minutes after he walked out, the concierge called and said I had a delivery. When the valet showed up, he wheeled in ten dozen red roses, courtesy of Peter.
When he and I both got back to Chicago, we spent the next two weeks solid together. Then one night, he showed up, unannounced, and we sat down together in front of my parents’ house. He looked miserable.
“Mia, I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
He paused, just a little too long. “Angela’s pregnant,” he said. Angela was his ex-girlfriend. “She got pregnant when she and I were still together, before you first kissed me, and she’s due in May. I’m getting back together with her. I’m going to make it work for the baby. I have to be a good father. But I’d like to stay friends; you’re too important to me, and I don’t want to lose you.”
I think I went white. I knew he hadn’t cheated on me—we weren’t serious yet, or even exclusive—but I still felt betrayed. I’d worked so hard to really be someone, only to fall for a guy who got another girl pregnant. That wasn’t who I wanted to be. It wasn’t who I was. My Mom used to say, “You’re a diamond in the rough!” and I took that to heart. Always. Everyone I knew who was my age had kids from different people, and to my parents—to me—I was this prized package. At twenty-two years old, I made a firm decision that there wasn’t going to be any baby mama drama in my life. I was ready to say goodbye to Peter Flores forever, and right then and there on my parents’ front steps, I did.
CHAPTER 5
The Heat Is On
Olivia
When K died, I didn’t fully mourn. Even though I’d watched his body lowered into the ground, having his baby kept him with me or, rather, prevented me from really believing he was dead. My mom knew I was running myself into the ground trying to stay busy, so she kept saying, “This is not healthy for you or the baby. You need to stop and mourn.” But my heart just wouldn’t let go.
I went to have an ultrasound almost five months into my pregnancy. It was the day I was going to find out if I was having a boy or a girl, and while I was lying on the table with goo on my belly, the tech rubbing the ultrasound wand all around for what felt like ten minutes, she stopped.
“Hold on,” she said, looking kind of pale.
“What’s wrong? Please tell me.”
“Let me get the doctor,” she said and walked out of the room, leaving me all alone.
I knew something was wrong even before the doctor came in.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “There’s no visible heartbeat. I think the stress from your husband’s murder was a major factor here.”
He sent me to the hospital, and there I said goodbye to my baby, a child I’d never had a chance to get to know. When I gathered myself together and wiped away the tears that had been pouring from my eyes for hours, I realized, It’s not just my baby who’s gone. So is K. I’ve lost them both.
Right then, my whole world caved in. I was in so much agony I didn’t even want to find out my child’s gender; knowing it would have made the death way too real. I probably should have been feeling this kind of deep pain during K’s funeral, but I suppose it didn’t matter now. I felt all of it that afternoon. When my baby died, K died with him.
After I came home from the hospital, Junior was by my side through the whole ordeal, never saying one thing about himself. He made sure I was comfortable, and didn’t leave until I fell asleep. But that night he came back, and he looked distraught.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked.
He started crying. “Peter’s been kidnapped. Somebody got my brother. We think the cops are involved, but I’ve got a r
eally bad feeling it’s worse than that, Liv.” He paused. “I don’t think I’m ever going to see him again.”
“Shut up,” I said. “Don’t say that. Never say that. You’ve got to fight.” I felt so close to giving up, but that was not something I was going to let Junior do. My baby was gone, but Peter deserved to live, and Junior had to fight to get him back.
“There are these killers who’ve been kidnapping guys in the city,” Junior said. “They rob them for work and shake them down for money. But they’re not alone. They have these crooked cops doing surveillance and the dirty work for them.”
Whoever was behind this had gone after Peter because he and Junior were major players. By the middle of 2003, they’d become the most prominent drug traffickers in Chicago, selling up to two tons of narcotics a month. Their enterprise had Mexican-based suppliers, stash houses in and around Chicago, and dozens of workers, many of whom they’d known their entire lives. They were the highest link in the drug trade’s chain of command, with access to the highest-quality narcotics that could be found in the Midwest.
That meant they had loads of money, and the kidnappers and some dirty cops wanted it.
“So what are you going to do?” I asked.
“All we can do right now is wait.”
We sat there in my parents’ house, just holding each other’s hands and feeling helpless. We knew next to nothing, and there wasn’t a fucking thing we could do. For that moment, I put my pain aside. I needed to be there for Junior. He wanted to do something—anything—to get his brother home, and I just wished I could help him.
I was so worried about Peter, too. Not just for Junior, but because I really loved his brother. Peter’s outspoken and forceful like me, and I always identified with him. Sometimes I even thought that Junior wanted to be with me because I was so much like his brother.
Junior’s phone rang, and he answered.
