"Hey, it's Mika."

My mouth opens to reply before I'm met with, "Looks like I'm away from the phone right now, or probably getting dicked down. Most likely the latter. Leave your name and message at the beat and I'll call back whenever I have the chance. Kisses."

After ending the call, I slam my phone onto the table, and I repeat the same with my forehead. A tad less painful. It's been three days since I've seen and spoken to Mika, and I'm slowly going insane. At this point, I need to check into a mental hospital to cure me of my Mika obsession. Then maybe I'll be able to get more than three hours of sleep.

Every day, I go to Diablo's Paraiso only to find out Mika is sick. When I went to her apartment with the homemade soup, I was met with the doorbell. Dread circulates through my veins as if I'm receiving an IV of it. All my calls go straight to voicemail, and I almost have no choice but to get my spies on her.

But I know how invading that is.

I rather go insane in my office asylum than trespass on Mika's privacy. Could it have to do with my love confession? She told me to stop, but I couldn't keep it bottled up anymore. As an artist, my feelings pour out in anything I do. Mika is my muse, my love, my diamond. Someone I'll cherish forever, even if the night fades black. I thought we got one step closer that night as we hugged in the rain, but Mika is pulling away.

What else can explain her sudden disappearance?

To cure my Mika infection, I flip through the images of her on my picture file and repeat the cycle over and over again. How can I get any more pathetic? I might as well camp out in her front yard until she presents me with her presence.

Mika.

Are you even thinking about me?

My finger accidentally swipes off the photos and switches to my open tab of Instagram. Along with Tiktok, I only ever used these apps to pass by time like while I'm in the bathroom or waiting for an appointment. Normal mundane things. With an arch eyebrow, I stroke over the million posts from all the members of my familia. When the boredom creeps through, I switch to the stories in the circles on top of my profile.

My stomach constricts when I read Alexandra's new post.

Spencer Hastings is dead. My heart drums against my chest. Could that explain why he stood me up on Thursday? Concern churns through my thoughts. Was it the work of Miclantechuhtli? Did investigating my brother's case drag him to the brick of death? Guilt spreads through my body like wildfire. I should've-- I could've kept him as far away from the case as possible after our discussion.

His death is-- could be all my fault. My nonstop persistence led him to the rabbit hole to the dark side of the law. I ruined his future, Alexandra's future. All I wanted was to find out the truth, but I'm leaving devastation in the background. If Mictlantecuhtli is linked to Spencer's death, I'll have to repay for my sins by discovering the truth myself, even if it brings me the same fate.

No one else should die because of my selfishness.

Paranoia surges through my body as goosebumps emerge on my skin. Switching over to my computer, I go to a news website and scroll until I find details of Spencer's death. The right side of the mouse clicks, and the page reloads to a report from two days ago of his passing.

FBI Agent is shot dead in his Carnegie Hill home.

Spencer Hasting, a twenty-four-year-old agent, was found dead this morning in his home office. Although there were no signs of any struggle, a gun was found on the scene of the crime. It's been confirmed to be owned by Mr. Hastings with no other evidence found. Spencer Hastings was perceived to have died due to a bullet wound in his skull on the night of the eighth. Officers are currently looking into possible suspects.

So, it's an indirect murder? No feather means no Mictlantecuhtli. Spencer was an FBI agent. Naturally, he developed a high-risk profile as he pursued the worst criminals in this decade. But there's a tight twinge in my stomach that doesn't believe anything I'm telling myself. Alexandra is probably fucking heartbroken. Instead of a wedding, they're planning a funeral, and I could only hope that's the worst part.

But it's not.

A knock bangs against my door. "Come in."

Pacho's long hair is tied into a ponytail with the fringe framing his face and a maroon vest on his chest. In his hand is an envelope and a package the size of a hand wrapped with string. He closes the door, bows, and proceeds to the front of my desk. Since Mateo's away on his adventure, Pacho handles the bulk of Mateo's assignments. Things have been a bit tense with my close comrades since my outburst with Gato.

"Afternoon Jefe," he states, extending the mail in my direction. "This was the only mail from this morning. However, the package does not have a return address. I wasn't sure if you wanted me to destroy it or give it to you."

A frown mars my eyebrows as I flip the box back and forth. "Do you think it could be something dangerous?"

His expressions betray nothing. "It's possible, Jefe. We shouldn't underestimate our enemies, but I doubt any of our opponents would take this cop out. They prefer-- face to face combat. Saves them face. However, if you aren't comfortable, I could have one of our lower ranks open it for you."

My answers come easily. "Don't bother. I wouldn't want to risk their life over this package. I'll open it myself."

My scissor blade slices a quarter through before Pacho grabs my hand. "I don't mean to overstep Jefe, but your life is far more important than some dealer. You shouldn't be so reckless. We can't afford to lose another leader in less than a year."

"I'm not some God." I snort. "All of your lives are as important as mine. I wouldn't hold any resentment if you guys opted to save yourself over me. Survival of the fittest, right? I'll take my chances."

Pacho purses his lips. "Okay, but I advise opening this letter first. It's from our operation at the borders. Things aren't looking so good for us."

My eyes sharp with concentration as I read the letter. "Fuck."

I almost forgot about his existence. I should've known to be prepared for his counter-back. His familia was too quiet for their own good, and they took my distraction as leverage. Luka's forces are refusing entry to my trucks containing my product, officially violating our agreement. Any trucks able to sneak past the barriers have been dealt with by hijacking, exploding, or straight-up firearms. Only one of my trucks came out unscathed, which will not be enough to satisfy Diablo.

He clears his throat. "According to reports, he's going to try to negotiate with the owner of the club, and offer them a larger percentage to out mind us. Depending on your arrangement with the owner, we could very much lose this."

If Diablo still owned Diablo's Paraiso, I wouldn't doubt he would take the deal with the Velasquez because of his hatred for my relationship with Mika. But the club wasn't his anymore. Any decisions had to go through Mika. I'm hundred percent sure I'll have this contract in the bag. I'll like Luka to try to convince Mika to go against me.

I nod. "The contract isn't in jeopardy, but our money is. We are being royally fucked. We lose money with every shipment stolen, which in turn delays our vendors from selling. I'm going to sit on this for a few hours and call the team if I come up with anything."

He bobs his head. "Of course. However, we should retaliate as fast as we can."

"I agree."

Pacho straightens his back with his arms by his legs as he bends forward to bow in respect. It's almost comical. I couldn't take it seriously, especially because I forbid Mateo from ever doing this. He pivots on his leg and walks to the door, but stops before his hand could touch the knob.

"Jefe," he calls out.

I raise a brow. "Yes."

His eyes are locked on the floor, almost conveying remorse. "I wanted to apologize for the way I've treated you. This entire process has been mentally challenging for you and I certainly haven't made it easier. I judged you way too early. I think you can very well be the leader that brings Morterero back to glory."

An embarrassing boyish grin fights to form on my face. "T-Thank you. Take today as starting on a new foot. I don't hold any resentment. I've always admired every one of you guys. Except for Gato, he's a bit too crazy for me."

Pacho releases the breath he was holding and chuckles. "Yeah, I pray for Elena and Lena every day."

My heart falters at the disturbing ways Gato could treat his wife and daughter. "You don't think he abuses them, do you? I know he's family, but I don't want to condone that behavior."

"He does. He's been protected by your papa," Pacho confesses, taking the seat by my desk. "Elena tried to press charges, but your papa got them erased. You can always make the record pop up like magic if you offer the right price. You're the Jefe and if you want change, who am I to oppose?"

Sounds very promising.

There are pros and cons to losing a capo like Gato. He gets the dirty jobs done with no argument. He lives to kill, torture, and abuse people for the fun of it. To beg a differ, a lot of the other Capos had morals and felt guilt. Gato has neither. Meaning he can be an asset, but his behavior is beyond despicable. With the flick of my finger, I can take his position away and exile him from the familia.

Would it work out in our favor or bring us to our doom?

Shrugging off my thoughts, I slice the cutter down the package as Pacho clenches onto the chair rest. It barely weighed like anything but a box. At first, I didn't think of anything when Pacho handed me the package, but his words put ideas in my head. Could I be sentencing myself to death? My heart leaps to my throat as I prop both sides open.

Instantly, I grip the garbage can by my desk and empty my stomach, feeling the vomit perfuse out my nose. The images linger in my brain like a virus, making the nausea nonstop. I don't know how I could throw up so much when I hadn't eaten in the past two days. Fear pierces my skin like a needle.

Blood.

A dark red pool of blood.

Fresh.

In the middle of the blood, a once white feather drowned in blood. Like a cross symbol, his ring finger lays horizontally on the feather. Spencer's finger, his blood, this is all him. It's all fucking connected.

The scraping of the chair irritates my ear as I wipe the excess particles on my face. Pacho's face scrunches with horror as he takes the feather out, letting the blood drip onto my desk. Confusion dances in his irises as he picks up a small card with a drawing of sunken skull blood spewing from the eyelids.

"Do you know what this is, Jefe?" Pacho asks, his eyebrows pulling tight.

My heart thumps to the beat of elephant's stomps, tearing my chest apart from its intensity. It's starting. The lump in my stomach. The lack of air coming through my body. Heaving in replace of breathing, struggling to grasp onto the ropes of reality. I close my eyes, raking my finger through my hair as I imagine my favorite memory.

Mika and me.

On the beach when we indirectly connected our hearts with a stick. Step by step, my throat unclogs, allowing air into my lungs to my brains to my entire body. My heart lightens up, returning to its normal brisk pace as I open my eyes to face Pacho.

He's kneeling, rubbing my back with a water bottle in his hand. "Asiel? Are you okay?"

"Ye-ah." I nod, drowning the water bottle in one go. "Are you sure there wasn't a return address? Or any clues about where it came from?"

Pacho shakes his head. "Nothing. I can try to trace it. Maybe give the cameras another look for anything suspicious, but it will take a few days. I'll have to narrow down the mail post and all that shit. What is it, Asiel? Is someone after you?"

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Maybe. I think they're trying to send me a message."

With wide eyes, he asks, "A message for what?"

"To stop investigating Ander's murder," I admit, rubbing my palms together. "Recently, my friend and I have been reanalyzing my brother's case, and Spencer said he found something big. Something dangerous enough to get him killed. I-I think this is their warning. For me to stop."

"Asiel." Pacho grips my shoulders, digging his palm into my blades. "You need to stop investigating. We cannot afford to lose you right now. Please. Think about the familia. Or Mika. I know she makes you way happier than this shitty place."

My mouth parts slightly. "I-I can't. Ander is my familia. How can I give up when justice is so close to being served?"

Pacho drops his head. "It's not worth it if you won't be here to see it and trust me, you will not survive this. Please, I'm not asking for you to give up on Ander, but just to put it on the back burner.

I scoff. "On the back burner? Pacho, I need to find out the truth about my brother's death. For months, I felt like I'd been going insane for questioning everything when I could've been right all along. His soul will not rest until it's solved."

His face flashes a look of disbelief. "You're throwing your life away for someone who's fucking dead. Even if you find out the truth, it won't bring Ander back. He's gone forever. You are not. You have the ability to do anything, to live your dream, to have a family. Don't throw it away."

A piercing pang attacks my chest. "Ander deserves justice," I whisper.

"Jefe, I'll look into it for you," Pacho states, sporting a sympathy gleam in his eyes.

"No!" I protest, straightening my shoulders. "I'm not going to carry anyone else's blood on my hands."

A small smile frames his face as he ruffles up my hair. "I already risk my life for you every day on our missions. Why would this be any different?"

My gaze drops to the floor. "Because this isn't in your job description."

"Well, add it," Pacho says. "I'll trace your friend's footsteps. If anyone can find out the truth without getting caught, it would be me. I'll help you solve Ander's case if you promise to stop looking yourself. Let me take care of it."

My eyes float to him as I debate over up taking his proposition. Would I be a coward if I let my capo do the dirty work? Risk his life for a piece of my mind? Can I live with the possibility of having another human being's blood on my hands? Is Pacho even being sincere? Or am I making a mistake by trusting him? Mateo never believed my theories. And Pacho volunteers without hearing any of them.

"W-Why do you wanna help?"

Pacho sighs, his eyes softening with somber. "Because I'm with you. I never believed your brother took his own life. There's no doubt that someone took him out, but it's some fucked up shit. Clearly, the person will do anything to keep the truth covered up. But they have never been up against someone like me. So, let me help."

This might be a mistake.

But in order to obtain results, I need allies, friends, help.

"O-okay."

My mouth puffs up as I cover it with my palm to keep another wave of nausea from profusing out. It fails, and I vomit into the garbage can, clinging onto the circular can. This entire evening is million times fucked up, and it's always because of me. Poor fucking Spencer. I should've done more to keep him from investigating.

Fuck.

I need a drink.

Or I might lose my mind.

Damn, I still feel bad for Spencer and his wife... I'm an evil writer aren't I? What do you guys think about the mystery box?

Do you guys think Asiel should stop searching for answers? Or fuck it and keep looking to find Ander's killer? What about Pacho?

Do you guys think he's being sincere to Asiel or he has ulterior motives? Do you guys even trust anyone? 👀👀I feel like I made it so difficult for you guys to put trust in anyone...

Except Asiel because he's a freaking angel! We have to protect him at all cost! Should we start a club? 😂😂lol

Thank you guys for reading this chapter and I can't wait to read all your comments! Enjoy the rest of your day/night 💜❤️💜❤️

Love ya!