Chapter 10 Alejandro #2
Marisol stirred pancake mix, the scent of bacon filling the huge kitchen as she hummed off-key to some pop song on the radio.
The twins were fighting over something trivial, their voices sharp but harmless.
I’d never been good at this family shit, even with all the in-my-face domesticity of my sister cooking and my niece and nephew doing last-minute homework.
My heart softened a little. These three humans were blood.
Mine to protect. The only people who’d ever mattered enough to crack something open inside me.
The twins were half-grown and all chaos, harder to control.
Case in point: Bradley had hit his teens and gone quiet, sullen, hidden behind impenetrable walls.
School was good; he was at the top of his class, but I’d seen where he went when he sneaked out, going for pizza, then down to the riverbank behind the warehouses, smoking with older kids.
Along with the trackers on his phone and his watch, I’d set up accounts to monitor his gaming remotely.
Slouched in his chair, looking pissed at life, snarling at his sister and a textbook, he was the picture of teenage rebellion.
“You need to stop going out after dark,” I said to him, keeping it simple and to the point.
“Huh?” Marisol glanced at me, but I pointed at Bradley.
“Not you. Him.”
“Him has a name,” Bradley muttered.
“Bradley!” Marisol warned him.
“What, Mom! I don’t need his stay-home-forever survivalist crap any more than I need this 1984 book report shit!” Bradley tossed the book on the table, then shoved his chair back so hard it scraped across the tile, that teenage scowl of his darkening into something almost venomous.
“Sit down, Bradley,” I warned him.
He half rose, shoulders tensing, dark eyes flashing as if he was daring me to push harder.
It turned into a battle of wills—him glaring, me not blinking.
For a heartbeat, I thought he’d bolt anyway, but then the fire dimmed.
His jaw clenched, and he sat back down hard, muttering something I pretended not to hear.
I sat in silence; I’d learned that control came best when I didn’t raise my voice.
As he picked up the discarded book, then mumbled and cursed, my silent stillness reminded him who held the power.
Controlling the situation without breaking always worked eventually; the quiet got under his skin until he cracked first.
“I’m old enough not to have a curfew,” he spat.
“You’re old enough to get killed.”
Marisol inhaled, but didn’t stop me from what I was doing.
She knew more than Bradley. She knew what a twisted mess the world was.
Bradley, though, had been spared that. He’d had a peaceful childhood—one I’d made damn sure of.
He might’ve been conceived in hell, but what he had now was fucking heaven compared to where his mom and I had come from.
“You can’t stop me from meeting friends,” Bradley snapped, voice rising, full of teenage rage and the kind of defiance that begged for a fight.
“You mean Darren Lewes, twenty-one and permanently stoned; Mikey Harlan, nineteen, who thinks stealing from trucks makes him a legend; and Troy Beckett, twenty, the genius who bragged that his brother’s doing time in Corcoran for dealing?”
Bradley’s mouth fell open. “Are you watching me?”
I leaned forward in my chair. “Always.”
“Psycho!”
I raised an eyebrow, and he winced. If he thought being called that was going to mess with me, he was wrong.
I may not have been born a psychopath like Novak, but life had carved me into someone who didn’t flinch at blood, didn’t blink at violence, and sure as hell wasn’t moved by a fourteen-year-old throwing insults.
I sighed. “You think hanging with them makes you older, smarter? It just makes you next in line. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“They’re my friends!”
“No. They’re not. Darren’s got priors for assault and small-time drug running, Mikey’s already on probation for boosting cars, and Troy’s brother isn’t the only dealer in that family.
They’ve all got records, Bradley. Half their family runs cash for the Angels’ network downtown, and the rest move stolen hardware out of East LA.
You sit with them, you’re in it—doesn’t matter if you light up or just stand there.
You’re in it. That’s how this shit works. ”
“You can’t choose my friends! You can’t stop me! You’re not my dad!” he yelled.
I saw Marisol flinch. I looked at my nephew then—really looked.
The hoodie pulled up over his head, sleeves frayed, the smell of smoke clinging to it even this early in the day.
His jeans were torn, his shoes scuffed, and his hair hung in his face, dyed too dark.
Every bit of him screamed rebellion, as though he was turning himself from a good kid into someone people should cross the street to avoid.
“Then I’ll stop them,” I said evenly.
“What?”
“Take them out, one by one, until you learn to stay at home.”
His eyes snapped up, anger flashing. “You’re sick!”
“Yep.” I owned that shit. Then I leaned in, calm, voice soft but cold. “I know exactly what I am. And that’s what keeps you all in this house, safe and creating a future, instead of being in the ground. Remember that.”
“I don’t give a fuck about what you do; I can look after myself and—”
One second, I was across the table from him, the next, I had him out of his chair and pinned to the wall, the edge of my knife glinting under his chin, and his arm twisted behind him. Shock bled into fear, but I didn’t ease up.
“There is no version of me that isn’t built on blood and secrets, kid,” I said with deadly calm. “I might be psycho, as you say, but I’m not the only bad guy in this world, remember that.”
His pulse kicked under the blade, and the moment stretched, raw and ugly, before I stepped back and let him go, the knife vanishing as if it had never been there.
Bradley stumbled to the chair. He didn’t cry or say a word, only sat pale and silent, as if all the fight had drained out of him.
Maybe I’d scared him enough. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d end what he was doing if I had to.
I had no hesitation in warning off those three punks creeping into our world if it kept my family safe.
Some things were simple like that—no guilt, no hesitation, just the clean logic of survival.
I was Doc. Cold. Efficient. The man who made monsters scared so his family could sleep peacefully.
Marisol stared at me, and I waited for her to protest, to beg me for normality, but she was silent, and Molly carried on with her breakfast as if nothing had happened.
“You’re grounded,” I finished and pointed at Bradley.
He tipped his chin at me, defiant, but whatever he saw in my expression must’ve been enough to make him see I wasn’t messing about.
“Yes, sir,” he murmured.
And this was how I kept my family safe.
The only way I knew how.
This is a risk.
I told myself that three times as I headed back to Levi’s place. I told myself I just needed to see if he was keeping his mouth shut. Told myself I required information, nothing else.
I was good at lying to myself.
He might not even be there. I didn’t actually have a tracker on him like he thought, although I’d had the opportunity when I visited two nights ago.
If he weren’t around, maybe I’d let myself in, have a dig inside his place—see what kind of man he was when he wasn’t armed and staring me down.
Brutal truth? I wanted to see the parts of his life he didn’t show anyone.
His bathroom cabinet or the stuff under his bed, and catalog everything he thought he’d hidden.
Not because it was smart, but because I enjoyed it.
I wanted him. And wanting anything was the most dangerous instinct I had.
Fate dictated otherwise. Before I could cross the street, the lobby door swung open, and Levi stepped out, walking straight into my morning as if he’d been waiting for me.
He wasn’t entirely put-together; his hair was damp from the shower, his jaw was tight, and his shirt sat crooked at the collar, as if he’d dressed too fast. For a second, I could imagine the marks I’d left on him when he’d hauled me closer and—
I froze as he glanced around, searching, then saw me.
I didn’t move, didn’t hide. I moved into the shadow of the alley between his apartment building and the next, hands loose at my sides, and waited to see what came next. I turned to face him as he rounded the corner, his mouth set in a hard line.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“How did you know to look for me here?”
He pointed at a camera over the main door. “Really? That’s your question?” Levi’s jaw flexed. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“You didn’t tell me to stop. When I was in your place, you took it all, and you didn’t tell me to stop.”
He didn’t have a comeback for that. Not right away. His gaze dropped to my mouth, quick enough it might’ve been a twitch. I watched his breath catch. Heat rolled between us before either of us moved.
I stepped in first. He didn’t step back.
We didn’t kiss. We didn’t talk. We collided.
His back hit the brick wall behind him. My hand fisted in his shirt. His fingers curled into the waistband of my jeans, dragging me in until our hips slammed together. The sound he made—low, frustrated, hungry—hit straight down my spine.
I hooked my hand under his shirt, thumb brushing warm skin. He sucked in a breath and grabbed me harder, as though he was losing the argument with himself about pushing me away.
A word in Spanish slipped out before I could stop it. Filthy. Quiet. Meant for the space just under his jaw.
We moved against each other, rough, messy, too fast—more need than control, more instinct than thought. He let his forehead drop against mine for half a second, breathing hard. Too close. Too goddamn close.
That was the problem.
“I’m not coming in my pants like a teenager,” he cursed and shoved me away. I stepped back fast, and he stumbled forward a fraction, his eyes wide. He looked wrecked, pissed off, but ready to do it all again.
“Stop stalking me,” he said, voice flat.
“Stop tempting me,” I countered, then I left him there, pulse hammering in a way I didn’t like.
I told myself I wouldn’t come back.
I knew I was lying.