The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2)(16)

“Keep it. Retire off it. I hate that f*cking job of yours. I don’t know why you insist on working there.”

He knew he didn’t have to tell her not to put that much money in the bank. His mother was smart. She didn’t need him to draw her a map.

“What about your friends?” she asked.

What a very polite way to ask Chuito what he was going to do about abandoning his entire crew in Miami.

“They’re okay. Angel’s handling it.”

“You’re going to stay?” she asked in disbelief. “You said it was snowing.”

“It is snowing.” He groaned as he looked out the tiny window on the side of his apartment. “It’s cold as f*ck. This is the most miserable place I’ve ever been to in my life. The people here think I’m toxic.”

“Come home,” his mother argued. “I know this is about Marc—”

“I’m just going to stay until he gets out.” Chuito felt sick again as he glanced around the small room. “I’ll feel better if I’m here.”

“?Me cago en ná! You don’t always have to be the same,” she snapped at him. “He doesn’t want that.”

“It’s either that or going down in Miami. You choose.” Chuito took a deep breath and looked around the room again, feeling the walls close in on him. “Really, you pick, Mamá. Here or there, either way I’m doing this. I can’t live with the guilt anymore. I got too much already.”

“Fine. Stay in the snow until Marc gets out. I don’t care. Be miserable. Let the gringos treat you like mierda!”

“They gave me a free place to stay.” He raised his eyebrows at that. “I think they’d give me money to eat too if I let them.”

“What do you have to do for it?”

“They said I just have to win.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he mumbled, because he didn’t believe it either.

“Don’t let them give you money,” she snapped at him harshly. “They’ll think you’re weak.”

“Okay.” He nodded as he took another deep breath. “I got enough to live off of for a while. You take the rest.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he growled at her. “Take it.”

“I don’t want it!”

“Mamá!” He pressed his phone closer to his ear, practically shaking with how frustrating his mother was. “Take the f*cking money!”

“No, I’ll send it to you.” Her voice was tight with pride. “I don’t need your money. I never needed it. You always think—”

“Please,” he said as he took another deep breath. “I have enough mierda to deal with. Let me just know you’re okay. Can you do that for me?”

“I don’t need you,” she said in a quivering voice. “If you want to live in the snow, then I don’t need you. I never needed you.”

He arched an eyebrow and waited for a long moment before he asked, “Do you want to say sorry for that?”

“I guess I’m sorry.” Her voice was still quivering. “Are you going to be okay?”

“If you promise to take the money, I’ll be okay.”

She was silent now, still breathing heavily as if fighting tears, though Chuito knew she wouldn’t cry. She never did. He’d only seen her cry once in his entire life, and he never wanted to see it again.

For something to take down Sofia Garcia, it had to be truly horrific.

“I’ll take the money,” she whispered.

“Good.” He nodded and took another deep breath as he admitted, “I love you, Mamá. Visit Marc for me.”

“Every week,” she promised.

“Okay. I’m hanging up now.”

“I’m not going to say I love you too, ’cause I’m mad at you,” she told him, and she didn’t even hesitate about it. “You have to earn it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“Ay, bendito, you better win.” Her voice was stern, unbending. “Kick their asses. Promise.”

He smiled in spite of everything. “I’ll win. I promise.”

“I raised you strong so the world wouldn’t hurt you,” she told him firmly. “Don’t let them hurt you now.”

“I won’t.” He was confident about it too. “The world never hurts me because I’m weak.”

She was quiet, as if hearing the unspoken accusation Chuito had leveled at himself. “I have to go back,” she said and then hung up before Chuito had a chance to say good-bye.

He let it go without getting too upset about it. His mother was prideful. She was willing to take the money. It was a f*cking miracle, and Chuito would take his miracles where he could find them.

They were few and far between.

He picked up his bag and set it on the table. Then he unzipped it and dug through it. He pulled out a coffee tin and stared at it for a long moment, still feeling that horrible rush of loss hot against the back of his neck.

His younger brother and aunt had died three years ago in a drive-by that haunted his dreams every time he closed his eyes.

Chuito had done blow every single day since. It was the only reason he was still alive. If it wasn’t for the euphoria of drugs, he would’ve eaten his gun a long time ago.