37 #3
Alaska pulls her hand back and brings it to her neck; leaves it there, fingers digging into her skin. Rashel tilts her head a fraction, just enough. Irina doesn’t move a hair, but the corner of her mouth dips and tightens. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t promise. Not yet. I see it. I feel it.
"The names," Rashel asks softly, without breaking the thread.
"Later," Alaska says, a hardness not aimed at us but at the air, at the memories. "Not now."
Vega nods slow. She doesn’t back down. Her glass trembles a little between her fingers. She’s ready to throw everything on the table, and me, keeping a poker face, I’m wrecked inside.
"Just one more thing. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t something that happened once and that’s it. It was routine. Fixed days, fixed words, the same fucking path to the side door for the prize. And no one saw a thing. Or no one wanted to."
I know what’s coming. I can see it without being a psychic: Irina will do what she does when someone messes with her home and her people.
But not now. Now she just goes taut. And me, pressed to her side, I tighten up too.
Back rigid, shoulders up, legs ready even though my knees are already warning they’ll betray me.
Vega drinks and clears her throat. She runs her fingers along her throat, takes another sip, breathes deep.
"And when we got older, it got worse. They already knew where to press to make us obey. Sometimes they’d bring in some boy from the group home, you know, just to mix it up. Never…" She swipes her hand through the air, pure command to erase. "It never got to that. They didn’t rape us, okay?"
My blood rushes to my face. That “they didn’t rape us” hits me square in the gut. Sounds like a markdown on the crime, a shitty discount. Irina tightens another notch. Her jaw sets, that sharp edge I only see at funerals and when she’s cooking revenge.
"They ‘only’ made us do things to each other," Vega lets out, and I hear that learned normal that splits you open somewhere else.
"They watched. They recorded. Photos, videos. Promises that no one would ever see anything, that it was ‘art,’ they said. If we talked, there were consequences. Threats, punishments. I figure there must be thousands of images out there, floating around. It wasn’t just kink, not even close.
It stank of business. Sometimes they masturbated in front of us. "
The ice doesn’t even clink anymore. Rashel writes in her mental notebook the same thing I’ve got stamped across my forehead in red letters: trafficking, pedophilia. So clear it makes you sick.
"When we were fifteen, we went to the police," Alaska cuts in, steady. "We thought they’d help. They told us not to exaggerate, that we were lucky someone was taking care of us. The director found out the next day, of course. He had connections. And that’s when the real punishments came: moved to worse dorms, busted mattresses, cold showers, no time outside, no calls. And separating us. That hurt."
"We gave in," Vega admits, "because they told us if we didn’t play along, the little ones would take our place. And we… fuck, we didn’t want them going through the same thing. At eighteen… we left. Eyes shut, trying to switch it all off. We couldn’t do anything," she finishes in a whisper, almost apologizing for leaving.
She looks straight at Irina and her tone shifts a little.
Dangerous. "I can’t stop thinking you could do something. "
The sentence hangs over the table. Irina’s breath cuts off; she’s not listening anymore, she’s calculating. It jolts me to see her face. Rashel sets a careful hand on her forearm, an attempt at a brake without making a scene.
"Names."
She doesn’t ask. It’s a before-and-after. Alaska bites her lip and looks at her sister. Vega nods very slowly, jaw hard, nails dug into her palm. Alaska drops her voice, low:
"Mr. Julián Amador. At the home they called him Mr. J. And Mauricio Toledo. Mauro."
Irina stands slowly. The chair doesn’t scrape.
She doesn’t look at anyone. She pulls out her phone.
Dials a number from memory. Speaks low, in Russian, in bursts I recognize: location, verification, silence, no police, now.
Hangs up. Another number. Three words. Hangs up.
A third. Even lower. The screen washes her face white, buzzes once, twice, and she hands out work without opening a notes app.
I realize I’m crushing the napkin in both fists and I’m not even good as a prop.
She comes back to the table. Rashel steps into her path—gentle, firm.
"Ira," she warns, in that "please breathe, you're about to fuck this up royally" tone, steady. "Easy. If we go in, we go in with our heads. Strategy, timing, psych support. If that house burns, there are innocent girls inside. We’ll take the hit too. So, no."
Irina’s body is listening. Her mind’s already gone. I know that look and I know what it means: the plan’s already rolling. No police station, no forms, no red tape. Another route. Hers. And me right behind, because that’s me, I sign up for everything and then cry in the shower.
"We coordinate this," Rashel insists. "Tomorrow, first thing. I want a map, routes, doors, full names. A phone tree. I want to know who goes in, who gets them out, and who’s on watch. If we go in heavy, we won’t get to the bottom of it."
Irina doesn’t argue. Doesn’t promise. Drops her eyes to her phone. Checks, sends, receives. One ping. Another. Her fingers go still for a second and, for the first time since she said "names," she looks at the three of us: Vega, Alaska, me.
"He won’t so much as smell a burger in our house again," she says, calm. She’s not talking about food.
Silence. No applause, no tears. La Sombra Dorada muffles the noise from the street; outside, everything’s normal.
In here we just sealed a sentence, and the hair on my arm stands up, me all very dignified, wearing a jacket indoors to hide my nerves.
I flip into ops mode: inventory, cold, focus.
I tell myself I’m not going to puke. Super convincing, thanks for nothing.
I know that by the time we step through that door, outsiders will already be moving. I know those guys will sleep worse than they did today—or they’ll sleep forever. There won’t be a police report. There will be consequences.
"Good," Rashel rules. "Tomorrow at seven. No heroics, Ira."
Irina ignores her with grace. Rashel already knows she’s going to be ignored and says it anyway, for protocol and in case the universe ever decides to listen. She slides her cup aside. She doesn’t touch Irina. Both of them fix on the same spot on the table.
I wanted to confess something else tonight.
And I still will, I swear. But right now, with all this hanging in the air, there’s only one fucking word in my throat, one that comes out with a conviction that fills me, a loyalty that runs through my body.
One that sums it all up, seals the pact, drops us right into the fight.
Because Irina isn’t going to listen to Rashel—whatever it is, it’s already on its way.
"Understood."