Chapter Twelve #2
Rescuing Avianna is a major part of my plan, second only to killing The Ivory. I would say my sister is the most important thing, but the fact is that simply rescuing her and leaving him alive doesn’t fix the issue. Killing him will get me my sister back. And then he’ll be dead.
And Arturo and Acacia can rest easy knowing their little bird of a son handled business.
Pajarito…
Ignore the shivers.
I haven’t heard a word from my sister since the day she was ripped out of my life. During my investigating, I heard from a source that she was alive and living in New York. That was three years ago, but still, I will hold out hope that Avianna is here waiting for me.
She’s my twin sister, after all. We’re connected. That hasn’t gone away just because we haven’t seen or spoken to one another in fifteen years.
Today I’m going exploring. Taking a tour of places where the Medellin crew are known to conduct business. That could mean so many things, honestly, but I have to hope at least one of these places could contain some information on the whereabouts of my sister.
The thing is, I can’t just stroll up and start asking questions. Even if I weren’t me, that would be dangerous, and stupid. Because I am me, it’s even trickier to get answers.
I’ve had exactly zero contact with the cartel in any form in fifteen years.
To be fair, I didn’t know I was having contact with them back then, being an infant and all.
But after that day, I moved in with my aunt, and was removed completely from that world.
I spent a lot of years looking over my shoulder, sleeping with one eye open and all.
Fearing that the man in white would return to finish the job.
El Marfil. Or as I’ve come to know him…
El diablo.
After a while, I realized that wasn’t going to happen. He’d left me alive for a reason…
He wants me to come for him.
And not that I want to prove him right, or play into his blood-stained hands, but the need in me to avenge my parents is far too insistent to ignore. After all he’s taken from me, I deserve to take his life.
It’s my birthright.
The Ivory is smart. Part of my training was to learn everything there was to know about Manuel Blanco.
Admittedly, gathering details wasn’t easy.
Google only gets you so far, and when it comes to a Cartagena-born psychology student turned cartel enforcer who was only twenty-six when he took over as head honcho, you won’t find anything of significance online.
It took a lot of effort to locate even the most minor of details. What I did find was that he is educated. And cunning… He’d have to be, to slaughter the leader of the cartel and take over the way he did.
Coming for him won’t be as easy as just slipping past some security and taking him out while he’s sleeping. I’ve thought a lot about this over the years, and yet I’m sort of flying by the seat of my pants here.
I suppose part of my plan is to not have a plan. Because when man plans, el diablo laughs.
Se listo. I have to be smart here. The last thing I want is for him to see me coming, whether he suspects it or not, and cartel people are rats.
It’s just a fact. If someone finds out I’m here at all, let alone sniffing around, they won’t hesitate to dime on me.
They’re all itching to tell el jefe what they know so that he doesn’t think they were hiding something.
These people could be in Cirque du Soleil, being completely spineless and all.
I’m choosing to stuff down my disdain for the cartel as I walk past the restaurant on Amsterdam. Scouting the place first is a must. If I’m successful in killing The Ivory, I might seriously consider putting together a heist, because I’ve got a real knack for this stuff.
Comes back to that patience. Thinking things through, always being aware of everything around you.
“Ojos abiertos, boca cerrada, pajarito,” the voice echoes in my mind.
Eyes open, mouth shut.
Wrath coils around my insides, but I breathe and focus. Let it lead me in my objective. I might be hunting the deadliest game, but he might not be as smart as he thinks he is.
Because he underestimated the will of the scared little boy he left in that closet.
I’m not that boy anymore.
And I’m not afraid of him.
Thankfully, it’s a nice day to be strolling around Manhattan because I’ve been walking for a while. Getting eyes on these places, who’s coming and going. A couple spots end up being dead ends, but there are a few that seem promising. Still, I’ve yet to find any sign of my sister. Or The Ivory.
Eventually, I call it a day, dragging my despondent self into a nearby cafe. My mood is on the lethargic side, but I’m never too tired or sad for an iced matcha latte with strawberry banana cold foam.
Seriously, this thing is like a mood boost. I sit, sipping, in a seat by the window. Staring and contemplating every decision I’ve ever made. Each step I’ve taken, from that day when I was three to right here and now, in Manhattan, days before my eighteenth birthday.
All that time… and I’m still alone.
No family. No friends.
No childhood, and no joy. I have no memories of laughter or smiles; holidays and celebrations with my family. The things I can remember have long since faded over time, because I was so young.
But there is one I’ll never forget. One memory that hasn’t faded, that I still see as clearly as the day it happened… Branded onto my brain.
That’s what he took from me. More than just killing my parents right in front of my face, and stealing my sister—my other half—he stole my innocence.
I shift in my seat at how that sounds… But no, not that kind of stealing innocence. Though, if we’re being honest, the trauma definitely stunted me in that department too.
I’ve never had a girlfriend… or a boyfriend. Last year, I lost my virginity to a girl from school, just to get it over with. See what all the fuss was about. I didn’t hate it, but I also didn’t find myself at all devoted to the experience.
I’d assumed it was because I’m gay. But then I kissed a boy, and it didn’t quite feel right either.
It felt better, sure. Even so, us pawing at each other in the back of his car brought me only the shell of blissful satisfaction that I know is supposed to come from losing yourself in someone else physically.
I don’t know that it has anything to do with them; the people I’ve tried it with. It’s me.
I’m broken.
He broke me.
My emotional state is taking a nosedive when something catches in my peripheral.
A girl just sat down at the next table, and she looks…
vaguely familiar. She has auburn hair, this deep sort of red, with a blonde streak going down the front, like Rogue from the X-Men.
She’s very pretty, looks to be around my age, maybe a little older. But there’s just something about her…
Discreetly watching her, I’m fighting to place where I might have seen her. Obviously I’m not from here, and I don’t think I’ve ever met her in real life.
Is she a celebrity or something? An influencer? Maybe I scrolled past her on TikTok or Instagram dancing or doing makeup tutorials…?
No, she doesn’t seem like the type. And yes, you can totally tell that type just from looking at them. But this girl has a vibe about her. I can’t quite put my finger on it but something inside me recognizes something in her… A kinship.
She’s alone too.
Distracted, I forget my training in how to watch people without them realizing you’re doing it, and she glances up, locking stormy blue eyes on mine. And then they widen.
As if she’s recognizing me too.
It’s weird. But now that she’s seen me, she’s kind of gawking. It’s stirring up my insecurities. Physically, I know I’ve been blessed with good looks, but I don’t let it inflate my ego or anything. Because if they could see what’s inside, they’d run screaming.
Pretty, broken thing.
Knowing I need to do something, I produce a charming smile on the fly. “Is that good?” Her brow furrows and I nod at the baked good in front of her. “The Nutella banana bread, right? I was trying to talk myself out of it…”
She chuckles, a softly welcoming sound, though her guard is visibly up.
She seems wary of me, and I’m unsure why. You certainly wouldn’t assume I’m threatening from looking at me.
“I won’t be any help with that because it’s absolutely delicious,” she says. “I come here all the time. And I’d probably be ten pounds lighter if I didn’t.”
“Life’s too short not to eat carbs, right?” I grin, and her smile grows less forced.
But then her forehead lines. “I’m sorry, do I know you from somewhere? You look… crazy familiar for some reason, but I just can’t place it.”
I turn to face her in my seat. “Oh my God, I was thinking the same thing about you!”
She laughs. It’s a great sound. Actually, her voice is very soothing to the ear. Sort of raspy, yet sweetly melodious. She’d make a great podcaster.
“Are you from around here?” She asks, then frowns. “Sorry, that sounded pick-upy.” We both chuckle. “I just mean, like, maybe I’ve seen you around…?”
I shake my head. “I’m new in town. Barely a week… You?”
“I’ve moved around a bit, but yea, I’ve been in the city for years,” she tells me.
I pause the investigation when I remember my conversation with Gary Cupman on the plane.
“So you’d consider yourself a New Yorker?” I ask, curious.
“Well, I wasn’t born here…” She gets a bit shifty, breaking eye contact. “But I do love it. If I’m not a New Yorker yet, I hope to be one day.”
This response only verifies Gary’s thing about it being a state of mind.