Chapter 7
Miami, Florida
Carlos slams the cabinet door so hard the marble counter top trembles. I flinch, every muscle locking up as the echo of his voice ricochets off the vaulted ceilings, rattling inside my chest like a warning bell that won’t stop ringing.
Outside, spring shimmers like a postcard. The ocean breeze drifts in through the arched kitchen window, warm and golden, laced with the scent of orange blossoms from the manicured garden. Birds chirp like nothing is wrong. Like the world is soft. Safe.
But inside? This house is curated like a gallery, beautiful on the surface but hollow underneath. And if you stare too long, you’ll start to see the cracks behind the gold.
It’s hell in a designer skin. A place where sunlight can’t reach past the spotless windows and curated decor. Where silence swallows sound. And the walls, no matter how white and gleaming, can’t hide the rot underneath. Nothing blooms inside here except bruises and broken promises.
I shouldn’t have talked back. God, I know better. Zeke taught me the rules. How to keep my head down. How to disappear inside myself. How to swallow every scream before it reaches my throat.
Silence is survival. Stillness is safety. Every bruise had taught me that. Every slammed door. Every muffled sob in the middle of the night reminded me that quiet girls don’t bleed.
But today, something inside me split wide open. Maybe it was the mind games, subtle and slicing, like paper cuts you don’t see ‘til you’re bleeding.
Or maybe it was the bruises carefully hidden under the prettiest dresses. The way governors and senators come over and smile at us, telling us how lucky we are to live in a house with such loving foster parents.
Maybe it was the way Carlos can gut you with a smile. The way Mariela serves French toast with syrup and sorrow. Maybe it was the scent beneath the perfume, the rot hiding under lemon polish and sea breeze diffusers. That sour bite of something wrong in a house that looked too right.
Or maybe it was the way Carlos looks at Dylan. Like he’s already named a price. Like Dylan isn’t a child anymore. Just a countdown. Just property.
And I couldn’t take it. Not one more second of pretending I don’t see it. Not one more breath of silence that tastes like complicity.
Carlos’s gaze slides over me like slime, slow and claiming, like he’s already deciding where I’ll be sent, what I’ll be worth.
I hate him. I hate the walls that hold us, the floors that never creak when he walks, the air that never moves unless he lets it.
I hate the fear that curls like smoke inside my lungs, whispering the same old lullaby: Stay small. Stay silent. Stay safe.
I know the price of disobedience in this house. But today, my voice betrays me. “It’s just a glass.”
And now I’m going to pay for it.
“Then pick it up!” he barks, pointing to the shattered glass on the floor.
My hands tremble as I reach for the shards of the crystal glass I’d dropped.
Carlos steps forward and slams his boot down on my hand, grinding the glass deeper into my skin.
Pain explodes through my palm. Blood blooms almost instantly, warm and bright, staining the white marble floor with thick crimson streaks.
I bite my tongue until I taste copper. I keep moving and keep collecting the shards one by one. If I stop, I’ll cry. And if I cry, he’ll call me weak. Or worse, he’ll remind me just how powerless I really am in this perfect house of horrors.
“Clumsy little bitch,” he sneers.
I don’t say anything. I don’t even look at him. I just scoop up the last piece into my hand, throw it in the trash, and turn away hoping that he’ll lose interest.
He doesn’t.
A hand clamps around my arm like a steel trap, yanking me backwards so violently I barely catch my breath.
My hip slams into the corner of the counter, pain flashing white-hot up my side.
The sharp edge bites deep and I swear I feel something crack.
Tears well up, but I bite down hard on my tongue and swallow the scream.
I’ve learned the hard way that making noise will only make it worse.
“You’re not gonna last long,” he growls into my ear, his breath hot and sour against my skin as he leans in, inhaling the scent of my hair like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. “They’ll break you. Just like the rest. But if they don’t…”
He lets the silence linger, dragging it out like a blade over skin. “…I’ll be more than happy to take my time doing it myself, pretty girl.”
He shoves me, again. Not hard enough to knock me down, but enough to tell me he could. And he can.
The sound of his belt sliding free says everything.
I know it is time.
“Please,” I whisper, but my voice is nothing. I’m nothing here.
Dylan’s voice rings out, panicked. “No! No, don’t hurt her!”
Mariela sobs something in Spanish. A prayer, maybe. Or a warning.
“Stop.” A voice so low and calm slices through the room.
Zeke.
He steps into the kitchen like a shadow that has found its fury, shoulders squared, jaw tight, fire smoldering behind his dark eyes.
“It was me.”
Carlos turns, nostrils flaring, hand still gripping my arm like he owns me. “You think I’m stupid?”
“Oh, I know exactly what you are. I was just feelin’ generous and figured I’d try this thing called manners. Just for today.”
Zeke jerks his chin toward me and Dylan. “Seeing as there’s actual kids in the room. Didn’t wanna traumatize them more than your busted-ass face already has.”
Carlos’s grip tightens. “You’ve got a real smart mouth, boy.”
“And there it is. That ugly-ass vein in your five-head. Pops out every time you start fantasizing about hurting one of us,” Zeke says, voice low and steady, like a loaded gun. “You know what I’ve learned about monsters like you?”
He tilts his head, just barely. “You all think you’re untouchable. Invisible. Like nobody notices how your breath catches when Dylan cries. Or how your eyes drag when Bella walks into the room.”
He steps forward slow, like a blade sliding free. “But I see it. Every single tick. Every twitch. Every sick little habit you think you’re hiding.”
Another step. “You reek of weakness dressed up like power.”
His voice drops, sharp enough to cut. “Yeah, you got people in your pocket right now. But one day? They’ll be gone.”
A beat of silence. “And when they are?”
Zeke’s smile is all teeth. “I’m coming for you.”
I choke on a breath I didn’t know I was holding, caught somewhere between terror and awe.
Zeke takes another step forward, slow and unfazed. “Now let go of my sister, asshole. Right the fuck now.”
Carlos’s eyes dart between us. His fury rising.
“You lookin’ to swing, fuckface? Try me. I broke your glass and I’ll break another. Hell, maybe I’ll start with that sad little nose job you wasted money on.”
He grins, “Damn, Carlos. A nose job? At your age? Who you tryna impress, your own reflection, or your little crew of creeps down at the club?”
Zeke tilts his head, eyes dragging over him with unfiltered disgust. “Should’ve skipped the nose and gone for a tummy tuck. You’re gettin’ thick, my guy, and not in a good way.”
Carlos drops my arm like it burned him, nostrils flaring, lips curling back like a dog about to bite, but he doesn’t. He just stands there seething.
Zeke doesn’t look away. Just stands tall, unmoved, defiant. And for a second I think Carlos is going to back down.
“Turn around, boy.”
Zeke obeys. Silent. Shoulders squared. The belt cracks.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
I watch in horror, frozen in place, my own body refusing to move. To speak. To save him.
Crimson bleeds through the thin white cotton of Zeke’s shirt, spreading like ink in water, slow and damning. Each lash leaving a shudder beneath his skin, but he doesn’t make a sound. His silence is sharper than any scream. A defiance carved as deep as the wounds.
He takes it.
Because of me.
Because he always does.
Carlos tosses the belt aside like this was nothing. Like Zeke’s skin isn’t split and stinging. He straightens his shirt and turns to leave. He pauses near the edge of the kitchen, one hand resting on the back of a high-backed bar stool.
“You’re about to age out soon boy,” he sneers, cracking his knuckles like a promise. “Less than a year by my count.”
He steps back toward us, slow and smug, that sick gleam in his eyes.
“I always wondered why none of the deals for you ever stuck. Every time I had a buyer, it fell through. Like some sort of bad luck followed you around like a fucking curse.”
He snorts, half-amused, half-frustrated. “All worked out in the end I guess. Now I get to watch you leave. Ezekiel Malik Carter, a little scared boy with nowhere to go. How tragic.”
His gaze slithers past Zeke and lands on me, curling hot and filthy at the edges. “You’ll leave her here. And the best part?”
His smile sharpens into something out of a horror movie. “You’ll spend every fucking day for the rest of your miserable excuse of a life wondering where I took her. What I did to her. Who I sold her to. Or even better, if I decided to keep her for myself.”
His voice drops to a whisper. Cruel and close. “And you won’t be here to stop it.”
Then he turns and walks off, boots tapping across the marble. No slamming doors. No yelling. Just the echo of him fading down the hall.
Zeke doesn’t move. His fists are so tight I think his bones might break through his skin. His back rises and falls like every breath cost him.
But when he finally turns, it isn’t rage on his face. It is something worse.
Grief.
Like he’d failed me. Like I was the only one bleeding and he couldn’t stop it.
His eyes drop to my hand, still shaking from where the glass had sliced across the base of my palm. Blood dripping down my wrist, painting lines over skin that already feels bruised.
“Shit, Bells,” he breathes, voice cracking just a little. “Here. Sit.”
He pulls out a bar stool, and I sink onto it without thinking.
“I’m fine,” I whisper even though the room feels like it’s tilting.
He doesn’t argue. He rips a thread of fabric from his shirt and takes my hand, wraps it in the fabric, and secures it tight with a knot.
“You’re not fine,” he says, voice low. “But you will be.”
“I broke it,” I choke out, tears crashing through like a wave I can’t stop. “I broke it and you—”
“Shhh.” His hands gather mine, careful not to brush the raw parts. Blood from both of us staining the space between. “You didn’t deserve that, Bells. Not today. Not ever.”
His voice gets softer. “And hey, you’ve got that recital next weekend, remember? No way I’m lettin’ you walk in with belt marks. You’re gonna show up like a star. Not like you crawled out of a damn war zone.”
“But you—”
“Look at me.”
I do.
“I’ve been through worse. You don’t gotta carry this, Bells. Not by yourself.”
I sob harder as he pulls me into his arms. It’s not just a hug, it is shelter. I cling to my big brother like a lifeline, like if I let go, I’ll drown in everything I can’t say.
The hug is cut off by soft footsteps. “Zeke, Bella?”
Zeke lifts his head. “Come here, dude.”
Dylan grabs one of the elegant kitchen stools and drags it next to mine, the wooden legs scraping softly across the icy marble.
He sits down and lets out a quiet breath as he leans his narrow shoulder against mine. His hand finds mine beneath the gleaming stone island, fingers brushing hesitantly at first, then gripping tighter, steady and sure.
We don’t look at each other, we don’t talk. That quiet pressure of his hand says everything: I’m here. I’ve got you. We’re not breaking today.
And that’s when it hits me, Dylan doesn’t feel so little anymore. Eight, almost nine, and already holding the weight of too much. He should still be clinging to stuffed animals, not bracing someone else’s heart. Not learning how to be brave in the dark. Not growing up this fast.
“I hate him,” Dylan whispers.
“Yeah,” Zeke says quietly, still focused on my hand. “We all got scars ‘cause of him. But he doesn’t get to win. Not while I’m still breathing. Not while we’ve got each other.”