just like the moon

this is an idea i've had since i started my rewatch of one tree hill. tonight, inspiration has really hit and im setting up for this fic. as of right now, it has 8 "episodes", but that may change.

it takes place in the 2000s, everyone's in high school and dealing with the ugly side of senior year. no one knows where they're going, but they're figuring it out together. it's written in second person, though the reader has a nickname that everyone calls them ("GG") it's quite literally just their initials lol

all of the triple frontier boys (even Tom) are included in this story and i'm excited to write this out. not entirely sure when it'll be posted, but i don't want to post the first chapter until i've written everything in my outline.

Frankie stares at you with a stunned expression. You trust him enough to where it didn’t take much convincing for you to get in the car with him.

Now, the two of you sit in the driveway of your home, his mind trying to wrap itself around everything you’ve just told him.

“Di algo, por favor (Say something, please),” you murmur, watching his grip on the steering wheel tighten until his knuckles are white.

He lets out a harsh exhale, shaking his head slowly. “Nunca esperé que hicieras algo tan estúpido. (I never expected you to do something so stupid.)”

“No es estúpido (It’s not stupid),” you claim.

“No?” he looks at you dead-on, raising his brows. “You just signed everyone’s death certificate, Mimi–”

“Do you think I’d let anything happen to you?” you query, narrowing your eyes by a fraction. “I’ve thought this through, Francisco.”

He presses his lips into a thin line, averting your gaze. 

All you can do is watch.

You really have thought this through. Javier, Steve, and whatever cops they can muster up would start picking off the labs one by one, making your father weaker business-wise. There’s a big chance that he’ll throw a party for damage control, trying to prove to the other cartels that he hasn’t lost his touch and he isn’t as weak as they think.

Being viewed as a weak kingpin is the last thing Jerónimo wants, and you’re going to make sure it happens.

As for you, you have to get involved in business without actually doing anything.

How?

Your father is only going to let you in if you learn first. There’s no way he’d let you handle anything major straight off the bat. He’d probably put you with a family member instead of himself because he rarely gets his hands dirty unless it’s absolutely necessary, like killing an enemy, for instance.

But the only way all of this can happen, is if you get Francisco to cover for you. Technically, you can order him to do so since he works for you and not your father. But you need to know that you can trust him 100%. If he comes to the conclusion that this is the best option on his own, then you know you can.

You need one last person to prove that they aren’t a complete disappointment to you, and you’ll be set to take down your father and his cartel. 

You’re aware of how all of this could backfire: Javier could be lying to you again, you can end up caught in the crossfire, ending up being brought down alongside your father. 

To keep your sanity, you’re choosing to believe that the American isn’t lying to you yet again. Agents are just as greedy as the criminals that they’re paid to capture, but no one would speak of that.

“Bien (Fine),” Francisco finally sighs, locking eyes with you, “Pero lo hacemos de manera inteligente. (But we do this smart.)”

You beam, clapping your hands together, “Sabía que cambiarías de opinión. (I knew you’d come around.)”

He shakes his head slowly, “I still think this is stupid. We could be killed for this.”

“Don’t worry about that,” you reassure, “I’ll make sure none of this falls back on you, and you get away scotfree.”

“What about you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Don Jerónimo will not go lightly.”

Instead of answering, you put your sunglasses back on, exiting the car. Frankie scurries to follow behind you, carrying your bag.

“First rule: don’t question my decisions,” you announce, sauntering towards the front double doors like you own this very land. Your heels clack on the smooth pavement, Frankie’s dress shoes sounding at the same time as your shoes.

He stays quiet, keeping your pace while you continue.

“Secondly, I will handle my father personally. Don’t bother talking to him, because last time I checked,” you turn around, stopping in your tracks, “you work for me, not him.” 

Frankie freezes – actually freezes when you turn around. His lips are slightly parted, eyes flashing with recognition of someone he used to know.

You furrow your brows, “Frankie?”

He hums in acknowledgement, blinking rapidly. “¿Sí, señora?”

“¿Me oíste? (Did you hear me?)” 

He nods slowly, clearing his throat. “I did. It’s just…” he trails off, narrowing his eyes at you.

“Just what?” your patience grows thinner, wondering why he looks like he’s just seen a ghost.

Francisco is quiet for a moment, eyeing you from head to toe. You don’t move under his gaze, but you do tilt your head to the side in curiosity.

“You look just like her,” he whispers.

Your breath catches faintly at the whispered statement, knowing exactly who he means. No one besides your father ever openly talks about her in front of you, so this is a first. An unfamiliar ache tugs at your heart; not necessarily grief, but more like honor. An honor that you’ve kept her alive through yourself and it’s visible to others.

Perhaps this is your way to start chipping at your father’s throne from the inside. If Frankie thinks that you look like your mother, then everyone else will too. 

It’s worth a shot, at least.

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, not quite acknowledging the somber feeling that rolls over both of you and smothers your chest. The feeling presses in on all sides, like a brewing storm creeping in and turning the sunny sky grey. 

“You’re the only person I trust here,” you admit quietly, swallowing your pride, “Please don’t screw me over.”

Despite the weight on your shoulders, understanding passes between the two of you, Frankie nodding his head once in acknowledgement.

You school your expression, slipping into character behind your sunglasses as you both walk to the door. Your dark brown fur coat sits on your shoulders, giving you a sense of authority in your own mind.

This is your game and you aim to win.

Frankie unlocks the door for you, your duffel bag dangling in his hand. You give each other one last lingering look before you open both doors, sauntering into your home. Your heels sound in the foyer, catching the ears of your family members gathered in the living room. They openly gawk at you, watching Frankie stand behind you, his posture rigid.

It’s only then that you remove your sunglasses, putting them on top of your head and flipping your hair. “¿Dónde está? (Where is he?)”

One of your younger cousins points upstairs, earning glances from your tíos and tías.

You huff faintly at their faces, spotting your leather jacket draped over the back of an armchair. Finding out who stole it is a conversation for a different day. Right now, you need to talk to your father.

You swipe it before you disappear upstairs, Frankie trailing close behind. You slow your steps so he can walk next to you, your father’s office door just down the hall and ajar. 

“I need to talk to him alone,” you murmur, looking over at him. “He’ll ask about you most likely, but I’ll cover for you. You don’t have to answer to him because you don’t work for him, okay?”

He doesn’t respond but he does glance at you sideways, giving you the faintest nod. You can tell that he doesn’t want any part of this, but this is how you escape – it has to be.

Without another word, you walk down the hall, your mind whirring as you put your sunglasses back on your face. You have to trust that Jerónimo will believe you. Honestly, he has no solid reason to believe that you haven’t blabbed your mouth to the Americans, and he’d be right to do so. But this stopped being about politics for you a long time ago.

You’ve been good for too long, doing what you were told without complaint, bathing in shiny silver things, letting other people do the heavy lifting – the picturesque dutiful daughter.

People whisper around you, keeping secrets, talking about you, about your mother, about your legacy. They’d never speak about you to your face, too afraid of hurting precious cargo and in return, dealing with your father’s wrath.

But it’s time to take your life into your own hands.

You want to see everything your family has built be burned to the ground. Everything that has been so carefully crafted, every dollar made, every house built, every frenemy made, every piece of designer that was bought to keep your mouth shut – all of it has to go.

If that means you go down with it, then so be it. Death is inevitable regardless.

You open the double doors without announcing yourself, seeing his face drop in real time when he realizes you’re there. He nearly drops the landline, his skin a little pale, hair mussed. He looks like a fragile version of himself, like he’s holding himself and the cartel together with toothpicks.

A smirk almost tugs at your lips but you keep your expression neutral.

Francisco takes your coat off of your shoulders, closing the doors behind you so you can talk to him alone.

“Hola, papá (Hi, dad),” you say sweetly, tossing your jacket onto a chair across from his desk and plopping down into it. You cross your legs, resting your arms on the chair, bringing a hand up to your face to hide the curve of your lips. “¿Me extrañaste? (Did you miss me?)”

He clears his throat, hanging up on whoever he was on the phone with. “¿Dónde demonios has estado? (Where the hell have you been?)” he queries, his voice rough.

You shrug feigning offense, “Tuve que reflexionar un poco después de que mi padre me llamo puta. (I had to do some thinking after my father called me a whore.)”

The bastard doesn’t even look apologetic, intertwining his fingers and placing them on the desk in front of him. “¿Cómo está tu pequeño estadounidense? (How is your little American?)”

Your face nearly drops, but you know there’s no way he knew where you were. Not if Steve was sitting in the parking lot for those two days.

“¿Cómo podría saberlo? (How should I know?)” 

The furrow between his brows deepens, doubt clouding his mind. “Porque sé cómo eres. Probablemente pienses que él está enamorado de ti. (Because I know how you are. You probably think he’s in love with you.)”

You stay silent, allowing him the space to get everything off his chest. His words hurt – what he’s saying now and what he said before you left – but you refuse to let it show. You clench your jaw, the muscle visibly ticking as you continue to listen to him.

“Crees que el romance todavía existe hoy en día (You think romance still exists these days),” he scoffs. “Pero déjame decirte algo, cariño (But let me tell you something, sweetheart),” he leans forward, his lips curving slightly under his thick mustache, “Él solo quería meterse en tus pantalones, y tú te le diste entrada en un suspiro. (He just wanted to get in your pants, and you gave it up in a heartbeat.)”

You shift in the chair, inching yourself back and feeling the microphone in your jacket poking the back of your upper arm. The reminder that Javier used you to get ahead in his career gnaws at you once more.

Are you making a mistake by trusting him?

God knows you’ve done it once before already and look where that got you.

You just have to hope that you’re not completely wrong about him; that he’s not going to fuck you over entirely and get you killed in the process.

“Maybe that’s true,” you murmur, “Pero es lo mismo que hizo mamá, ¿verdad? (But it’s the same thing that mom did, isn’t it?)”

Jerónimo narrows his eyes, his gaze darkening at the mention of his late wife. “Deberías avergonzarte de ti misma (You should be ashamed of yourself),” he spits, “Sacarla a colación en cada discusión solo porque quieres tener la ventaja. (Bringing her up in every argument just because you want the upperhand.)”

The conversation is getting a lot heavier than you intended, a familiar lump forming in your throat as you process his words. He’s right, you use your mother’s name in vain to get a hold of the argument when you don’t want to speak to him anymore. He never really responds when you bring her up, seeming to shrink into himself at such a low blow from you.

She wouldn’t be proud of either of you, and that hurts more than his words and actions ever could.

You want to make her proud, you just don’t know how to without the proper guidance. Your father is not someone you’ve ever looked up to – it’s always been Sara. Though, now you have to look up to him… or at least pretend to.

A single tear slips from your eye and you wipe it from your cheek quickly. For a moment, his mask slips and he looks at you like you’re still a child; his baby girl that had a nightmare and needed consoling to fall back asleep.

“I know,” you whisper, sniffling, “I’m sorry.”

You’re unsure whether the tears are real or not at this point, knitting your brows together to keep your emotions at bay. “Sé que te he decepcionado, papá (I know I’ve disappointed you, dad),” you admit, “Pero estoy intentando. (But I’m trying.)”

He’s silent as he takes in your words, trying to figure out if you’re serious or not. “¿Cómo sé que puedo confiar en ti? (How do I know I can trust you?)”

You swallow the lump in your throat, straightening the way you’re sitting because you know he’s caving. This may actually work the way you want it to.

“Because I’m your daughter.”

The police station bustles with life: cops in Search Bloc gearing up for yet another raid. Javier and Steve have been working closely with Carrillo for the last month, going over all the information you gave Javier and putting it to use. Carrillo and his men were already gathering possible lab locations, but now their findings are confirmed from your cooperation. 

This is the beginning of the end of Sombras de la Cruz, and they couldn’t be happier. The cartel has been looming over Colombia for far too long and it’s about time that they take their country back.

Carrillo loves to remind Javier and Steve that they are the gringos in this case. When all of this finally ends, he wants a Colombian police officer standing over the bodies of Jerónimo and the rest of your family. 

Javier can understand that, but it also reminds him that the Colombian officers have more to lose down here than he does.

Well, that was the case before, at least. Now, there’s a big chance that he can lose you.

He doesn’t want to fail you and leave you to fend for yourself, but he also knows that there’s no possible way that the two of you can work outside of this world. You’re used to wealth and prosperity, and he can’t give you that life. He remembers the things you’ve told him about the life you’d rather live, but that’s all just a dream, right?

You may be rid of your family after all of this, but the Cruz bloodline will never leave you. 

An unused signal crackles to life on the wiretap reels when everyone begins to fizzle out, your voice coming in barely audible and hushed. Some shuffling is heard before a loud slam… followed by your father’s voice.

There’s no time to think too much about it before they have to get going, adjusting straps on bulletproof vests and loading into squad cars. 

The roads are bumpy, jostling Javier and Steve in the front seat. He looks over at his partner in the passenger’s seat, deciding to speak up about something that’s been gnawing at him since the very beginning of this whole operation. “I’m sorry for getting involved with her when I wasn’t supposed to approach her.”

Steve huffs, shaking his head and looking over at Javier. “No you’re not.”

A smirk tugs at his lips, putting his eyes back on the road. “No, not really.”

They share a laugh, appreciating each other without ever saying the words. Steve has been Javier’s best friend down here in Colombia, and he felt horrible about betraying his trust… for a little bit, at least. Now that Steve’s met you, he feels better about the decision he made for the case. It got them their biggest lead yet.

Everyone parks a good distance away from the lab, wanting to get the element of surprise. Snipers hide in the hills, while everyone else is running boots on the ground. 

Javier leans against a wall, gun in hand as he waits for a sniper to take out the two guards blocking the door. Once they’re out, they can move in. The men drop like flies, silent bullets taking them down and giving everyone else the go-ahead.

The doors bust open at the same time, and the team get to work. They aren’t like the cartel, no. They only kill when it’s necessary. Javier doesn’t hesitate to take a shot at whoever’s shooting at him first.

Colombian officers spread across the lab, covering it inch by inch, floor by floor. Javier stays downstairs while Steve and Carrillo go upstairs. He studies the cocaine the men were making, the strong stench of chemicals giving him an instant migraine. He doesn’t stay inside the lab longer than he needs to.

Some people are killed but most of them are taken alive… including you.

He freezes when he sees your tear-streaked face, wondering why you’re here when you’re supposed to be keeping a low profile.

You don’t want to do it, but your father insists that this is the way to prove yourself. He instructs you to spend the day by the side of your Tío Andrés and get a feel of how business is handled.

He could’ve put you with anyone but he put you with his brother. To say you hate the man is an understatement. Andrés has always looked down on you, seen you as less than everyone else in the cartel. Whether it’ll benefit you today or not, you don’t know. Maybe you can get away with doing absolutely nothing.

Jerónimo has been locking himself away in his office since the big move. Either that, or he’s nowhere in the house. You have a feeling you know what’s going on but you probably won’t know for sure for a while.

Being his latest project also means that you haven’t seen Javier in a month. The pager he gave you has been your best friend lately when it comes to contacting him. He’s convinced that it’s best for you to lay low until they can get to your father. But you grew up around the man. You know that if you sit around and do nothing, he’ll get suspicious of you and think that you’re waiting for something major to happen.

It’s best if you’re getting involved. At least that’s what you keep telling yourself.

Lying low was what you did while your family was moving house. Now it’s time to get your hands dirty.

After rummaging through boxes of your mother’s clothes, you settle on a short white dress and thigh-high stockings. Small black polka dots are scattered along the length of the dress, black lace framing the hem of it. 

From what you remember, this was an unreleased dress from Sara’s fashion line. You remember seeing her make it for the first time when you were a little girl. You sat in her office chair while she stuck it with pins and needles, making her sketch of it come to life. Watching her turn her favorite thing to do into her job was almost like a dream to you. It reminded you that if you put your mind to something, you could achieve it regardless of how many people told you you weren’t capable of doing so.

While you’re in the closet, you decide to hang up a few things on the empty side. It’s a giant walk-in closet and all this space is going to waste, so you might as well, right? Lord knows that your father isn’t going to unpack any of her stuff.

You only put a dozen of dresses on the hangers, each piece of fabric carrying an old memory with your mom. You like to think that she’d be proud of you. Maybe not with trusting an American agent, but at least with who you are as a person. 

Her and your grandmother were so persistent about you getting out into the world and exploring. After they passed and you were left with your father, you lost your way. The spark you envisioned the world with dimmed completely until everything was just dark. 

Now that you potentially have a way out, the light is slipping through the cracks again. 

For how long? Who knows.

You take out one final dress, sending an old jewelry box tumbling out of the cardboard. Slowly, you place the dress on top of the counter in the middle of the room, picking up the box with careful hands. The material of it is cracked from use and love, a little gold heart standing out to you. The initials ‘SVC’ are embroidered in white underneath it, making it clear that it belonged to the woman who gave you life.

You hesitate but eventually open the box. White pearls, diamonds, and gold stare back at you: probably thousands of dollars in the jewelry box alone. They all still look the same as they did all those years ago. Your father never gave his wife fake material assets. Not when he could afford it a million times over because of the endless amount of money made from selling drugs.

It’s unsure to you how long you spend going through the box, but you’re sitting on the floor now, your legs criss-cross. You pick up a double pearl bracelet at the bottom, the piece reminding you of a ring that she gave you when you were younger. Your fingers were too small for the ring so she kept it in a drawer for you until it was able to fit you. 

But now that you’ve moved, you have no idea where it could possibly be now. Without a second thought, you slip on the bracelet, setting out to find the ring that matches. Naturally, you start in your father’s room, rummaging through the drawers of his dresser. All you find is clothes, so you move on. 

The next place you think to look in your room is the box of your mother’s things that you keep under your bed. You don’t ever remember putting the ring in here but it doesn’t hurt to look for it here.

The box is filled with photographs, handwritten letters she’d give you before school, the pincushion she used to hold her needles, faded receipts for the hotels you stayed at with her, and various other things, but no ring.

Before you look in the next place, you close the door to your room, not wanting anyone to walk in on you. In the old house, you had a loose floorboard in your room that you’d hide things under. The new house didn’t have that so you had to lift one yourself.

You press your stocking-covered foot against one side, the other lifting with ease. The things you have under there are all things none of your family need to see: your gun, wads of U.S. dollars, the bag Javier gave you, a pocket knife, and other items you’d need if you were to leave. 

It’s not there either so you move on to your closet, pulling out the duffel bag you used when you ran away some years ago. You remember tossing jewelry into the bag without really looking at it. Maybe you tossed the ring in here and didn’t realize.

Relief floods your senses when you find it in a side pocket, slipping it onto your finger with ease. It finally fits, the singular pearl white and shiny. You fidget with the band, staring down at it on your finger. Like you thought, it goes with the bracelet perfectly.

In a way, wearing Sara’s things makes you feel closer to her; like you’re keeping her beautiful spirit alive through yourself.

If she was still here, would you still be going through with this?

Your mother was innocent all the way to her death, but a part of you still wonders.

“Vas a convertirte en una mujer muy fuerte (You’re going to grow into such a strong woman),” she told you once. Tear tracks streaked your face and she wiped them away with the pad of her thumb.

You didn’t want her to go; the two of you were supposed to have more time together. When she’d repeat to you that it was just her time, it made you frustrated at everything: the world, her, yourself – it didn’t matter. The most important person in your life was being taken and you had no control over it.

You miss her tremendously and you wonder if she’d be proud of the things you’ve done in life.

Eventually, you get up to go downstairs, but you stop in your doorway. Your father’s office door is ajar, no sound coming from inside of it. Briefly, you get an idea, looking back at the loose floorboard in your room.

“That is a transmitter. I need you to plant it for me.”

Javier’s words repeat in your mind, making you realize that you never went through with it.

After grabbing the transmitter, you slip into your father’s office, finding it empty for once. Quickly, you move over to his desk, noticing a thick file on top of it. You flop down in his leather chair, looking for an unnoticeable spot to plant the bug. Though, your eyes keep landing on the file, curiosity gnawing at you despite you knowing better.

You pull open the middle drawer, feeling under it to see if there’s any dead space you could put it in. You study the bug, trying to figure out how to turn it on. It’s all confusing to you but you just press the obvious red button in the middle. It flashes at you, signaling that it’s on.

“Javi?” you ask quietly, knowing that you’re not going to get an answer back. “I don’t know if this thing is on, but if it is, I did what you asked,” you murmur, sticking it on the bottom of the drawer.

“¿Qué haces aquí dentro? (What are you doing in here?)” the sound of your father’s voice makes you jump out of your skin, slamming the drawer shut.

Quickly, you slip off your mother’s ring and hold it up for him to see. “Estaba buscando esto. (I was looking for this.)”

You stand up when he doesn’t answer, putting it back on. “It was mom’s.”

“I know,” he murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Andrés te está esperando abajo. (Andrés is waiting for you downstairs.)”

“Okay,” you whisper, slipping past him.

A relieved exhale escapes you, though you feel his eyes boring into the back of your skull.

The ride with your uncle is excruciating. He wouldn’t stop asking you questions about Javier and whether you’re still in contact with him or not. You don’t blame the man for being suspicious, but it gets to a point where it’s just annoying. 

The warehouse smells of must, chemicals, and gunpowder; 3 rows of wooden workbenches sit on the first floor, men sweating bullets and listening to music as they make what you assume is cocaine. 

A vulgar, drawn out whistle cuts through the room, directed towards you. The sound makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the building full of men looking up from their work and finally noticing the woman they’ve never seen before.

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling like a piece of meat under their intense stares. One even goes as far as licking his lips as he looks you up and down, the hunger evident in his gaze. “¿Cómo te llamas, linda? (What’s your name, little mama?)”

“Ya es suficiente (That’s enough),” your uncle scolds, though you know he hates your guts and would never defend or protect you unless he was asked by your father.

Just thinking about it makes you sick.

The sharp scent of acid gives you an instant headache, making you cover your nose as Andrés leads you upstairs.

“Deja de ser dramática (Stop being dramatic),” he tells you, eyeing you over his shoulder.

You place a hand over your stomach, nearly starting to feel nauseous. “¿Por qué huele tan mal aquí? (Why does it smell so bad in here?)”

“Te acostumbrarás (You’ll get used to it),” is all he says, opening the door at the end of the hallway.

Naturally, you roll your eyes at him, following him into the dark room. He yanks open the curtains, drowning the room in sunlight. You squint your eyes, adjusting to the bright light before you realize what’s in there. Andrés pulls off the sack over a man’s head, revealing his battered and bruised face. He’s bound to a chair by thick rope, dried up blood staining his shirt, duct tape covering his mouth.

“What the fuck is this?” you ask your uncle, meeting his eyes with wide ones.

He pulls out a pocketknife from his back pocket, flipping it open and pointing behind you with it. “Close the door.”

Your eyes dart between him and the terrified man, his wide pupils staring deep into your soul.

“Ahora! (Now!)” your uncle yells, making you jump and scramble to close the door.

You keep your palm on the cold metal of the frame, trying to keep your emotions from bubbling up your throat. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth, disgust and distress. You don’t exactly know what your uncle is going to do, but you have a pretty good feeling. You’ve gone your whole life knowing what bad people your family are but it’s different actually seeing it.

Andrés ripping the tape off the man’s face brings you back to reality, the detainee groaning in pain. You turn around slowly, still cautious to not get your dress dirty, your hands behind your back. 

You’re not sure what your uncle is saying to the man, effectively drowning out his voice while your heart pounds in your ears. The sight of him has your stomach churning violently; you can barely keep the bile down your throat.

This isn’t your scene and this shouldn’t have been the first thing your father sent you to do. If anything, you would’ve been fine with going with him rather than your uncle because you know he only gets his hands dirty on rare occasions. 

“¿Qué hiciste con el dinero? (What’d you do with the money?)” your uncle asks the man, holding his knife way too close to his face for your liking.

The man cries out, begging you for help, but you’re stuck in place, unsure of what to do.

You know this is wrong. You know you should do something to stop Andrés, but then what? He can easily knock you down if you try something and he has enough pent up rage to nearly kill you. 

Before you can even utter anything, doors burst open downstairs. Your uncle swings the door open, slamming it against the wall and assessing what all the noise is downstairs. Gunshots are fired, leading your uncle to stab the hostage in the neck. A sharp gasp leaves you, unable to take your eyes off the man struggling to breathe with your uncle’s knife in his neck. Andrés yanks it out, thick gushes of blood exiting the deep wound.

The bile threatens to come up in full force now, covering your mouth to contain it and also muffle your cries. Hot tears stream down your face as you back into the corner, nearly beginning to hyperventilate. The only person you’ve seen slowly die in front of you was your mother. But even then it wasn’t as brutal and bloody as this. 

The day it happened, you were out with your grandmother. During that time in your life, she’d take you out a lot to get your mind off of your mother’s state. Sometimes it worked.

Sometimes.

You stay put when he leaves the room with his gun drawn; your back against the wall, hands shaking as you watch the light leave the man’s eyes and his lifeless body slumps forward in the chair. Your breath hitches before a shuddering cry escapes from your lips, suppressed by the palm of your hand. 

Jerónimo set you up – had to have. He’s more than well aware of how violent your uncle is, and he sent you with him. What made him think that this is what the first thing you tagged along for should’ve been?

You don’t hear much outside the room until Andrés comes bursting back in, tossing his handgun onto the floor and putting his hands up in surrender. “Tranquilo (Calm down),” he repeats over and over, grunting when a beefy cop hits him in the head with the end of his gun.

He drops to his knees, the cop’s narrowed eyes noticing you in his peripheral vision. They snap to you, his hard features softening slightly when he realizes the state that you’re in.

“Levantate (Get up),” he orders, his gun still trained on your uncle, though his eyes are on you.

Another cop trails in behind him, cuffing Andrés and pulling him out of the room roughly.

In the state that you’re in, you barely register when your hands are cuffed behind your back: the metal biting into your skin. You’re led downstairs, being traded off to another man in a green uniform.

Finally, you can see what all the noise was. The warehouse was raided, the men that were making cocaine either have bullets in them or are being dragged out of the building in handcuffs. You can hear your uncle’s loud mouth outside, yelling obscenities at the officers, threatening to kill them and their entire families.

The sun blinds you when you get out there, squinting your eyes and stumbling in your heels. The cop tightens his hold on you, keeping you upright as you make your way down the stairs, only to be met with Javier’s face. His lips purse under his mustache, brows knitting in confusion.

You should feel relieved at seeing him. But after what you just witnessed someone you used to call family do inside, you don’t feel anything.

“Uncuff her,” Javier tells the man holding you.

He furrows his brows, “But-”

“I said uncuff her,” he repeats, leaving no room for questioning.

The man hesitates again before he ultimately reaches for the key on his belt, freeing your wrists from the handcuffs. Instinctively, you rub the raw skin, soothing where the metal was biting into.

Javier’s expression softens the moment he walks away, leaning in closer to murmur to you. “Why are you here?”

You shake your head faintly, not answering him as you watch the SUV your uncle was shoved into drive off. For some odd reason, you feel responsible for getting him caught while you get off scotfree. 

But then something dawns on you.

Within all the locations you gave Javier, this wasn’t one of them. You didn’t even know about this place until today. So how did he find it?

“Who told you about this place?” you ask quietly, not in the mood for another fight but you want answers. “I didn’t tell you about it and I didn’t know about it until an hour ago.”

His jaw ticks once, averting your gaze for a moment, eyeing someone over your shoulder. You turn around to see who’s caught his attention, spotting the man who restrained you in the first place.

“That’s Horacio Carrillo,” he informs you, “He’s the head of Search Bloc.”

Something in you shifts. You can say that you don’t care about who knows about you. You can reassure yourself that you’re fine a million times but you know none of that is true. The last few weeks have been difficult – the last few months, actually. To get through this, you need as much mental and physical strength as you can muster up. But after today, you’re not sure how you can keep going.

It took one hour.

One hour for your entire view on your family to change.

You knew they were all bad but this is another level of evil, and you still have a role to play.

Truthfully, Javier felt shitty for what you went through earlier today. None of it is necessarily his fault but he couldn’t protect you from the horrors of the cartel. Just like he couldn’t protect you from himself. He consoled you as much as he could afterwards. You just seemed so… numb. From what you told him, your uncle killed someone in front of you. Just from the look on your face, he could tell that the level of violence that extreme is something that you’ve never been around.

All of this was a bad idea. It’s been a bad idea since he followed you to that club, he just didn’t want to admit it. He was so convinced that this would be easy: he’d use you to get to your father, you’d hate him and go your separate ways. Never did he think that real, deep-rooted feelings would get involved and make things more difficult.

He knows he’s being selfish and unethical for wanting a life with you after all of this. 

Will it actually happen? Who knows.

The longer you’re around him, the dimmer your light gets. Your family plays a role in that as well but it’s only getting worse with him being in your life. He draws one tiny paper cut in your soul and they retaliate by cutting a gash.

A cigarette dangles from his lips, pointer fingers jabbing at the keys on the typewriter as he fills out a report. He doesn’t mention you by name in it, just “CI” for ‘confidential informant’. Regardless of everything and his doubts, your safety is still his number one priority. 

Steve walks down the steps, exhaling harshly when he flops down into his office chair. Javier slows his movements when the blonde man reaches for the bottle of whiskey on his desk, looking at his partner through his lashes.

Upon returning to the station, Carrillo asked Javier if he wanted to join him in the helicopter with your uncle. He hesitated, considering it before he ultimately shook his head. Steve jumped at the opportunity to be more involved and took his place without second guessing it.

Javier has already told Steve about the… creative ways Carrillo prefers to get information. That didn’t seem to stop him though, and now he regrets it.

“He pushed him out,” Steve utters after downing two fingers of the brown liquor, clearing his throat. “Andrés is dead.”

You lean over the railing of the balcony, looking out at the city of Medellín. The stars blink above you, the moon bright and full tonight. The weight of the day you had sits heavily on your shoulders. A cigarette lays idly in your ashtray, lazy tendrils of smoke swirling up into the air.

When you got home, you didn’t speak to anyone. Your father wasn’t home, Francisco tried to talk to you but you went straight up to your room. Immediately, you stripped to take a shower, washing away the dirt and guilt. 

You shouldn’t feel responsible for Andrés being arrested, you hadn’t even told anyone about the warehouse. But you do anyway.

Neither him or your father probably thought about the damage seeing all of that would do to you. “You wanted to be included,” they’d say as an excuse… as if you didn’t witness the man murder somebody in cold blood today. And for what, money?

It’s all fucked.

Perhaps you deserve it. You’re turning your back on your own flesh and blood for someone you don’t know all that well. Sure, you’ve gotten naked for Javier plenty of times, but you don’t truly know him. Not to mention the fact that you’ve fallen in love with him regardless of the lack of knowledge.

You take a drag of your nicotine stick, blowing out clouds of smoke.

You weren’t safe today. You were with family and you still weren’t safe. But neither was Andrés. All of this is making you wonder if you’re any better than them: turning them in with the expectation that you’ll live a free, normal life. 

“Ahí estás (There you are),” Jerónimo’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, his body mimicking your position on the railing.

“Aquí estoy (Here I am),” you murmur, taking another puff from your cigarette. Honestly, you’re not in the mood to have a conversation with him, so you stay silent and let him ramble on about whatever he needs to.

Jerónimo is quiet for a moment, looking out at the city alongside you. “How was your day with my brother?”

A huff escapes through your nostrils, shaking your head slowly. 

When you don’t answer, he continues. “How is it that you made it home but he didn’t?”

“The cops didn’t have a reason to hold me,” you finally meet his eyes, his brows raising by a fraction when he takes in the exhaustion on your face. “Thanks for the set up by the way.”

His gaze darkens, not entertaining the bratty comment just yet. “¿Así que crees que está bajo custodia policial? (So you think he’s in police custody?)”

You furrow your brows, confused by the question. “Ahí fue donde lo vi por última vez. (That’s where I saw him last.)”

“That’s not where he is,” he informs you, making your stomach drop when you stand up straighter. “Your cop friends killed him.”

A harsh breath leaves you, running a hand through your hair and looking into the house. Faint cries from inside reach your ears, but it’s nothing like your heart pounding in your ears, telling you that you may have just been caught… again.

“So I ask you again,” Jerónimo starts, towering over you, “How did you make it home and not him?”

part 6 - series masterlist - main masterlist

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Main Story

Part 1

Part 2 **

Part 3 **

Part 4 **

Part 5 **

Drabbles

Borrowed From Jonah Drabble Challenge Masterlist

Lullaby