Chapter 2
TWO
Dante Cruz tightened the last bolt on the Camaro with a jerk that strained the tendons in his forearm. He leaned back, wiped a smear of black grease across his forehead, and listened to the engine tick.
Midnight had settled over Agua Dulce. He kept the volume low on the old radio on the work bench, letting the soft hum of Tejano music fill the space. He didn’t usually play it; it pulled at memories he’d rather stay buried. But tonight, the silence had felt more oppressive than the heat.
He heard footsteps on the gravel outside, then his brother Santiago appeared in the doorway, still in his hospital scrubs. “You still at this?”
Dante didn’t look up from the tool tray. “Client wants it Friday.”
Santiago leaned against the doorframe. “It’s Tuesday, Dante. Go inside. Eat something that doesn’t require microwaving.”
Dante shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Santiago stepped fully inside, nudging aside a coil of extension cord. “Anything on your mind?”
“No.”
Santiago drifted toward the corner where the car Dante never touched sat beneath a soft-lit bulb.
The Tor Red ’Cuda gleamed under the light. All polished chrome, perfect paint, tires that had never tasted asphalt since the day Dante finished her. The color caught the light in a way that made the whole car look warm and alive. But it wasn't. It was a museum piece for a life that was long gone.
“You could at least drive her around the block,” Santiago said gently. “It’s a shame, letting her sit like that.”
“She’s fine where she is.” Dante’s voice was low and final.
“Cars are meant to move. People too.”
Dante set his wrench down with deliberate care. “Santiago.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Drop it.”
Santiago exhaled. “Okay. Dropped.”
He didn’t walk away, though. His gaze drifted back to the ’Cuda, then to Dante. He had a look on his face like he wanted to pick at another old scab that Dante would rather he didn't.
“So… the ring,” he said finally. “You ever planning to get it back?”
Dante didn’t look at him. “Not this again.”
“You gave it to her thirteen years ago.” He crossed his arms. “Before she blew our lives to hell. Before I took a bullet that should’ve been hers.”
Dante stiffened. “Drop it, Santiago—”
“Why? Because it’s the only thing we have left of Mamá? Or because it pisses you off that it’s sitting on the nightstand of some two-bit cop while she’s out there shaking her ass for dollar bills?”
The air in the garage turned combustible. Dante stood up, slow and predatory. He was taller than his brother and carried the kind of violence in his shoulders that medical school had managed to wash out of Santiago.
“Watch your mouth,” Dante growled.
“I’m just saying what you’re thinking,” Santiago snapped, refusing to back down. “You think I don’t see you? You think I don’t know you’re checking the clock every night she starts her shift? Knowing she’s letting every drunk longshoreman in Corpus Christi look at what’s supposed to be yours?”
Dante took a step forward, his shadow swallowing his brother. “I said drop it.”
“She chose that life, Dante. She chose to keep the ring and run to Florida. And now she’s back in Texas, living with a badge, and you’re still acting like she’s some saint who needs tiptoeing around.
” Santiago’s voice went sharp. “She’s the reason I have a scar on my lung.
She’s the reason we’re hiding in this dirt-patch town. ”
“She didn't choose any of that. The feds took her.”
“And she stayed gone! Thirteen years, hermano. Now she’s just a girl in a G-string letting strangers touch her skin while she wears our mother’s ruby.” Santiago shook his head, his anger turning to pity. “It’s pathetic.”
Dante’s fist hit the workbench. The tools rattled.
“She doesn't let them touch her,” Dante said, his voice dropping to a dangerous frequency.
“You don't know that. You aren't there. You’re here, fixing cars for people who don't even know your real name.”
Santiago's demeanor had completely changed from when he first arrived, his face now tight with a decade of resentment. “Get the ring back, Dante. Or forget her. But stop living in the dark with a car you won't drive and a woman you don't own.”
He strode out, the gravel spitting under his sneakers.
Dante stayed in the shadows, his chest heaving.
The jealousy was a hot, greasy coil in his gut.
He pictured her the way he’d seen her last week through the club window—neon crawling across her skin, men staring like starving dogs at a butcher shop counter.
He pictured the way her skin would glow, the way her hair would flip, the way some prick like Trent Haley would get to put his hands on her at the end of the night.
The thought of it made him want to burn the world down.
He looked at the ’Cuda. Then he looked at the wrench in his hand. He told himself he’d moved on. That he was building something better.
But today… today felt wrong. Like something was shifting under his feet.
He didn’t know Ryan Inglis was already on the road. He didn’t know Jessica Meeks had just slammed a locker and refused protection.
He just felt the change in the air. A rising pressure.
He turned off the lights. Behind him, the ’Cuda glowed faintly in the dark, like an ember waiting to reignite.