Chapter 24
RAUL
Diego's coming by this morning, and sleep never showed up. I've been up half the night trying to figure out how to pitch this right. How to frame it so he sees the opportunity, not just the risk. How to make it sound like salvation instead of a death sentence.
I pull a long drag from one of Dad's cigarettes he left out on the counter. I only smoke when the pressure's crushing me, when I need something to dull the sharp edges. Stare into the blank TV screen, eyes unfocused, until I hear gravel crunching outside. His truck.
I don't move when the door opens. DJ walks in already tense. His shoulders tight, jaw set. He knows something's up.
"Morning," I say flat, still glued to the dead TV.
Fuck. My head feels like concrete. My heart even heavier.
We spend the next few hours laying it all out. Every detail I know about the hit. The target. The timeline. The payout. Diego listens, asks sharp questions, offers options I hadn't even considered. He's in. No arm-twisting needed. The money hooked him.
Guilt gnaws at my gut as we map the target's life. His routines, weak spots, escape routes. Could he actually do this? Pull it off clean, give us all a real cut? He'd take the majority share, obviously. But even the idea of Dad and me skimming off his risk makes my stomach turn.
My legs bounce restless under the table. I bite my thumb hard, tearing at the cuticle until it stings.
Diego notices.
"I've got this, dude."
"I know you do." Voice comes out rough. Heart aches saying it. Always protected me, and now I'm handing him a gun wrapped in dollar signs.
"Now that we're solid on this," he says, glancing around, tension easing, "where's your bong?"
We both crack up. The sharp, sudden laughter cutting the room's weight in half.
I head to my room, grab the bong and my fresh bag of weed. He immediately starts grinding it.
I head to the kitchen while he's setting it up.
"What are you doing?"
"Grabbing our favorites."
I pull out a box of brownie mix and a box of yellow cake mix. It's been our unbeatable combo for baking while baked since we were young.
Diego packs the bong tight while I preheat the oven and dump both mixes into a bowl. No measuring. No precision. Just muscle memory from a hundred stoned afternoons like this one. Back when life was simpler, before the weight of "jobs" and family debts pressed down.
He hands me the lighter first. I take a deep rip, hold it, pass it over. Flame dances in his eyes as he inhales, then blows a cloud that hangs lazy in the morning light.
It feels like we're still kids sneaking smokes behind the garage, plotting dumb shit instead of hits that could end lives.
"Remember that time we tried to bake cookies with no flour?" he asks, coughing through a grin.
I snort, stirring the batter. "It was so nasty. Why did we still try to eat it?!"
He laughs. A real, belly-deep laugh. For a second, the guilt loosens its grip.
We rotate hits, conversation drifting easy. School bullshit we skipped. Girls we chased. The summer we went skinny dipping at the beach just to say we did.
I swirl the concoction once more and slide the pan in the oven. The chocolate-yellow mess will taste like nostalgia no matter how weird it looks.
Diego leans back, eyes red-rimmed but sharp. "So. Walk me through the hit's daily routine again."
Reality snaps back. Tension coils tight.
We spread the notes across the table, marking routes in pen, timing every move.
He nods at each detail, committing it to memory like scripture. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
"You sure?" I ask, hating how my voice wavers.
"Got it locked." He claps my shoulder firm, reassuring. "We'll be good after this. Ma gets her meds. We'll get to breathe."
Guilt surges back, hot and ugly. I'm sending him to kill for us.
But the math doesn't lie. Money's real. Our freedom is closer.
The oven dings. I pull out the tray and cut out the bars. The bars are gooey, uneven, perfect.
We dig in with our fingers, sugar sticking to smoke-sticky lips.
"Best part of the job so far," he says around a mouthful.
I force a smile.
My phone buzzes in the distance.
"You gonna get that?" he asks.
I know exactly who it is, and I can't face her yet.
"Nah," I say, waving it off. "Probably just spam."
He gives a small nod and goes back to eating, like he believes me without needing more. Diego always has. It's part of what makes this harder. He trusts me too much, and I keep handing him half-truths and bad plans like they're the same thing as honesty.
The phone buzzes again.
I don't move.
The room feels warmer than it should, thick with weed smoke, sugar, and the kind of silence that only shows up when two people know too much about each other. Diego leans back in his chair and smirks at me over the edge of his brownie.
"What?" I ask.
He shrugs. "You got that face."
"What face?"
"The one you get when you're thinking too hard."
I huff out a quiet laugh and look away. "Shut up."
"Nah, seriously." He points at me with the half-eaten brownie cake. "You used to be able to hide it better."
That lands harder than it should.
Used to. Back when things were simple enough to joke about.
Back when my biggest problems were getting caught sneaking out, or whether Mom was going to let us stay up late during sleepovers.
Or if Aunt Val was going to make too much food and guilt us all into eating every last bite.
Back when Dad still had a real laugh that filled the room, and my cousin and I still believed we could grow up into something clean.
I lean back and stare at the ceiling.
"Remember when we used to think being adults would mean we'd finally know what the hell we were doing?" I ask.
Diego laughs through his nose. "Yeah. We were idiots."
"We still are."
"Yeah," he says, softer now. "Just older idiots."
That pulls a real smile out of me. Small, but real.
For a minute, we just sit there and let the smoke drift between us.
Let the memories fill the room instead of the weight of everything waiting outside it.
Old summers. Dumber times. Nights in the street with nothing but our bikes, our voices, and the belief that the world was bigger than the block we were standing on.
My phone buzzes again. This time, I still don't reach for it.
Diego notices, but he doesn't push. He just lowers his gaze back to his plate and keeps eating, letting me have the silence.
My attention's glued to the TV, some late-night rerun I'm not even watching, when a loud knock slams through the front door. Sharp. Angry. No hesitation.
Sleep's been a joke anyway. I haven't closed my eyes since I set this whole thing in motion. Knowing what I've unleashed into the world keeps my nerves electric, every shadow feeling like trouble waiting to land.
Slowly, I peel myself off the couch. Muscles stiff from tension, mouth dry. Already know what's waiting on the other side of that door.
I pull it open.
Olivia stands there, and pissed doesn't even cover it. Her eyes hit me like twin blades, cutting straight through instead of just staring at me. Silence stretches between us, thick enough to choke on, both of us waiting for the other to crack first.
Her arms cross tight over her chest like armor. Lips pressed thin, jaw locked, the kind of expression that begs for answers but promises she won't make it easy.
"You gonna say something?" she finally snaps, voice low and dangerous, arms still crossed like she's holding herself together.
I lean against the doorframe, trying to look casual, but my pulse hammers. "You gonna come in first?"
Her eyes narrow, taking a beat long enough to make me sweat. Then she shoulders past me without touching, coconut and anger trailing in her wake. The door clicks shut behind her.
She spins in the living room, taking in the mess. Empty beer cans, ashtray overflowing, TV flickering some bullshit infomercial. Judgment flashes across her face before she locks it down.
"So," she says, turning those eyes back on me. "The car story. That was bullshit."
No question. Statement. Caught.
I rub the back of my neck. "Yeah."
"Then what?" Steps closer, heat rising. "Family emergency? Work? Or are you just done with me?"
Each word lands like a jab. Fair ones. The guilt I've been carrying twists harder.
"No. Not done," I say quiet.
Her laugh comes out bitter. "Could've fucking fooled me. Weeks of nothing. Then that lame text. Now this?" Gestures at the room, at me. "What the hell, Raul?"
"It's complicated," I start.
Her eyes flash. "Don't. Not that bullshit excuse."
Deserved.
Deep breath.
"It's work. Bad work. The kind you don't say no to."
She stills. Processes. "How bad? What the fuck do you mean?"
"Bad enough I can't tell you."
Arms drop. Hurt flickers raw before anger slams back down. "Can't? Or won't?"
"Neither."
She steps closer. Close enough I smell her shampoo, feel her heat. "Don't decide that for me."
"Olivia."
"No." Finger jabs my chest. "You don't get to ghost me, lie to me, then play stupid. You owe me the truth."
Truth. The one word that could unravel everything between us.
I can't let that happen. Not now.
I need to change the subject. Fast.
Before she can press harder, I step into her space and grab her.
One hand at her waist, the other cupping the back of her neck.
I pull her in and kiss her deep. Forceful.
Desperate. Pouring every unspoken apology, every buried want into the pressure of my mouth on hers.
Hoping the heat, the familiarity, will make her forget the questions burning in her eyes.
For a heartbeat, it works.
She melts into me. Her body softens against mine, lips parting under the kiss, that electric pull between us sparking back to life like it never left. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and for one blissful second, everything feels right again.
Then her brain catches up.
She tenses. Rigid, furious. Olivia shoves hard at my chest with both hands, breaking the kiss with a sharp gasp.
I open my eyes.
She's already scowling. Betrayal flashes hot in her dark eyes like a live wire. Her cheeks flush deep crimson now from pure rage instead of the heat we'd just shared.
Her hand flies up before I can even think to block it or turn away.
The slap lands hard and sharp across my cheek, a vicious crack that echoes loud in the tight space between us.
It rings in my ears like a gunshot. Pain blooms immediate and brutal, fire licking across my skin, spreading hot down my jaw and into my neck.
My face tightens. My cheek throbs with every frantic heartbeat, leaving my whole head pulsing.
She spits at my feet in raw disgust. The glob lands wet and glistening on the floor between us, an accusation that turns my stomach.
Olivia doesn't waste a single word on me. She spins on her heel. Long hair whips like a lash across her back. She strides for the front door with that furious grace I both hate and crave.
"Olivia, wait."
My plea chokes out too late. Her hand slams the knob down. The door flies open on protesting hinges, then bangs shut behind her. The sound rattles the walls, sealing the void.
Silence crashes in like a tidal wave, heavy and suffocating.
I stand frozen in place. My cheek throbs hot.
The ghost of her lips burns phantom-soft against mine even as her anger sears deeper.
Copper floods my mouth where I bit my lip too hard during the kiss, metallic and sharp.
The room tilts slow around me. My phone buzzes insistent on the counter, probably Diego with cartel bullshit, or Dad barking orders, or worse.
I don't move. I can't.
Instead, I sink onto the couch. My head drops heavy into my hands. Elbows dig into my knees.
I fucked it up. Worse than before. I took the one thing that ever truly worked between us, that electric pull, that kiss like oxygen, and weaponized it.
Her taste lingers on my tongue, sweet and bitter as regret. Her anger echoes louder than the slammed door.
One step forward. Ten thousand back.