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I do as I’m told.
And receive what might be the happiest moments remaining to me in what I’m sure will be a very abbreviated life: the chance to tell Dixon once more that I love him. I wish it were under better circumstances, but it’s something, and it leaves me with happy tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Shut up,” my father snaps as he ends the call. “You have no fucking right to cry. This is all your goddamn fault.”
“My fault?" I barely mange to spit the words. There’s more I want to say, but all I can do is stare at the man who is supposed to be my father, the man who is supposed to protect me, who was supposed to protect my brother, too.
“You and Lucas. Poking your fucking noses where they don’t belong. Not knowing how the fuck to keep quiet. I thought I raised you better. Turned out, I made a mistake. Now, I’m going to correct that mistake.”
“What? By killing me? You do the same thing to mom, too?” I snap, rage boiling over. Our mom died of natural causes. Young, tragically, but naturally all the same. Still, it always ate at my dad. She was the love of his life.
His answer is to raise his hand and strike me with the back of it across my face. Once, twice, and, on the third time — I feel skin split and blood pour hot from a wide laceration in my cheek.
He pulls back for a fourth time, but Mateo steps between us.
“Rafael, no. That’s enough.”
“Don’t you fucking tell me how to discipline my child.”
“If you beat her too much now, how the fuck are you supposed to torture the other one by making him watch?” Mateo says. There’s a plaintive note in his voice. I understand in that moment that he is, and has always been, a coward. He doesn’t even say ‘we’ when talking to my father. He’s more than happy to have someone else do the dirty work, the same way he was happy to have Marquez be the one to kill my brother. In a sick, twisted way, I lose even more respect for him — he’s not truly evil, he’s just a frightened little boy unable to stand up for himself against the evil people who are just shoving him around and making him their whiny bitch.
I spit at him. “Fucking coward. Can’t even stomach watching me get hit, can you?”
My dad laughs. “She’s got a point.”
Mateo draws back a fist and strikes me in the stomach. It’s hard, and it’s enough to make me spit blood at his feet and feel like my eyes want to jump out of their sockets. But I can tell he’s holding back.
“Shut your mouth,” he bites.
“Fuck you, you pathetic little weasel. Lucas, even though he’s fucking dead, is still more of a man than you. Bet he’d still hit harder, too. You’re nothing more than some fucking dipshit parasite who plants his tiny little sucker on some bigger fish to survive.”
Anger — no, burning, feral rage — is my only option, my only hope. Maybe, if I can provoke Mateo or my dad to actually kill me before Dixon gets here, they’ll have no leverage and Dixon will at least have a chance to fight his way out of this mess, because you can’t have a trap with no bait.
Hell, Dixon would for sure kill Mateo. He’s nothing but a fucking benign testicle polyp.
But the moment my words land, Mateo’s face contorts into something so hideous, it takes my breath away. He’s not used to being called out, and the truth of my words slices through him like a knife. Before he can react, my father laughs again and grabs him by the wrist.
“My daughter may not have the sense to make the right decision when it comes to our business deals, but fuck, she’s smart enough to play you like a goddamn fiddle. Get yourself under control and save your rage for when it’s the right fucking time, got it?”
The right time doesn’t take long.
Soon, there’s the sound of a motorcycle approaching from a distance. A single motorcycle.
As I hear that, my heart drops in my chest; part of me had hoped that, despite everything I’d told Dixon, he’d come with backup. Yes, it’d mean I’d probably die, but he might survive, and if he brought the others from the Steel Reapers with him, my father and Mateo would definitely die. At least then, my brother would get justice. It wouldn’t be much, and if there’s an afterlife, he’d probably chew me out for being so reckless, but it still would be worth it.
When the bike stops, I hear footsteps — singular — crunch on the broken pavement and gravel outside. At the sound, my dad takes a knife out and holds the blade to my throat. His hands don’t shake, and there’s not a doubt in my mind that he’d gleefully cut my throat at the slightest provocation. I might be his daughter, but I’m a threat to something that he loves more: money.
“Mateo, open the door so our guest can see we’re not fucking around. Then grab some rope and get out there.”
Mateo's steps are heavy and deliberate as he walks towards the door. He doesn't look back at me, doesn’t even give me the satisfaction of eye contact. Instead, he wrenches the metal door open, revealing Dixon’s silhouette framed by the light of the rising sun.
Dixon freezes for a moment, taking in the scene, calculating the odds. His eyes find mine, and there's a storm of emotions there — fear, anger, and something that looks like regret. I want to scream at him to run, to leave me and save himself, but with the knife pressed against my jugular, I dare not make a sound.
My father uses his free hand to grab a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back as a grotesque display of control.
"Come on in," he calls out to Dixon with a twisted smile. "We were just catching up on old times."
Dixon steps forward cautiously, hands in plain sight to show he's unarmed.
