Chapter 8 #2
Danior stepped back from the railing, his face ashen.
He crossed himself, a gesture I hadn't expected from him.
I glanced at Diego. I wished I hadn't. He'd gone somewhere I couldn't follow, somewhere past anger and into the kind of cold that burns.
This wasn't the Diego who cooked with his shirt off and taught Eight to make eggs.
He'd curled his fists so tight blood welled where his nails dug into his palms, and I understood then that Diego Reyes could kill someone with those hands.
Not the clean, efficient way I'd been trained, but something uglier, something he'd enjoy.
An old man in a black cassock emerged from the shattered church doors, walking with the measured steps of someone who believed himself protected by God. He crossed toward the cemetery with his hands empty, his collar the only armor he wore. His lips moved in prayer.
Achilles straightened, zipping his tracksuit, and turned to face the priest. He said something to Patroklos, who laughed.
Father Gomes continued his steady approach. He reached the cemetery gates and stepped through, still speaking words we couldn't make out.
The gunshot cracked the night open.
The muzzle flash came from somewhere in the semicircle, and Father Gomes staggered, clutching his foot. He fell to one knee. Blood soaked the dust beneath him, black in the harsh headlight beams.
Laughter echoed from the cemetery. More shots followed, fired into the air in celebration. Some of the men returned to the SUVs while others kept at the graves.
Within minutes the SUVs had repositioned, one at every road out of town. I counted the exits and came up short. They'd sealed us in.
Danior had already gone inside. Through the window, I could see him pointing at doorways, handing out weapons, putting bodies in position.
For all his political polish, the man knew sieges.
Two of his men ran up the hill toward the cemetery and came back with Father Gomes slung between them, his cassock dark with blood around his foot.
His face was gray with pain, but he made no sound.
We went inside. Valentina was there immediately, ordering someone to bring clean towels and alcohol.
"Lucenio!" The voice cut through the murmured conversations. Danior stood in the center of the room, his tailored shirt streaked with dirt. "Lucenio, listen to me!"
The room quieted, all eyes turning to him.
"Valentina gave sanctuary. I honor that.
" He spread his hands, palms open, the picture of reason.
"But she made that promise before armed men surrounded this town, before they desecrated our cemetery and shot Father Gomes on consecrated ground.
The situation has changed. She couldn't have known it would come to this.
" He paused, letting that settle. Then he found me across the room.
"Nobody is talking about breaking our word.
I'm asking whether we can find a solution that protects everyone in this room, including the children sleeping in the back. "
The room murmured. Heads nodded. I could feel the tide turning exactly the way Danior wanted it to.
"We should give him to them," one of the wives said from near the kitchen. "Before this gets worse."
More voices joined hers. I couldn't argue with any of them.
"Enough." Diego moved to stand between me and his cousin. "Those men out there already killed Emilio. You think handing over Jasper buys us safety? It buys them proof that the Lucenio break their word. They'll take what they want and come back for more."
Danior tilted his head. "Diego, I understand. I do. But we have to think about what's best for—"
"Don't." Diego's voice dropped low. "Don't talk to me like I'm one of your marks. I grew up with you. I know exactly what you're doing."
The room shifted. Danior's composure held, but something behind his eyes recalculated. "What I'm doing is trying to keep this family alive."
"No. What you're doing is making surrender sound reasonable so nobody blames you when it happens." Diego stepped closer. "Valentina gave sanctuary. Would you break it, Danior? In front of everyone? Say it plainly."
Danior's jaw tightened. The mask slipped for just a second, and underneath it was the same ugly calculation I'd seen in boardrooms and bunkers and every other place where men decided who was expendable. "Your Russian isn't worth the blood of family."
There it was. The real thing, underneath all that polish. Diego had dragged it out of him in front of everyone, and now the whole room knew what Danior actually meant.
Diego stormed over to stand in front of his cousin.
"Say that again," he said, his voice dangerously soft.
The room went still.
Danior straightened, meeting Diego's gaze. "I said, your Russian isn't worth—"
Diego's fist connected with Danior's jaw before he could finish the sentence. The crack echoed in the suddenly silent room. Danior staggered back, blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. He touched it with his fingertips, looking at the red smear with surprise.
Nobody breathed. Then Danior straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"First blood," Diego said, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "You and me. Winner decides what happens next."
The room understood before I did. I could see it in the way the older men went still, the way the women pulled back. Something old and final had just been invoked.
And he was doing it for me.
Danior's eyes narrowed as he assessed Diego, not just his cousin now, but an opponent. "You would risk everything for him?"
"He's worth fighting for." Diego wiped his knuckles on his pants. "So. Do you accept the challenge? Or do you forfeit now and save yourself the embarrassment?"
Danior glanced around the room. Nobody looked away. Nobody offered him a way out.
"I accept," Danior said finally, his voice cold. "First blood. Traditional rules."
Then he turned and walked away, back straight, steps measured.
Diego approached me, flexing the hand he'd used to strike his cousin. "You alright?" he asked quietly.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" I nodded toward his hand. "You just punched your cousin in the face for me."
His usual smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. "And I'd do it again. Got a problem with that?"
Looking at him now, at the certainty in his eyes, I knew arguing was pointless.
"No," I said instead. "No problem. Just wondering if your right hook is as good as your left."
He almost laughed, the tension cracking for a second. "Guess we'll find out tomorrow." Then his expression sobered. "Jasper. If this goes badly—"
"It won't," I cut him off. "You'll win."
"But if I don't—"
"Then I'll handle it." I met his gaze directly. "I won't let anyone else pay for my mistakes. Not you, not Eight, not Lorenzo. No one."
Diego studied my face, reading between the lines. "Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that," I said. "I'm already here."
Diego turned to look at me, blood on his chin from Danior's return blow, his shirt collar torn.
The room fell away. He wiped the blood from his chin with his thumb, then examined it like it belonged to someone else.
The cut on his lower lip was already swelling, darkening to the color of overripe plums. In the low light, with blood on his face and that cold fire in his eyes, he looked like something from an older world.
"You're staring," he said quietly.
"You're bleeding." I reached out without thinking, stopping just short of his face. He closed the distance, leaning into my touch, letting me feel the heat of the bruise forming along his jaw. "He got you good."
"Worth it." He smiled, crooked and painful.
I let my thumb trace the edge of the bruise, gentle where Danior had been brutal. Diego's eyes closed. He leaned into it, just slightly, and I didn't pull away.
I was so fucked.