Chapter 3
Enzo
The backhand comes out of nowhere, and I fall on my hands and knees before I even feel the pain radiate through my face and head.
“Fucking little shit! I told you to get the fucking dishes done!”
My eyes water, and I stand up on shaking legs as I rub my face.
Inside, I’m a mess of fear and rage. I want to lash out at my foster father.
Father. What a fucking joke. All of us kids are here as his personal fucking slaves.
He doesn’t want us just doing chores; he wants us waiting on him hand and foot.
There are seven of us, but I get beaten the most. I don’t know why he targets me all the time.
“I have to study for two tests tomorrow.” I know that explaining why I got behind on my chores will result in more punishment, but it’s the truth. I want to do well in school. Failing isn’t an option for me.
“Fuck your tests. As if you or any of the other brats around here are ever going to make it in this world. No one wanted you as a kid. No one will want you as an adult. Get the fuck over yourself. The only thing you’re good for is scrubbing toilets.”
He slowly and methodically loosens his belt from his jeans. When he pulls it out, he folds it in half and points at the kitchen table. “Assume the position.”
I don’t want to. I want to fight him and tell him to fuck off, but he said that if I complain or turn him in, they’ll let me rot on the streets alone with no food, shelter, or money. No one will want to foster or adopt a bad kid. At only fourteen, I can’t even have a job yet.
My eyes water more out of fear. Then, the tears start spilling down my face.
Getting the belt isn’t only painful, but it’s humiliating.
When I look up, I see two of the girls who live here watching from the kitchen doorway.
One is smirking at me with this look of, ‘better you than me.’ The other girl’s eyes are red and watery as she hugs herself.
“Go on!” He yells at them. “Do your fucking chores!”
The girls run off as I bend over the table.
“Drop them.”
“I-I don’t want to.”
The crack of the belt is painful, but it hurts less than if I were bare.
Then he fists my hair from behind my head to yank it back.
“So help me god, I will beat the ever-loving shit out of you if you don’t take your punishment.
You’re always fucking fighting me, Enzo.
If you just obeyed, I wouldn’t have to waste my damn energy on you.
You’re the worst kid here. A fucking loser. ”
I’m not a loser, I tell myself. I’m not. But it’s hard to believe that when you’re constantly told you’re nothing.
My hands are shaking so badly as I sit up and undo my jeans. I slide them and my underwear down to my thighs and bend over again, gripping the edges of the table to brace myself against the pain.
I hear the whoosh of the belt before I feel the sting. I jump and cry out, trying so hard to be brave, but I can’t. My foster father just knows how to break me down to a small child.
“Count!”
“One!” I cry out.
Then there’s another.
“Two!”
By the ninth whipping, I hear, “What the fuck?!”
Enrique.
As soon as I hear his voice, I start sobbing. He was at work, so he missed everything.
“Get the fuck out of here, Enrique. Mind your damn business.”
“Enzo is my business!”
“The fuck he is. He’s being punished for disobeying me again! You know the rules.”
“Please, Enrique… I was just studying. I-I was late, is all.”
My foster father ignored Enrique and belted me again. I’m crying harder now, still gripping the table, not daring to move because he’ll just beat me more.
“That’s it! I’m fucking over this.”
I look up to see Enrique rush our foster father and slam him against the counter.
He fists his shirt and pulls him close so they’re face-to-face.
He’s gotten so much bigger at sixteen. And stronger.
“Enough, you abusive son-of-a-bitch! If you lay one more hand on Enzo or any of the other kids, you’re going to know what it feels like to be beaten and belted. I’ve fucking had enough!”
“Whatcha gonna do, little man?” our foster father said. That’s what he always called Enrique, but Enrique isn’t small anymore.
I turn my head just in time to see Enrique punch him in the face. He drops to the ground and glares up at him, holding his cheek, but he says nothing.
“That’s what I thought,” Enrique said, spitting on the ground. “Expect more of that if you do this again. Or I can just fucking report you, prick.”
He comes over to me, pulls up my underwear and pants before buttoning and zipping them back up. I haven’t dared move yet out of fear, but I don’t need to worry about that because Enrique lifts me, turns me to face him, and grabs my face in two hands.
“Are you okay?”
A sob escapes me again, and I shake my head. I’m relieved he saved me, but I’m in so much pain, and I’m so tired of being afraid all the time.
Enrique takes me out of the kitchen, leads us to the bedroom we share, and pulls me into a hug, holding me until I calm down. I cling to his back, my fingers twisting in his T-shirt.
“I’ve got you. I’ll always protect you, En. Always. He’ll never hurt you again, I swear it. And when we age out of the system, you and I will take care of each other. We’ll get you strong so no one ever hurts you again.”
I rest my face in his chest. He smells of stale coffee and hot dogs from working at the convenience store, but I don’t care. He’s Enrique. My brother. My best friend.
“I love you, ’Que,” I say.
“I love you, too, En.”
I clench my jaw hard enough to chip my teeth as my eyes water after the memory hits me.
I have to hold all my emotions in until I’m alone.
Showing grief is a sign of weakness. When I get home, I’ll let it all out.
Or I’ll take it out on my sparring partner in the ring.
One way or another, I’m going to get this fucking anger out.
Over two decades of my life flash before my eyes as I stare down at my foster brother, Enrique, dead in the alley, next to a dumpster, with two bullet holes in his head as if he’s nothing. They tossed him aside like he’s fucking garbage.
Then memories of roughhousing, playing kickball in the streets, Enrique protecting me over and over whenever our foster father beat me… He took care of me the entire time we were in foster care together. I fondly called him ’Que.
He’d always protected me, and I wasn’t there to protect him when he needed me. The urge to kill something is all-consuming. It’s a raging fire inside me, burning hotter and brighter the more I stare down at his lifeless eyes. Someone needs to fucking pay—a life for a life. I need my revenge.
I squat down and rest my palm on his cold cheek before closing his black, dead eyes with my fingers, while my eyes stung from grief.
As I stand, Alfonzo Valente, leader of the Diablos Carmesí, grips my shoulder fondly, but firmly enough to remind me of who’s in charge. He knows I want revenge, so he keeps me tethered to him. I’m not allowed to behave impulsively unless ordered to.
“They will pay,” he promises in a low growl.
“Who did this?”
But I already know who killed Enrique. It has to be the Da Costa family, a rival of ours. It has to be. For the past year, they’ve been trying to push through our territory on the lower west side of Chicago. Our territories are bigger, but our enemy is expanding too quickly and aggressively.
“We’re still investigating.”
“You know damn well who fucking did this.” I know better than to snap at him, but I can’t help it.
“Enzo, we cannot jump the gun. I want retribution just as much as you—”
“Not as much as I do!” I turn to face my leader and father figure.
His thick, wavy black hair is salted with white.
It’s his eyes that stand out. They’re always birdlike.
They’re amber with a touch of green. It’s why we call him Halcón, or ‘hawk’ in English.
“Not nearly as much as I do. Enrique and I weren’t bound by blood, but he was still my brother. He was everything to me. Everything!”
I fuel my rage so I don’t choke on my grief. Now isn’t the time.
“Because you are grieving, I will let your disobedience slide, but you will not talk to me as such again. Understood?” His voice is deep and deadly calm, accent thicker whenever he’s angry. The quiet tone carries danger, so I quickly back down.
My body sags, and I give him a nod. “Yes. Apologies, Halcón.”
His face softens, and he places his hands on each of my shoulders.
“You are forgiven, my friend. And I swear to you, we will find who did this. But I cannot attack without evidence. If we hit the wrong person, there will be hell to pay. There could be war, a war we cannot afford right now. I will not lose one more family member. Do you understand me?”
I nod and look at him with pleading eyes. “Yes. Thank you, sir. I just…”
“You are hurting. I am too. Enrique was special, just as you are.”
“Will you let me be a part of it? If you find them… I would like to—”
“You are not a killer, mi artista. You paint walls, do your martial arts, and sell arms for me, but you never kill.”
My face burns, and my hands clench so tightly that my fingernails dig into the palms. I want to argue, but I know he’ll punish me.
I’ve already yelled at him once. Instead, I say nothing and stare down at my feet, drowning in pain and anger.
I want to run. I want to scream. I want to fucking beat something.
Alfonzo lifts my chin to look at him, not in an affectionate way, but firmly, to remind me he’s in charge and not to disobey him.
“We will hunt down his killer. They made a huge mistake in attacking this family. I will make sure they suffer once I learn who took our Enrique. Now go, Enzo. Go to the ring. Find someone to take your frustration out on. Plus, I still expect you to train and be ready for your fight coming up. New Year’s Eve will bring us a lot of money. I will call you with any news.”
“I will. Thank you, Halcón.”