Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
RAFAEL SANTOS
“Where’s Jose?” My stomach drops before I even hear the answer—their faces say it all.
“He didn’ show up when we was leavin’. He’ll fin’ his own way home.” Javier shrugs. No big deal. Except it’s a very big fucking deal and alarm bells blare in my head.
“You didn’t leave him.” They did, of course, but my brain can’t comprehend what they’re saying.
“He’ll be fine,” Marco hisses, pulling the bag out of the trunk.
I glance over my shoulder at the dim light filtering through the warped window of my mother’s room. She’ll be upset Jose was roped into helping Marco and Javier at all. She’ll be devastated they left him behind.
I snarl back at my brothers, ready to bar them from entering the old, weathered house that’s the birth and death of every dream I’ve ever had. Marco just stares at me, his expression impassive, and I wither beneath his glare.
Regardless of the fact that he’s several inches shorter than me and not even half my muscle mass, I’m terrified of my oldest brother.
He’s ruthless, the kind that can only be born from genetic evil, passed down from a man who’d leave his deathly ill wife and four boys simply because he didn’t love them anymore.
Marco’s evil, through and through, and I often question what lengths he’d go to get what he wanted. When I was younger, I idolized him. Now, I simply cower from him.
“Mother’ll be crushed,” I mutter, trying to hold on to my disgust, if only for my mother’s sake.
It’s a weak attempt, and Marco barely acknowledges me.
He just shakes his head, slinging the bag over his shoulder and stomping toward the front door.
“We have to go back for him, for Mother. She can’t know, or—”
“Or what?” Marco spits, almost eyelevel now as he stands two stairs up from me.
I know he’d hit me—he often does. But would he pull a gun on me, stab me, kill me? In my bones, I know the answer.
“You left us withou’ any choice. Jose’s jus’ pickin’ up yer slack.” Javier’s shoulder knocks against mine with such force, I take a step back. I’m outnumbered, the seemingly odd man out in every way.
“He’s only eighteen.”
“Exactly. No one would hurt a boy.”
November 21st, 2025
Except they did—they more than hurt him. I blink away the memory, trying to rid my eyes of the gathering tears as I picture Jose’s face, his memory already becoming a faded image in my mind.
They killed him, an eighteen year old boy whose greatest crime was trying to impress his older brothers. Jose was the best of us—strong, confident, charismatic, thoughtful and kind, funny and joyful—and they snuffed him out, like a flickering flame in a rain storm. Like he never existed.
Worse, they never returned his body. They simply left a cryptic voicemail from a burner phone on the home line, something they had to have found looking us up using Jose’s ID, saying where to find his wallet, jacket, and an old tattered photo.
The voicemail killed my mother. I couldn’t turn it off fast enough, the words one stab wound after the other, filling her weakened heart with too many holes to survive.
The night my baby brother died, my mom followed him. Gone were the only two good things in my world—the only attachment to my morality. Everything that’s happened after was their fault.
At least, that’s what I’ve convinced myself—until now. Now, I’m not so sure.
If only I knew what really happened, what they did with Jose. Then, I might be able to let it go, I might be able to make sense of these feelings that plague me. Because how can someone seemingly so misunderstood be as evil as all that?
“You won’t last,” McCrae says, his voice close, and I nearly jump. I blink away the memories, the questions, the fears—for now, I have to continue to be Santos, an indifferent trouble maker.
Honestly, I’m growing tired of being someone I’m not—someone far less than I am. I’m not indifferent, not when it comes to Valentina Reyes. Where she’s concerned, I feel everything.
“What’re you talking about?” I sling my arm over the fence railing as I stare out into the pasture. Horses race through the golden grasses, chasing after one another, their manes and tales fluttering in the wind. It’s damn near picturesque, if this asshole wasn’t ruining it with his scowl.
“Valentina.” He bites out her name like poison. I bristle, unsure why but unable to stop myself.
“You don’t want her. What’s it matter?”
He stares at me, his icy blue eyes like two phantom orbs as they bounce back and forth. “Leave her alone. Do your job and nothing more.”
He doesn’t deny that he doesn’t want her.
I should be glad—I’m one step closer to getting what I set out to accomplish, but thinking about Valentina actually alone has begun to chafe at my heartstrings.
“Why don’t you take your own advice?” I snarl, squaring up to him. He doesn’t even shift; he only tips his face to look up at me, giving me that same indifferent look Marco used to look at me with—like I don’t matter.
I’ve seen him give the same look to Valentina when she lashes out, and for the first time, I want to beat him for it.
What’s wrong with me?
“You don’t know shit about me and V.” His voice is so monotone, he could be talking about the weather.
“Does Valentina even know? Does she know about you and Faith?” I no sooner get Faith’s name out of my mouth before McCrae’s forearm bars against my throat, slamming me against the railing. His eyes flash anew, but instead of guarded anger, full-blown fury explodes from him.
It’s the first time I’ve ever been afraid of McCrae.
“You keep her name out of your mouth.” He punctuates each word with a trust of his arm against my throat.
I stare at him, slightly dumbfounded by the outburst.
“You didn’t care about seeing your precious Valentina suck my dick, but you care about me saying Fa—” He slams me again, and I bite my tongue, resorting to simply saying the rest with my eyes.
He looks rabid, chest heaving, eyes wide as he scours my face. For what, I don’t know. I blink back at him, both eager to challenge him and aware that if I do, I risk blowing my cover.
“I’ll say it only one more time: keep her name out of your fucking mouth.
” He flashes his teeth, pressing his arm a final time before stepping back.
He runs a tattooed hand over the zipper of his leather jacket before stepping back a handful more steps.
“You want to stay here? Do your job and leave V alone. I don’t trust you, and she doesn’t need false hope that you’re interested in more than just her body—she’s had enough of assholes like that in her life. ”
I open my mouth to ask him what he’s doing that’s any different, but I stop at the sight of fiery red curls.
Valentina walks toward us, her hands stuffed deep in the pockets of her black jacket, dark-wash jeans all but painted on her impossibly long, lean legs.
Her face is tipped toward the ground, and before today, I might have thought it’s because she’s so confident in her surroundings, she’s doesn’t care to see them—now, I see the act for what it really is: insecurity.
I run my tongue over my bottom lip, the memory of kissing her second only to the branded feel of her soft, hot mouth wrapped around my cock.
Men like me don’t get chances with women like her, not unless we steal, lie, or cheat for them.
“What’s going on here?” she asks me, her gaze looking anywhere but at McCrae.
He doesn’t look at her either, his eyes trained on the distant horizon where the horses have become specks racing across the plains.
Biting my lip, I shrug. “I just let the horses out for the week. I’m going to Milton on Friday to get a load of hay. I won’t be back until Sunday most likely. Just seemed like the best option.”
I’m not even sure she knows how to take care of the horses—this way, she doesn’t have to.
Her eyes reluctantly find mine, and there’s anger there like she heard my thoughts. Guilt hits me for the briefest moment.
“Fine. Less work for me while you’re gone,” McCrae grumbles.
Valentina only stiffens, clearly growing more upset by the implication she couldn’t take care of them. Or is it hurt? With her, I no longer know.
After what feels like an eternity of awkward moments, Valentina shakes her head, turning on her heel.
She walks back up the hill and toward the giant house, her hands still stuffed in her pockets, only now, instead of just her face tipped down, her entire body seems folded in on itself—not just self-consciousness, but bone-deep sadness.
I’ve always imagined Valentina as the strongest, meanest, bravest woman I’d ever meet—a force with no weakness.
I was wrong.