Prologue
Sunshine
The weight of my son on my back suffocates me against the floor as the world erupts into a ball of wood and flame.
Despite the ringing in my ears, I feel his groan of pain vibrate through my spine.
A healthy dose of adrenaline floods my system, slamming my heart against my ribcage as smoke and dust fill the air, wrecking our lungs.
He coughs. I cough. Agony radiates through my side. Goddammit.
I’m hurt, and this stubborn asshole son of mine had to go and play hero even though he already has a gunshot wound.
What a shit show. We shouldn’t even be here in this fucking resort. Kali and those kids had better be okay, or I… I don’t even know what.
“Dark?” I rasp as the dust settles and the explosions stop.
He moans against my shoulder but doesn’t move.
“Dark?” Getting my arms under me, I push off the floor and dump him onto his side.
He rolls on his back, and everything stops.
There’s a hole in my son’s cheek and bits of wood embedded everywhere.
Blood coats him… so much fucking blood. Those gray eyes blink and blink like he’s not sure what the hell is going on, and that makes two of us.
“Dark?” I loom over him so he can see I’m here. That I’ve got him.
Bright red blood coats his lips, and when he tries to breathe, he chokes on it.
Fuck!
Not knowing what to do, I try like hell not to panic as he slowly passes out. Nope. Nope. Hell no. We’re not doing this. None of us are dying today. Not now. Not after I just got him back. Not after he met her.
With shaky hands, I dump Dark onto his side and yell for help as I rip what’s left of my T-shirt off to try and staunch the bleeding.
His body jerks as people rush in, but he slowly dies.
Little by little. Right there. No matter what we do.
He won’t wake up. He won’t respond. The bleeding keeps coming.
I try everything to keep him with me, but he fades. Every moment feels like a lifetime.
Terror crushes my chest as I check his pulse and find nothing.
He stops fighting.
His body goes still.
Through a rainstorm of tears, I do what any dad would and haul my son into my arms and carry him from this fucking place. Our brothers try to stop me.
“He’s gone,” one of the assholes has the audacity to say.
No. He’s not.
This is my kid.
He doesn’t get to die before me.
My shoulders protest as I carry him through the rubble. My abs and chest burn. It’s hell, like we’re walking through thick water, one step in front of the other. It takes forever to make it outside, where the night sky and fresh air greet us. Someone rushes over to take Dark from my arms.
“Fuck off!” I snarl, straining to carry his limp body to the nearest SUV, now that my van’s toast.
A different brother, rambling about a bunch of nonsense, is smart enough to open the passenger side for me and lay the seat back so we can wrestle Dark inside together.
By the time I get behind the wheel, peel out of the resort parking lot, and onto the single lane that leads to my son’s salvation, my son’s blood coats my bare chest and has soaked through my jeans.
He isn’t dead.
He isn’t gonna die.
He’s right here with me.
In the passenger seat, eyes closed.
Every once in a while, his chest moves, and I don’t know if it’s from my crazy driving or him refusing to walk into the light.
“You don’t get to die,” I growl at him, shoving him in the side. At least his skin is still warm. That’s promising, right?
Gripping the wheel, I drive, no matter how long it takes. We can’t go to a regular hospital. That’s not how we do things. It isn’t safe. The last thing we need is the fucking cops getting involved. We don’t need the heat or the questions. He wouldn’t want that either.
On a secret road between Texas and Mexico, a place I’ve traveled thousands of times before when we need to sneak between countries for the club, to dispose of bodies and other shit we don’t need to talk about, I cruise the dirt for miles, kicking up dust, with only moonlight to guide me.
No headlights. No people. No help if we break down or get lost.
It isn’t until the sun kisses the horizon that I finally reach Angel’s home. Well, his family’s home. Our sanctuary outside the States, just across the border.
My tires skid across loose rock as I stop in front of their hacienda.
Juan, Angel’s brother, covered in tattoos with a gnarled scar across his face, steps onto their tiled porch flanked by large fruit trees. Before I can beg for his help, recognition flashes in his eyes, and he rushes inside, barking orders in Spanish.
Thank fuck.
Releasing the steering wheel, I sag in my seat, and for the first time in what feels like years, I breathe.
In a flash, a dozen men and women rush to our aid.
Two of Angel’s brothers carefully remove Dark’s body from the passenger side, while his sister guides me out of my seat and down a picturesque path lined with desert plants, trees, and cacti to a steel building out back, where I’ve been stitched up before.
Angel’s father is a well-known doctor around these parts, and his family either works in medicine or moves illegal shit for the Sacred Sinners.
They’re the best people I know. Always warm and welcoming.
I should bring Kali down here sometime. I’m sure she’d love them.
Fuck.
My wife.
How do I tell her what happened? What do I say if Dark dies? My grandkids. Fuck.
My grandkids.
Offering me a genuine smile, Olivia pats my arm as she pulls me through the door her cousin holds open for us. “It will be okay,” she says in her thick accent as I drop into a chair with a groan and send up a silent prayer to whatever or whoever might be listening.
Please don’t let my kid die.
From the other room, I overhear them working.
Admittedly, my Spanish is crap, so I don’t understand what they’re saying, but the fact that they haven’t given up gives me hope.
Olivia leaves me for a moment, and when she returns, now dressed in green scrubs, she rolls a cart over. I’m dying to ask about my son, but I don’t. Not yet. I’ll know when I know. Shouldn’t a parent feel when their child leaves this plane? Isn’t that how it works anyhow? Fuck if I know.
Olivia pushes a needle into a little vial and fills the small syringe.
“If that’s pain meds, I don’t want them.” I nod toward her table.
Olivia hums as if she understands but doesn’t care. That much is confirmed when she cleans a spot on my arm with an alcohol pad and stabs me with the damn thing.
“Hey,” I hiss as the burn spreads and my eyelids grow heavy.
“You’re a…mess,” she comments, her accent laced with humor as she sets the empty syringe on the tray and pats my knee. “It’s sleep time, El Sol.”
But I don’t want…
Her cousin’s ugly mug is the last thing I see before I pass the fuck out.