When Happy pushed the door open, he had been expecting to find the hospital chapel empty. It was late; visiting hours had been over for some time. He thought that the only person he might run into was the janitor or whoever came through to check and make sure the candles weren’t going to end up burning the hospital down.

He didn’t expect to walk through the doorway and see one person sitting in the middle of one of the pews. You weren’t kneeling, instead just sitting on the unforgiving wooden seat and slumping forward. Your arms were folded, braced against the back of the bench in front of you with your forehead resting against them. He didn’t hear anything, no sobs or sniffles.

Even though he’d been sent in there with the direction of clearing the place out, he closed the door as quietly as he could manage. The click of the latch was soft. It sounded deafening to him but you didn’t even flinch.

He couldn’t really see you, nothing other than your hair and the pattern on the back of the sweatshirt you were wearing. The hospital chapel was always dim, especially this late in the day. It was all soft lighting and flickering candles. The kind of place that would be peaceful for anyone, not just for the people who came in to send up a last desperate prayer or two.

Once he took a step forward the illusion of the place shattered. Heavy boots against the floor, the jingling of his chain against his jeans. He saw how you flinched, tilting your head slightly in his direction to hear better but not lifting it from where it laid perched on your forearms. Part of him admired that.

He could have stood at the end of the aisle and told you to get out. That had been his original plan. Actually, his original plan was to not even go past the doorway and scare everyone out without having to cross the threshold. But the task he’d been sent out on was officially placed on the backburner.

The wood creaked beneath him as he sat down beside you. It was oddly, uncomfortably close. The kind of close that strangers don’t typically opt into if there are alternatives available, which there were plenty of considering the chapel was empty except for the two of you.

You could hear the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing due to the silence of the space and how near he was to you. Even before you turned your head to look at him you knew he was watching you. You knew that you should’ve been scared. And maybe in some far, distant part of your brain you were, but you were too exhausted to reach that far inside yourself to do anything about it.

He locked eyes with you for a moment. Then he looked at the candles, the cross, then back to you again. The whole time you just watched him. You felt like you had everything about the chapel memorized now with how long you’d been in there—he was the only thing you didn’t recognize.

When Happy looked at you again, he saw the tears in your eyes and on your cheeks. If the chapel had been lighter he would have been able to see the damp spots littering your sleeves, too.

You took a deep breath, trying to find it in yourself to say something since he clearly wasn’t too keen on starting the conversation. Your cheek was still pressed against your sleeve as you asked, “Do I know you?”

The fact that you had to ask told Happy the answer to the question. He wasn’t the kind of person you knew and forgot about, wasn’t the kind of man people had lukewarm opinions on either. If the two of you had met before, you’d remember, even if he might not have.

“No.”

You sniffled, brows furrowing in confusion. “Do you know Maggie?”

He shook his head but didn’t say anything else. The fact that he didn’t know you, or the person you were here for, and yet he was still choosing to sit so close to you, made the beginnings of a hundred questions pop up in your head. Too bad you were too drained to ask any of them. Besides, based on the conversational skills so far, you doubted that you’d get answers to very many of them anyway.

You finally forced yourself upright. As you were wiping away the remnants of tears from your cheeks, you asked, “Do you need something from me?” A little annoyance slipped through in your tone, and on a better day you would have apologized for it.

“I was supposed to come here and tell you to get out.”

That felt specific considering the two of you hadn’t ever met. “Me?”

He nodded, then made a small gesture with his head to the rest of the room. “Whoever was in here. Tonight it’s you.”

Slumping back against the seat, you managed a weak chuckle. “Didn’t realize that the hospital employed a chapel bouncer.”

“They don’t,” he replied, deadpan in a way that made you wonder if he didn’t get that you were joking or was purposely treating your statement seriously.

“Why?” you asked. The only thing that betrayed his confusion was the touching of his brows. You did your best to clarify. “Why do you need me to leave?”

He shook his head. “Can’t tell you.”

You were too exhausted to argue, but you were also tired enough to simply not want to get up from where you sat. “What happens if I don’t?” There was no bite in your tone. It wasn’t a challenge, per se. Maybe if you hadn’t cried so much already it would have been.

He let silence ensue just long enough to send a prickle down your spine. You were smart enough to know what the lack of a response meant. You were about to give in and get up when he said, “I can buy you a few minutes.”

Something about the small kindness following an unspoken threat made you chuckle. “Why would you do that?”

Instead of answering, he asked, “Who's Maggie?”

The sound of someone else saying her name made your chest tighten. He was the first person in a long, long time that had asked about her and he didn’t even know her. He didn’t know you, either. Everything unfolding around you felt like it wasn't making sense and you were fairly sure you couldn’t blame that on your exhaustion. You wanted to ask him who he was, why he wanted to know any of this, why he wanted you out of the chapel. But him asking about Maggie was the closest thing to someone checking in on her or you in too long. Maybe it wasn't fair to unload onto a stranger, but he was asking. And he was also going to kick you out of the chapel as soon as you were done telling him so why not?

“She's, uh, she's up a few floors. They're getting ready to set her up with hospice care. For the last few months she's just been,” you paused, bottom lip quivering, “she's been in and out of the hospital a lot. And when she's in…it's not…”

“Not making her better,” he finished for you.

You wiped the tears from your cheeks even though it was futile and more would be taking their place soon. “Yeah. And, and when I came in yesterday and they said hospice I just—” The words stopped short, a choked sob stopping them halfway up your throat.

“She your mom?” he asked.

The new bit of softness in his tone got you to meet his gaze again. He was frowning slightly, some of the hardness in his expression had faded. You didn’t have to pry to know that he had asked that question for a reason.

“Not…no.” You buried your face in your hands. “She's my ex's mom.”

“Where the fuck is he, then?” he retorted with no hesitation.

“Prison,” you said, not missing a beat.

“Shit.”

It got you to laugh. “He deserves it. And, honestly,” you shook your head, “even if he was out, he wouldn’t be handling any of this. We're all better off with him…” you trailed off, realizing how harsh it must've sounded to someone who didn’t know you. “Sorry. I know that probably sounds shitty.”

He shrugged. “He sounds shitty.”

You hummed in amusement. “He is. Maggie…Maggie's not, though.” You sniffled. “I missed her more than him after we split. We didn’t, uh, it wasn't because he went inside. That happened a couple months after. Then a couple months after that she went into the hospital for the first time. And she said that with him inside I was the only…” your voice quieted until you stopped speaking altogether. Shaking your head, you apologized, “Sorry. This…this doesn't matter. You don't know me.” You ran your hands down your thighs. “You're just waiting for me to—”

“Why'd you come here?” he asked, effectively cutting you off.

You shook your head. “It's where desperate people go, isn’t it?” you replied, trying to inject a little bit of levity into a scenario where it didn’t quite fit. The flickering candles held both your attention and his as you said, “I never really got good at praying. Maggie, though, she never missed a Sunday until she started getting sick.” You didn’t say it, but you couldn’t help but to think that she spent most of those Sunday mornings in the pew praying for her son. Who didn’t deserve it, in your humble opinion. “She didn’t ask me to or anything but I figured, I don't know, if she could get here she would.” You looked at him, a man who didn’t seem like he'd knelt in a pew in a long, long time. If ever. “Think God takes prayers by proxy?”

“Maybe.”

Silence filled the space between you again, only this time there wasn't a lingering request for you to leave within it. As the two of you continued to sit there, you wondered if you had been someone else if he would have just grabbed you up by the arm and tossed you out. He seemed like the type who might, not that you really knew what type he was.

Gnawing at the inside of your bottom lip, you couldn’t help but to ask, “Is it too late to ask you for your name?”

“Happy,” he replied, his one not at all matching his name.

You chuckled, waiting for the real answer to follow. It felt like a joke given everything that you could glean about him. When the silence persisted and it sank in with you that he wasn't joking, you cleared your throat and gathered up a response.

“Right. Makes about as much sense as the rest of it, I guess.”

In other scenarios this would be the part where you told him your name too, and you'd shake hands, and you'd have a conversation about the usual things you did with someone you didn’t know at all. But the two of you had already turned the usual conventions on their heads, so what did any of it matter now?

Resting your hands on your knees, you prepared yourself to stand up and leave. You could already feel the way your joints were going to pop before you even moved, having sat slumped in the pews for far too long. Even if Happy hadn't shown up to kick you out, that should have been reason enough to finally hit the bricks.

“Sorry for putting all my shit on you, Happy.” It felt strange to say his name, but strange in a way that made you smile despite all the mess. “Guess you're a good substitute for a priest in a pinch if they need someone for a confessional.”

That had him almost smiling. Just a little twitch of the lips but more than you'd gotten from him thus far. Apparently, he was the type of guy who could appreciate a little irony.

His expression returned to its previous state, one that didn’t give you anything to go off of. You watched as his gaze drifted over to the candles. “Hospice,” he said, quiet but not quite whispering.

Closing your eyes was a last-ditch effort to keep more tears from popping up. “Yeah. There's some things that they can do for her here, but I just...she, she can't…” You trailed off, not able to end the sentence. There were some words you just weren't ready to say even if the reality of them was staring down the barrel at you.

Happy knew what you were saying without you having to say it. Maybe that was the kind of skill people honed when they weren't much for talking themselves. “Your house or hers?” he asked.

“Hers,” you replied, a weak smile appearing on your face. “I, uh, I offered my place but she was pretty adamant. That's fair, though. She's earned that.”

“You're moving in, then.”

You liked that he didn’t ask it like a question. Nodding in agreement, you said, “Gonna pack my stuff, and I'll be set up there by the time she's good to come home.”

He nodded in approval. “They need someone there.”

It was your turn to state something instead of asking. “Speaking from experience.”

“Moved my whole life around when my mom got sick. She was mad at first—then she needed me.” He shrugged. “Wasn't as mad after that.”

“I'm sorry,” you offered, looking down at your hands. “But it's good that you were there.”

Happy seemed like he was about as religious as you were, but he was staring straight ahead at the cross instead of at you as he spoke. “She's a lot better now.”

“Didn’t move your life back though, huh?” you asked, having a feeling you already knew the answer.

He shook his head. “I stay where I'm needed. When my girls were young they needed me here. They're grown now, though.”

You smiled. “So back to mom's.”

“Yeah.”

Then it was quiet again. Because of the hour, you didn’t even hear any chaos from outside the chapel doors. You weren't sure how long the two of you sat there not saying anything, or even looking at each other. The part of you that still wasn't ready to face all the realities waiting for you on the side of the door covered in fluorescent lighting was more than ready to sit for as long as you could.

Slow creaking broke the silence, causing both you and Happy to turn back to the doors. You didn’t recognize the man who was stepped halfway into the chapel, but you saw that he and Happy were only a few clothing articles away from perfectly matching outfits. The other man's long blonde hair set them pretty far apart, though.

He looked at you for hardly a moment before focusing on Happy. “Hap, what the hell are you doing?”

You stood up before Happy could say anything. “He was telling me that I should head out for the night.” With the door open now you could hear more footsteps heading your way. “I'll, uh, I'll get out of your way.” You looked down at Happy and gave him a small nod. “Sorry. And, um, thanks.”

He didn’t say anything, just nodding as you turned and walked out the other end of the pew. You made a point not to look too hard at any of the men who were coming into the chapel. You were almost to the door when Happy spoke up; it took a second for you to realize that it was you he was speaking to.

“Hey.”

You turned back to face him. “Yeah?”

“Where'd you say they have your ex put up?”

Shaking your head, you answered, “I, uh, I didn’t.” You felt all the extra pairs of eyes on you and did your best to ignore them. “But…Stockton.” Happy nodded, but when he didn’t say anything else, you asked, “Why?”

“No reason,” he said, not that you believed him.

Ignorance was bliss, though, and you had enough to deal with, so you nodded and kept making your way to the door. None of the other men said anything to you as you slipped past them. Making sure to shut the door behind you, you left to finally make your way home to start packing.

When Happy turned in the pew to face the rest of the guys, it was Jax who spoke up first on behalf of everyone. “Who was that?”

“No one.”

Jax pinched his brows, not buying that in the slightest but not having anything to back himself up. “Sure about that?”

Happy made a gesture to the expanse of the chapel. “It's empty, isn't it?”

He knew better than to try and pry. “Yeah, I guess.”

They all settled down into an ill-formed huddle. Jax wasted no time diving right into club business. Happy was listening, always listening. But every now and then his gaze would wander to the candles, and inevitably to the closed chapel doors.

(divider by @secretlysamcro 🖤)

The silence after that night felt unbearable. You didn’t hear anything from Nestor about any of it. You knew better than to bring it up to your father. There was no way for you to tell him that you had it on good authority that Miguel shot one of his men without somehow ending up getting into the discussion of you and Nestor. You weren’t ready for that talk. You didn’t know when you would be, if you ever would be. So you didn’t bring it up. You just waited to see if he ever had anything to say about Miguel. Which he never did, at least not to you.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that your father most likely downplayed his real feelings about Miguel, good or bad, in front you just for the sake of avoiding an argument. But you had to think that if he knew about Paco, or had any suspicions about it all, he would say something to you. That felt like something that would be worth the argument resulting from the conversation.

The couple of meetings that you’d had with your father and Miguel after Nestor showing up at your house felt like business as usual on the surface. Miguel still seemed off, and now that you knew some more of the behind-the-scenes of it all, you were thinking that he should seem a lot more fucked up than he did. You wished he’d lose it in front of your father, cause enough of an issue so that he would actually have to do something about it. You were still holding out hope for that while you tried to think of a better, more concrete plan.

In the midst of all of that, you were very aware of the fact that it was always Miguel and Marcus showing up together. You knew that he had other men on his security team besides Nestor, even with Paco being gone. But the fact that he hadn’t been bringing any of them including Nestor was interesting to you. The circle grew ever-smaller. Your curiosity about all of that was far outweighed by your concern over Nestor’s absence. Maybe you were placing too much importance on yourself and your relationship with him, but him being back off the radar after coming to see you felt like a bit too much to just be a coincidence. It was another thing that you couldn’t ask about.

You were tossing your bag into the back seat of your car at your father’s house when the folder you were holding slipped from between your fingers and fell to the ground. The papers immediately started to scatter. Cursing under your breath, you started to gather them back up as quickly as you could.

You were reaching underneath your car for a stray paper when a very distinctive pair of boots materialized right beside you. It was hard to tell from the feeling in the pit of your stomach whether or not Marcus stepping over to help you gave you a sense of relief or one of dread.

“Here,” he said as crouched down and picked up the few that you hadn’t collected up yet.

You pulled the papers from underneath your car and stood up, stuffing them haphazardly back into the folder in your hands before reaching out to take the ones that Marcus was holding for you.

“Thank you.” You tucked those papers away too, unable to ignore the heaviness in Marcus’s stare. Looking back up at him, you tentatively asked, “How is…everything?”

His eyes narrowed slightly for a moment as he processed what you said versus what you meant. You knew he was smart enough to know what you were asking. You just were trying to figure out if he was going to be bold enough to give you the answer.

“We’re figuring it out.”

That gave you less than nothing to go off of. “Anything I can do?”

The frown on his face seemed like a pensive one, but you didn’t know him well enough to say that it was that for sure. He shook his head slightly. “No. Just,” he reached out and rested his hand on your shoulder, “stay safe.”

The knot of dread that his words and gesture put in your stomach made you want to throw up right on the spot. It wasn’t just a nicety, although in the world you all ran in it very well could be. If it had been Miguel saying it to you instead of Marcus, you would’ve said that it was a threat. But it didn’t quite feel like that. It felt like a warning, sure, but not a threat. Like he was trying to intervene because he knew a threat was coming from somewhere else. You had a good idea of where that might be.

You nodded. “Will do.”

If he was going to say anything more, he didn’t get the chance to. Miguel’s voice piped up as he stood by his car. “Ready, Marcus?”

Marcus’s face gave nothing away, as per usual. He turned around without another word to you and made his way back towards their SUV. Your nails were almost digging into your palm despite the fact that you were holding onto the folder. Your jaw was clenched so tight you were worried that you were about to crack a tooth as you watched them roll past you and out of the driveway.

It wasn’t until they were gone and out of sight that you forced your body to start moving again. You tucked your folder underneath your bag before walking around to the driver’s side of the car. You sat down in the driver’s seat, letting out a shaky exhale as you tried to get your mind to slow down. It was the first time that you ever wished that you had Marcus’s number. That way you could reach out to him to try to get some more answers out of him.

If you had to be safe, did that mean that Nestor wasn’t? Was he okay? Was he even still alive? Part of you thought that maybe that was a bit of a reach, but after what had happened with Paco you figured that survival was no longer a guarantee for anyone. The only thing that was giving you any semblance of comfort, and it wasn’t much, was that you would like to think that if something really had happened to Nestor, Marcus would’ve found a way to tell you. Or maybe even Miguel would say something, wanting to put more salt into a wound he loved to keep picking at.

You finally got your hands and fingers to steady and cooperate enough to put the key into the ignition of your car. Thoughts were racing through your head so fast that you couldn’t even make sense of them. All you knew was that they were making your heartrate skyrocket.

Despite knowing it wasn’t going to do anything to calm your nerves, you dug your phone out and dialed Nestor as you drove. You hardly even got a full ring before the automated voice came through the speakers of your car. “Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system. At the tone—”

You hung up, feeling your bottom lip starting to tremble. The likelihood of being able to get in touch with him now when you couldn’t before was slim to none, but you still had to try. It shouldn’t have caused such a visceral reaction inside you, but you suddenly felt like it was all about to fall apart, like the ground was going to crumble right beneath the tires of your car as you sped down the road.

The next couple of days went by accompanied by nothing besides radio silence. You didn’t see Nestor, didn’t hear anything from or about him. There was nothing from Miguel, Marcus, or your father either. It wasn’t out of the ordinary, per se, but your heightened anxiety made the lack of communication feel like a much larger problem than it was. Typically, no news was good news. But that wasn’t what it felt like now.

You threw yourself into your work as much as you could to try and combat it. Owning and managing kept you plenty busy, but you’d started covering a few shifts here and there if anyone ever called out just to have one extra thing to think about other than the mess that was happening behind the scenes. It also had the added benefit of surprising the other bartenders who worked for you. You’d mentioned to them a time or two that you had been a bartender up until you were in the position you had now, but it was the first time that any of them really saw you in action. It crossed your mind that Jade would’ve gotten a kick out of it. That thought alone soothed some of the nerves that you’d been feeling.

You were crawling towards the end of another shift. When one of the bartenders had to step out because of a family emergency, you gladly filled in and took his place. You left your blazer in your office, standing behind the bar in your sleeveless blouse and slacks. You were thankful that you’d learned how to stand and walk around for long periods of time in heels, because there wouldn’t be any sitting down until the place shut down for the night. You were thankful for the distraction, but you were also exhausted. You knew the other woman working with had to be just as tired, which was why you had told her to head out a little early once everyone left after last call.

“I’ll clean up,” you reassured her. “Go home, get some rest.”

“You’re sure?”

You nodded. “Positive. I’ll see you next time you’re in, alright?”

The relieved smile that spread across her face made the extra time you were going to spend there that night worth it. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

Once she was gone you put your own music on as you wiped down the bar and loaded the dishwasher. With the exception of the clothes that you were wearing, you felt like you were right back at the bar with Jade. The urge to call her had rolled through you more often than you expected it to. There was a comfort and stability that she exuded that was hard to find in other people. You were certain that a good, long talk with her would help immeasurably.

But the warning from Marcus still rang loudly in your mind. If something was afoot and you were at risk in some way, the last thing you wanted to do was drag in someone who was innocent in it all. Jade had nothing to do with your business with your father. She made sure to keep it that way. You weren’t going to be the person who got her hurt simply because she was close with you. Distance for now was the best solution that you had, even if it sucked. Even though you knew it wouldn’t happen, part of you wished that she would just turn up one night looking for a drink.

And, if she wouldn’t randomly decide to turn up, you were hoping that Nestor might.

Neither of them did, though. You shouldn’t have been surprised or upset by that. There was no reason that either of them would randomly find their way into your bar. But as you collapsed at the freshly-cleaned counter, setting up your laptop and notebooks to get ahead on some of your paperwork, you wished that the universe would grant you that distraction.

You’d completely lost track of time as you got the next few deliveries and supply runs in order. Your books were meticulously kept, which was helpful, but it was incredibly time-consuming. So you had no idea how late it really was when you reached for your phone and called your father.

A middle of the night call after days of silence wasn’t exactly something that would give anyone confidence. Your father somehow managed to sound simultaneously exhausted and frantic as he answered the phone.

“Mija? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you replied easily despite the fact that it was a bit of a lie. You were alright in the way that he was asking—you weren’t bleeding out in the desert somewhere.

He hummed and you could picture the way he was probably pulling his hands down his face in an effort to try and wake up a little more. “Do you,” he fought back a yawn and was almost successful, “do you need something?”

“Do you have Marcus’s number?” The question came tumbling out of you before you could stop it.

“Marcus?”

“Yeah, Alvarez,” you clarified.

He chuckled tiredly. “I know who you mean, Y/N.” He paused. “I have his number, yes.”

“Can I have it?”

“What do you need his number for this late at night?” His answer wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. How you answered the question that he’d just asked was going to determine if he was going to give you that information or not.

“In my defense, I didn’t realize how late it was,” you said with a tired laugh. “I just had a couple things that I wanted to ask him about, that’s all. Stuff I’d really rather not bother Miguel with.”

“You mean stuff you don’t want to talk to Miguel about?” he countered, humor in his tone.

You had to laugh at that. “That too.” There was a long pause, and when he didn’t give you the number or tell you that you were going to have to actually buck up and ask Miguel for it, you said, “So…can I please have a way to not talk to Miguel?”

“You can’t just keep finding ways to avoid him, you know.”

“Watch me,” you joked. “C’mon, it’s late and I’m sure you wanna get back to sleep. Just text me his number and you can go back to dreaming about having your own whiskey distillery or whatever it is that you dream about these days.”

It was too easy for you to picture the look on his face even though you couldn’t see him. The tired but still amused look even though he wouldn’t want to look amused. “Why do I get the feeling you’re up to something?”

“Because you always think I’m up to something when it comes to Miguel.”

“And I’m almost always right, aren’t I?”

“We’re both still alive and in one piece, aren’t we? Things haven’t gone too wrong yet.” You paused before saying, “Papí, por favor. Para su hija favorita.”

He let out a sigh that turned into a laugh. “Por díos.”

You laughed, knowing that you had him. “Muchas gracias.”

“Basta,” he said with a laugh. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Te quiero.”

You could hear him smiling through his exasperation with you. “Te quiero mucho.”

When you hung up the phone with him, it was less than a minute before you received a text message from him. You quickly opened it, adding Marcus’s number to your contacts. You weren’t going to call him now—it was far too late for that. But at some point in the next twenty-four hours you were going to reach out. Maybe a text would be a better start, since it was a pretty safe bet that if you called him he would be around Miguel. You didn’t even want any incriminating information, really. You just wanted to know that Nestor was okay.

You spent a few seconds too long staring at his name. Clicking on it, you typed out a text message, thinking that it wouldn’t be enough to disturb him from sleep, but it would be one of the first things that he saw when he woke up in the morning. And that would mean he was away from Miguel.

“It’s Y/N. My dad gave me your number. Call me when you get this, please” You didn’t allow yourself to hesitate before hitting send.

Once the message said delivered underneath it, you felt like the last of your energy had been sucked right out of you. It was a text message but you may as well have run a marathon with the way you sank deeper onto the stool, elbows landing against the bar. You pressed your fingers against your temples, rubbing small circles there for a few moments before deciding to pack up your things and starting to head home.

Even as you were going through your nightly routine at home, you were still periodically checking your phone to see if Marcus had texted you back. There was no way that he was going to answer, but you still had to check. Even as your head hit the pillow and you threw your phone on the charger, you gave it one last glance before finally allowing your eyes to close.

You were woken up the next morning way before your alarm. You groaned, not opening your eyes as you groped around, feeling for your nightstand and by extension your phone. When your fingers wrapped around it, you unplugged it, only opening one eye a sliver of the way. You hit the accept call button, not even bothering to try and focus enough to read the name.

“Hello?” You barely sounded human but it was too late to try and mediate.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.” Marcus’s voice came in from the other end of the line, soft, smooth. “Figured the late text needed a fast reply.”

Your eyes popped open as it registered with you who it was. You lifted your head off the pillow, clearing your throat as you propped yourself on one elbow. “Marcus. Sorry. Yeah. Thanks—uh, thank you for calling.”

“Never thought your dad was one for playing telephone.”

“He’s not. I, uh, I might’ve pestered him a little bit.”

“What happened?”

“What?”

“Never took you for a pest.”

You chuckled as you rubbed at your eyes, trying to wipe the sleep out of them. “Glad to know Miguel hasn’t swayed your opinion of me.”

“Y/N.”

He didn’t sound angry and yet you still felt like you were on the phone with the school principal. You cleared your throat again. “Yeah?”

“What’s going on?”

“If I ask you something, are you gonna tell Miguel?”

“Depends.” He paused. “I’m not planning on tellin’ him anything about you if you don’t give me a reason to.”

You sucked in a deep breath before finally asking, “Did something happen to Nestor?”

There was a long pause. You were afraid that he was just going to hang up on you. You were mentally scrambling, trying to come up with a good excuse to be asking that question. It was hard to think of one that would be good enough, especially considering you were asking a man who you had hardly ever had a full conversation with before. Quick exchanges in the driveway of your father’s house didn’t quite count.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”

Marcus cut you off. “He’s okay.”

You let out a sigh of relief. “You mean it?”

There was another long pause. “He’s okay, meaning he’s not in the same position his last partner was in.” Marcus let you stammer for a few seconds before saying, “You know about Paco.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. “I—”

“Wasn’t a question.”

“Nestor told you?”

“No. But if he was going to tell anyone…”

You sighed as you felt your chest get heavy. You hadn’t even been awake for ten minutes and you already felt like you were on the brink of tears. “That obvious, huh?” you tried to joke to force your emotions down.

He avoided your question, keeping his tone neutral as he asked, “What do you want from me?”

“He won’t leave him.”

You heard Marcus sigh on the other end of the line. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Can you promise me that you at least won’t let Miguel do to him what he did to Paco?”

The silence on the other end of the line didn’t instill any confidence in you. “It’s out of your control, Y/N.”

“So that’s a no?”

“You said it yourself, huh? He’s not leaving.”

You didn’t expect his words to hit you as hard as they did. You took a deep breath, hoping it would make you feel steadier, but it didn’t. You were just thankful that he couldn’t see the look on your face. “Right.”

When another silence followed, you thought that Marcus was going to try and find a way to hurry you off the phone. But, much to your surprise, he just stayed on the line. It was the longest conversation you’d ever had with him, and most of it was filled with disjointed silences.

“You’ve thought about it a lot,” he said, a brief pause before he elaborated, “What the picture would look like without him.” It was a statement, not a question.

Clearing your throat to stuff down the emotions, you found yourself nodding before remembering that he couldn’t see you. “Yeah. I mean…in a violently daydreaming kind of way, yeah.” You couldn’t help the brief, proud smile on your face when you heard the way Marcus chuckled at that.

Despite the moment of shared humor, when he spoke up again his tone was serious. “I can’t promise you what you’re asking. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

You sighed, dropping your forehead to the heel of your palm. “Right.”

“’S like I told you, huh? Just keep yourself safe.”

It wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but there was only so much you could ask of him. He was risking a lot just by talking to you at all. “What happens if Miguel finds out you called me?”

 “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him—and there are plenty of things he doesn’t know.”

There was an ease that he spoke with that made you believe him. While it didn’t alleviate the concerns you had before, it at least didn’t any anything new to the list. You knew that you weren’t going to get anything more out of him now, so you cut him loose and ended the call. Tossing your phone to the side, you laid on your back and stared up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what you were supposed to do next.

Sanchez, the man who had planned to burn down your house.

Flaco, the man who’d tried to murder you in your sleep.

Ramos, the fucking orchestrator of all this chaos.

Hank and Taza stand on either side of their prisoners, making sure no one gets a stupid fucking idea in their head and tries to run.

It’s fitting in a way that it comes down to the old guard. These were the men who swore to protect you once upon a time. When your father was at his wits end, staring down the bottom of bottle because he didn’t know how to help you. What you don’t know, what you will never know is that they had plans for the list your father made all those years ago. If you hadn’t sought your vengeance first, they would have done it for you.

He hears the roar of the motorcycle in the distance, it tears through the air like a banshee screaming into the night. Noone speaks as the rider pulls up, they simply wait as he climbs off the bike, his snakeskin cowboy boots clicking against the concrete. He’s wearing his kutte tonight, his El Padrino patch showing predominantly in the overhead lights on he strides towards Bishop.

That rage, it seems to simmer. Bishop can feel it radiating from the other man as he draws closer, his eyes glowing like coals from the deepest depths of hell. El Padrino’s out for blood tonight, Bishop can taste it.

“Just these three?” He asks Bishop, indicating towards their captives.

Bishop removes Ramos’s phone from his pocket before handing it to Marcus. The other man studies the messages intently, his thumb scrolling through them as he takes in the details of the hit.

Raze it the ground, he’d written. I want her to burn.

“Smokey wasn’t involved?” Marcus questions, handing the phone back to Bishop.

Bishop shakes his head as he returns it to his pocket.

“I have Riz keeping him company in the clubhouse, figured you’d want to talk to him once you were finished with them.” He says, inclining his head towards the three Stockton men.  

“You were right.” Marcus says, withdrawing the Berretta from the waist band of his trousers.

He points the weapon at Sanchez.

“The one that wanted to burn down their home.” Marcus says before pulling the trigger.

Flaco cries out as the blood splashes across his face, the stench of cordite fills the air as Marcus points the gun at him.

“The one who fired an assault rifle into their bed.” Marcus pulls the trigger again and Flaco falls face first onto the concrete.

“And you,” Marcus says turning his attention to Ramos. “The man who can’t let the past just die, who has to come back and rake it up because he can’t stand the fact a dead man was a better Mayan that he will ever be.”

Ramos laughs, it’s a haunting rasp that echoes through the yard as he stares up at Marcus.

“She grew up pretty didn’t she? Javi’s daughter.” Ramos says, a cruel smile spreading across his features. “Just like her mother.”

There’s a flash of steel behind Marcus’s eyes, his hand threads through Ramo’s hair, gripping it tightly before he tugs it back and jams the Berretta right under his chin.

“A bullet is too good for you.” Marcus snarls as he locks gazes with Ramos.

“She was my girl.” Ramos hisses, his tongue running over his lower lip. “Sierra was mine until he rolled up and took her!”

“She didn’t belong to you.” Marcus snaps, driving the gun even harder into the other man’s jaw. “That is something you have never been able to understand. She had a choice, and she didn’t choose you.”

“I had her anyway.” Ramos reminds him and, in that moment, he looks every inch the animal he is. “I took what was his and I ruined it.”

“I should have let him kill you that night.” Marcus seethes as he wrenches the other man’s head back even further. “I should have let him beat you to death, instead of pulling him off you.”

“But you didn’t and now we’re here.” Ramos grins, blood staining his teeth. “I bet her daughter would have tasted just as sweet as she did…”

The words are barely out of his mouth before the gunshot explodes through the scrapyard, his brains spattering across the concrete.

“Take their kuttes.” Marcus says as he stares down at Ramos’s corpse. “We’re heading up to Stockton.”

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