His Territory

12

As soon as Cristian hung up the phone, the atmosphere shifted. His face hardened with urgency, and he bolted out of my bedroom and into the bathroom. I could hear the faucet running as he splashed water on his face, the sound of the towel rubbing against his neck as he dried off before reemerging.

"Do you have a bag? Something to pack an extra set of clothes?" he asked, his voice steady but tense as he buckled his belt.

"Why? What's going on?" I stammered, grabbing a sweatshirt and leggings, scrambling to get dressed.

"Lu, they know where you are now. If we need to leave for the day—or longer—you need to be ready." He didn't look at me as he spoke, his attention focused on scanning the room, his eyes sharp and restless.

I nodded silently, grabbing a drawstring bag from my dresser and stuffing it with spare clothes. I threw in a phone charger and a pair of flip-flops, my hands moving automatically, even as the reality of what was happening slowly settled in. The air in the room felt thick, and my heart hammered against my ribs.

When I walked out of the bedroom, Cristian was already at the front door, peering through the blinds. He didn't acknowledge me, his focus entirely on the street outside.

"Los is coming to get us," he said, still watching the street. "He's in his aunt's car—something they won't recognize. It's safer."

As if on cue, an old, beat-up Toyota Camry rolled up to the curb with its headlights off. Cristian grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the door, but I jerked my arm away, quickly turning to lock it.

He raised an eyebrow at me. "What?"

"I'm not giving them an easy entrance if they show up," I muttered, jamming the key into my pocket before following him down the pathway.

Los rolled down the window, motioning for us to hurry. Cristian opened the front door for me, pushing me into the passenger seat as Los guided my head down, his hand firm against my neck.

"Bajar, cabrona," Los muttered, keeping my head low.

Before I could react, Cristian's voice came from the backseat, a dangerous growl. "Si alguna vez la vuelves a tocar así..." His voice was ice.

Los immediately let go, his head nodding rapidly. "Perdóname, mujera," he mumbled, the fear in his voice palpable.

The drive to the Reyes house was tense and silent. As we pulled up, Cristian whispered for me to move quickly. I barely had time to shut the car door before Los sped off into the night, disappearing as quickly as he had come. Cristian's arm wrapped around my shoulders, and we rushed inside.

The front door, now just a piece of plywood, creaked as Cristian pushed it aside, letting me enter first. Inside, four men—including Gian—were scattered across the living room, the table in front of them cluttered with papers. Gian was circling things with a marker while the others lounged back, passing a blunt between them.

As Cristian walked in, the room went still. All eyes turned to him, the energy shifting.

"Muéstrame todo," he said, his voice low, commanding.

Gian straightened up, pulling a few photos from the stack and handing them to Cristian.

"This is what we found," Gian explained, pointing to one of the documents. "It's in the NYPD database. It belongs to two possible gangs. We cross-referenced it with the LAPD records—nothing here matches. So, we know they're not from LA."

Cristian studied the photos, his jaw tightening. He handed the papers to me, his eyes dark and unreadable. I glanced down at the documents, my heart skipping a beat as I read the names: 84th Street and Los Locos Siempre. Both New York gangs. A chill ran down my spine.

The men continued talking, but their voices faded into the background as a memory began to surface, sharp and vivid.

♛♛♛

I came home from class, the smell of something foul hitting me the moment I stepped inside. The odor was thick, clinging to the air like smoke. I followed it downstairs into the basement, dreading what I might find.

Adrián was sitting on the edge of my bed, blood soaking through his shirt, dripping down his shoulder. The red stains covered the intricate tattoos that marked his skin—his Virgencita portrait and a cross with a star in the center, now smeared with blood.

He looked up at me, his eyes wide with pain, and struggled to stand.

"Mia, help me," he said, his voice strained, barely above a whisper.

I couldn't speak. My mouth hung open, but no words came. I just stared at him, paralyzed.

"Please," he repeated, walking past me and into the hallway bathroom, leaving a trail of blood. I followed, my body moving on autopilot.

When I stepped into the bathroom, the smell intensified. The bathtub was coated in a black stain, the remnants of burned clothes.

"I had to burn the shirt and pants. Too risky to keep them." He shrugged, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, my voice shaky as he sat on the toilet and handed me the kit.

"Get the slug out, stitch it up. It's not too deep," he said, biting down on a washcloth.

I wanted to argue, to tell him he needed a hospital, but I knew it was pointless. So, I did what he asked. I wiped the dried blood from his skin, the smell of iron thick in the air. As I worked, Adrián removed the washcloth, licking his lips.

"You've kept me together since the day you came into my life, and now you're literally keeping me in one piece," he said, chuckling through the pain. "Chula, you're all I have. You're the end for me."

♛♛♛

I snapped back to the present, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Cristian was standing in front of me, concern etched across his face.

"Lu, does it match?" he asked, his voice gentle but urgent.

I nodded slowly, a hiccup escaping my throat. "He has this tattooed on him," I whispered, pointing to the cross and star. "On his right shoulder."

Cristian's arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me close as I tried to keep my composure. But it was no use—the tears were already forming.

"It's okay," he murmured. "It's okay, love."

The men around us went back to sifting through the papers, talking quietly among themselves. Gian handed a photo to Cristian, his expression grim.

"Do you know who this is?" Gian asked.

Cristian's face tightened as he looked at the photo. He passed it to me, and my heart stopped.

It was Adrián.

The image was grainy, clearly from security footage, dated August 16th—just days ago. He stood at a bus station, his white tank top exposing the tattoo on his shoulder. Two men stood behind him, dressed in the same way. The sign in the background read "Los Angeles Bus Station."

My hand flew to my mouth as I felt another hiccup rise, this one followed by a wave of tears.

"That's him," I choked out, the words barely audible through the sobs. "He's here. They're fucking here."

♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛

tia- aunt

Bajar, cabrona.- Get down, dumbass.

Si alguna vez la vuelves a tocar así...- If you ever touch her like that again...

Perdonamé, mujera.- Forgive me, woman.

Muestrame todo.- Show me everything.

Claro, claro que si.- Sure, of course.

Los Locos Siempre- The 'Always Crazy'

Mia- mine

Chula- baby girl