Chapter 3
DIEGO
"Bye Ma, have a good night. I'll pick you up in the morning, same as always."
"Thank you, Diego! Be safe out there, mijo!" She calls it back over her shoulder, that blend of gratitude and worry she's never been able to separate, shuffling toward the glass doors, her thin frame cutting a silhouette against the light.
I roll my eyes, half-smiling. Her fussing never quits.
I sweep the shadows once more out of habit.
Downtown Miami's quiet can turn feral fast, and Tuesday nights, while they usually breathe easier, are no guarantee.
I watch her deliberate steps until she's through the door.
Long dark hair in that practical braid. Her frame thin now in a way that twists something in my gut, every hollowed cheek a reminder of the woman she was before the accident.
She used to fill a room. Proud, vibrant, the kitchen her kingdom, Cuban cooking alive in every corner of the house.
Pain took all of it and left scraps neither of us can stomach talking about.
The Bluetooth crackles. Raul's name lights the dash.
My cousin doesn't call for chitchat. Trouble is his shadow.
"?Qué bolá?" I answer.
"Hey, I need a hand running around town tonight. Car's in the shop. You busy?"
"Nah, just dropped Ma off. Be there in fifteen."
"Sounds good, bro." He hangs up.
I ease the Tacoma up to Uncle Ernie's weathered trailer, porch light flickering like it's running on spite, and Raul is already stepping out before I've cut the engine.
Ernie and Raul carry a certain reputation around these parts.
Not built on rumors. Forged in the fire of their own unapologetic actions.
They run drugs locally, nothing kingpin about it, just reliable hands moving product for whoever's holding the supply line that week.
It stains the soul. It keeps the lights on.
Sometimes that's the only math that matters.
"Hey, man." Raul swings into the passenger seat with his usual easy grin, eyes immediately sweeping the truck with a smirk. The once-black paint has oxidized so badly over the years it gleams a dull ashy gray under the streetlights. "Looks like she's gone fully gray on you."
"Do you want the ride or not? Don't start with my taco truck when she's the one getting you around tonight."
"Taco truck?"
"Yeah. Taco-ma. Because it's a Tacoma." I tap the wheel. "Get it?"
"Bro." He shakes his head. "That is so fucking stupid." But he's already chuckling, because that's how we've always been. Family ribbing over worse sins.
"I've got a bag to drop behind that new club on Ocean Drive, then a few smaller stops in the area. Shouldn't take more than an hour. I'll make it worth your time." He pats the duffel at his feet, casual as a man setting down groceries.
"Let's go, then."
The final drop drags us to 2 AM. We idle in a desolate liquor store parking lot, sodium lamps throwing long jagged shadows across cracked asphalt, and Raul peels off $120 in crumpled bills and presses them into my hand.
"For your trouble. I appreciate you stepping up, cuz."
Truth is I would have done it for free. Blood runs thicker than the risks we just danced with. But Ma's bills don't run on loyalty, so I pocket the cash with a quiet grunt and don't make it a thing.
"You want back in the rotation?" Raul leans against the seat, testing waters he knows are deep with my history. "We could use your wheels. Your head."
I used to run alongside him straight out of high school, back when the thrill was enough to mask the rot.
I walked away after everything imploded.
The supplier, a sleazy middle-aged predator who called himself B, had a habit of lurking around minors and turning their desperation into a delivery service for his poison.
He'd been cutting pills with fentanyl, lacing product that should've stayed pure, and it turned lethal.
One of our runners handed a laced pill to a kid from my own school. A freshman. Just chasing a buzz.
He seized in the cafeteria during lunch. Convulsed on the linoleum while the lunch line stood frozen. I watched every second of it. Helpless and complicit in a way I've never been able to fully name.
The image is seared in. It doesn't scrub off.
"Is B still running things?" I ask, voice low.
"Nah. That creep finally got locked up for good. Good riddance. We only move clean product now, no more of his corner-cutting garbage."
Dark satisfaction curls in my chest. Good. Fucker deserved worse.
"I'll think about it. Ma's meds keep climbing and her doctor's slashing the script every refill. Insurance plays hardball on coverage and we cover whatever's left straight out of pocket, which isn't much."
"What's she taking these days?"
"They switched her to that newer painkiller. Combo pill, codeine and Oxy, marketed as less addictive with some low-risk spin. Plex, I think they call it."
Raul goes still for just a half-second. "Plex. Yeah, that's moving steady on the street right now. Big demand. And I'm not shocked insurance is screwing with it either — word is the pharma company's tangled up in some major lawsuit."
I let that sit. "Damn. News to me."
I rub the back of my neck. Think about it. "You guys still doing security work too? Parties, clubs?"
"Sometimes. Why, that more your speed?"
"Right now? Yeah." I exhale slow. "I still see that kid's face every time I close my eyes. The way his pupils rolled back. His skull hitting the floor. It's going to take time before I can stomach running again."
Raul's hand lands on my shoulder, grip firm. "I get that, man. I wouldn't have been able to handle it either." He says it quiet, without the usual deflection, and I let myself believe he means it.
"I'll keep you posted," I say as we pull back up to his trailer. Cold and basic, but he calls it home. "I appreciate you."
"Yeah, of course. We're family." He hops out, duffel over one shoulder, disappearing into the dark.
Nearly 3 AM.
I'll be home by 3:15. Ma needs picking up at 4:30. There's no version of sleep that's worth chasing for an hour and fifteen minutes, so I don't bother. I lace up instead. Water bottle filled. Headphones in.
Ramen & OJ by Joyner Lucas bleeds into my ears as my feet hit the pavement.
Thoughts avalanche in the dark. Ma. Plex. The lawsuit Raul mentioned. The kid on the cafeteria floor. The $120 in my pocket and what it cost to earn it. The choices that keep circling back no matter how fast I run.
I run faster.