Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
We pause outside the rear entrance, waiting to knock.
This is where we have to come, not the front, not the red carpet. We’re the trash.
“You’re not dirty, are you, Liliana?”
“No,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
It’s difficult to speak as my nerves try to crush me like they always do when I have to attend one of these things.
It’s my punishment, apparently, for being the daughter of a man who tried to speak to the police.
I was only thirteen years old, and I had no clue what type of work Dad did.
I was scared and just wanted it all to be over.
I look down at my wrist at the tattoo, the unsightly crosshair that marks me for life.
It doesn’t matter if Nick isn’t even in the life anymore. He was low-level enough that he managed to escape. He works in a laundromat now.
My dad was in the Cartel, a slave to his addictions and the money it provided, and Uncle Nick fell in step for the cash.
They never wanted to be lifelong members. They never wanted this to dictate their destiny.
Or mine.
But after the war, Gabriel made a point of telling all of us tattooed – the family members of traitors to the Cartel – that we weren’t to leave. We were to stay nearby, to prove our continued loyalty.
I remember the tattoo room, as he stared at me, a sick grin on his face.
“Wherever you go,” he said, “whatever you do, you’ll always be the daughter of a traitor. You’re Cartel for life, niña, whether you like it or not. When I clap, you’ll come, all of you will, to show your appreciation for this favor I’m granting you.”
Then he leaned forward, his grin nasty, making my body shiver even more than the pain from the tattoo.
“The favor is your life, girl. You’re lucky we need this truce. Or you’d suffer the same fate as your father.”
Now every few months, there’s a knock at the door, and a tough-looking Cartel man marches in. He tells us we have to attend certain events to prove our loyalty. Nick’s brother, my father, was a traitor, so now we have to keep proving our loyalty until….
Until when?
It hasn’t shown any sign of ending yet.
“Are you ready?” Uncle Nick asks.
I nod, my throat constricting, struggling to force any words out. It’s just that they order me to wear a short-sleeved outfit. They don’t care about anything else, like a dress code, but they need to make sure my tattoo is on display.
Nick taps on the door in a specific pattern. A moment later, it swings open and a Cartel man steps out.
He’s covered in tattoos, his dark hair slicked back. “Lemme see her wrist.”
Nick isn’t tattooed since he was on the West Coast when Dad’s so-called betrayal took place. The implication is he couldn’t have known about Dad’s plan to go to the police, but apparently, I could.
I was a scared kid at the time, but they treat me as though Dad spilled out all his secrets to me. As though I wasn’t as in the dark as everybody else.
I step forward in the familiar routine. My body tries to make me run, my legs twitching, something screaming inside of me that this isn’t right.
But what’s the alternative?
I say no?
If I did that, one day I would be at home, or in the restaurant where I work as a waitress – and really want to be the head chef – and a Cartel man would appear. Or maybe I wouldn’t even see him.
Bang.
And that would be that. Game over.
The man roughly grabs my hand, flipping it over to get a look at the inside of my wrist.
“That’s one ugly tattoo, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I mutter.
It’s better to be as quiet as possible, to give them nothing to work with. I don’t want to make them angry or give them a reason to hurt Nick or me.
“Okay.” The Cartel man waves us inside toward the kitchens. “Get moving. Be quick.”
Nick hurries me ahead of him, guiding me through the kitchen.
My mind is dazzled for fifteen beautiful seconds as we hurry through.
I do my best to take in the commotion, the clean surfaces, and the chop-chop-chop of gorgeous cutting techniques. The aromas linger even as we leave, walking down another hallway.
Two Cartel men stand on either side.
“You the traitor’s bitch?” one of them grunts, making the other snigger.
Nick stands up straighter, brushing his jacket down, looking so tragically dignified I want to weep.
“I’m Nick Lopez. This is Liliana Lopez.”
“So I was right, then,” the Cartel man grunts, moving to open the door.
We walk into the party. I’m glad to see the large function hall is already full. There’s a long table on one side, overflowing with gifts for the birthday boy.
It’ll be easier to hide there.
“He’s somebody’s nephew, right?” I ask.