His Territory

6

I step out of the house, dressed in a black V-neck tee and ripped jeans, silently hoping it's dark enough to pass whatever unspoken dress code Gian and Los seem to enforce.

Los whistles from the car, a wide grin plastered on his face. Gian, on the other hand, just watches me with his usual unreadable expression. "Does this meet your standards?" I say loudly, spinning around to give them a full view.

"Ay mami, ¡ese culito me está llamando!" Los hollers from the driver's seat, clearly in a better mood than when we first met.

I roll my eyes and walk toward the car. Gian steps out, opening the passenger door for me to climb into the back. I settle into the worn leather seat, the familiar scent of cigarettes and stale cologne filling the car. I take a deep breath, mentally bracing myself for what's to come. I'm about to meet a gang leader. The thought claws at my nerves. Will he kill me? LA isn't New York—there are probably a million places to hide a body out here.

"Is there anything I should know before we get there?" I ask quietly, hoping they'll offer to do the talking for me.

Los glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes meeting mine for just a second before he looks back at the road. "Watch that mouth of yours," he says bluntly. "He doesn't like attitude."

"What attitude?" I quip, but Gian shoots me a look over his shoulder—a silent warning to keep quiet.

The car slows as Los turns onto a street lined with crumbling houses, each one tagged with graffiti. Most look abandoned, their windows shattered or boarded up, their walls marked with spray-painted symbols. The atmosphere feels heavy, as if the street itself is holding its breath.

We roll to a stop in front of an off-white, sun-faded house, patches of peeling stucco clinging to the walls. In front of the house sit a couple of weather-beaten picnic tables, covered in empty beer bottles, paper plates, and overflowing ashtrays. The grass beneath them is long dead, trampled flat by endless nights of use. The windows have no curtains, and the empty doorframe gives the house an even more derelict appearance.

"Here?" I whisper, pointing at the house, my stomach tightening at the sight of it.

Gian coughs and nods. He opens his door and steps out, waiting for me to follow. Los exits the car too, his eyes scanning the street warily before falling into step behind us.

As we approach the house, I can't help but notice the doorframe's emptiness. "Broke it," Gian mutters, clearly not wanting to dwell on the topic.

Inside, the house looks as rundown as the exterior. The living room is small, dominated by a torn, sagging couch where two men sit smoking cigarettes and playing dominoes. The coffee table is spray-painted with crosses and skulls, and the men barely look up as we enter. One of them, though, the guy from the car who ogled me when I moved in, shoots me a sly grin when he recognizes me.

"Gracias, muchachos," he says, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. "You've brought la amorcita de mi vida back to me! I'm forever grateful." He chuckles, and his partner joins in, their laughter filling the dingy room.

Gian and Los remain serious, which is a small comfort. But their laughter reminds me just how alone I am here, surrounded by dangerous men who wouldn't hesitate to turn on me if given the chance. I can't defend myself if anything happens. The realization sends a cold shiver through me.

"Where's Cristian?" Los asks, his tone low, cutting through the laughter like a knife.

The men exchange a glance, the atmosphere shifting as if a dark cloud just rolled over the room. One of them adjusts his posture, sitting up straight and puffing out his chest slightly. "He's in his room," he says, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. "But be careful, taking mi cosita in there. He might be sinning." He howls with laughter again.

Without a word, Los walks over, plops down on the couch, and picks up a half-empty beer bottle. He takes a long swig, ignoring the men's laughter. Gian grabs my hand and pulls me into the kitchen, away from their mocking stares. He braces himself against the splintered countertop, turning to face me.

"Look, I'm gonna be honest with you," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "I can't speak to him for you." His eyes meet mine, and I can see the seriousness behind them. "I can give him the basics, but you'll have to tell him the details. He won't listen to me. He needs to hear it from you."

A small frown forms on my face, though I had mentally prepared for this. "Okay," I say, nodding. "I'll do it."

Gian gestures toward the hallway. "Come on. I'll take you to him, but I'll wait outside the door. When he's ready for you, I'll let you know."

We walk down a narrow hallway, passing doors covered in stickers, graffiti, and random holes. At the end of the hall stands one door, different from the others. A crown is painted on it, a cross slashed through the middle. The sight of it makes my skin crawl, goosebumps racing up my arms.

"Just wait here," Gian says, knocking on the door lightly. A muffled voice responds from inside, and Gian slips through the door, leaving me alone in the hallway.

My stomach churns as I lean against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. The paint is peeling, dotted with black speckles. "God, I hope that's not mold," I mutter, trying to distract myself from the anxiety gnawing at my insides.

The doorknob turns, and Gian steps out, nodding for me to follow. "He's ready for you," he says, his voice calm but tense. He walks quickly down the hall, leaving me standing alone in front of the door.

I take a deep breath and knock softly.

"Go ahead," a deep voice rumbles from inside.

I turn the handle and slowly push the door open. The room is painted entirely black, the only light coming from a small window. There's barely any furniture—just a bed in the corner, its sheets crumpled into a pile. The room is empty otherwise, but I can feel a presence.

I step inside, closing the door behind me, and then I see him. Standing with his back to me, one hand on the door, dressed in a black unbuttoned top and khakis. Tattoos cover his arms and neck, and his head is shaved. He doesn't turn around right away. Instead, he glances sideways, a smirk playing on his lips.

"¿Cómo está, mi diosa?" His voice is low and rich, and it makes my skin tingle.

I recognize him instantly. The man from the sidewalk. The man who bit my ear, who sent me spiraling into confusion and something darker.

"Not you," I whisper, the words slipping from my lips before I can stop them.

He turns slowly, his chocolate eyes locking onto mine, and the air in the room feels heavier. I feel myself start to melt under the intensity of his gaze, my heart racing.

"Yes, me," he says, stepping closer until we're chest to chest, just like before. His scent wraps around me, intoxicating, making it hard to think clearly. His smirk deepens as he watches my eyes flutter.

"So," he says, his voice smooth and confident. "I hear you need me. This must be my lucky day."

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Ay mami, ese culita me esta llamando!- Mami, that ass is calling me!

la amorcita de mi vida- The love of my life

mi cosita- my little lady

¿Cómo está, mi diosa?- How is my goddess doing?