Broken ties

03: car meet

A few days had passed, but the air in East LA still felt heavy, weighed down by the death of Mira. The funeral had been a somber affair—Mira's absence carved a void in the family. Sofia, still young and grappling with the reality of her sister's death, stayed home, too shattered to face the world outside. Her grief was raw, unfiltered, and her quiet sobs echoed through the small apartment. Lucia hovered protectively over her youngest, her face a mask of quiet devastation. She cooked, cleaned, and prayed—anything to distract herself from the gaping wound in her family.

Zayn, on the other hand, wore a mask of his own. He made sure his mother saw a dutiful son—one who grieved but moved forward, promising her with empty words that he wouldn't chase revenge. She didn't believe him entirely, but she was too broken to press the issue. What could she do? He was the only man left in their family.

But as soon as the apartment lights dimmed, and Lucia and Sofia retreated to their bedrooms, Zayn shed the façade. His nights were no longer about rest—they were filled with plotting. He slipped out silently into the streets, where the hum of danger and adrenaline always seemed to beckon. Tonight, like so many nights before, his mind was consumed by one singular thought: retribution.

The respect Zayn had gained after Giovanni Marino's death was undeniable. Giovanni was once a name that sent shivers down the spine of anyone in East LA, a predator in a city of prey. But Zayn had slid his throat causing his death. No one thought he could do it. Now, his name carried weight, the kind that came with whispers and nods of approval when he walked into a room.

But the victory was hollow—Giovanni wasn't the endgame. Gustavo Ramirez was.

Gustavo Ramirez.

The name alone carried a sense of dread. A ghost in the gang world, the man at the top of the pyramid who ruled with calculated terror. Few had seen him; fewer still lived to tell the tale. He was untouchable, but Zayn didn't care. He had to be reached, and Zayn would find a way.

Tonight, the pieces of the puzzle began to align. The meeting with his small circle of trusted friends had a sharper edge to it than usual. In a dimly lit room, the glow of cell phones illuminated their faces. Collin sat back, calm as ever, scrolling through his phone as if what he was about to say wasn't earth-shattering.

"She's often at that café," Collin began, sliding his phone across the table. On the screen was a picture of a woman Zayn recognized instantly. His chest tightened as he studied the photo.

Cherilyn.

It felt like a cruel joke from the universe. The girl he'd met on the day his world crumbled was none other than Gustavo's daughter. Gustavo's blood.

Zayn clenched his jaw, his hand curling into a fist against the table. Gustavo had taken Mira. Now, Zayn would take Cherilyn. Fathers and daughters—he understood how unbreakable that bond could be. Gustavo's greatest strength was also his greatest vulnerability.

"I need exact times and places," Zayn said, his voice low but firm, the exhaustion evident in the dark circles under his eyes. He rubbed his face roughly, his body begging for sleep, but his mind too restless to grant it.

"I've already found her circle on Instagram," Caleb said, his voice steady as he scrolled through the young woman's posts. "Her and her friends? They post everything. Looks like there's a car meet tonight—her best friend and a bunch of other people already shared the time and address."

Caleb handed his phone over, and Zayn scanned the details. His lips curved into a smirk that didn't reach his tired eyes. "Great," he muttered. "Let's hope she'll be there."

The room fell silent as Zayn's words lingered. There was a cold determination in his voice, a simmering rage beneath the surface. His friends knew better than to question him. They were all in too deep to turn back now.