New York City (A Year and a Half Earlier)
One day, Ángel started to bring girls to our warehouse.
Females at Fénix Blood were rare unless the occasional girlfriend happened to hang for an evening. But other than Jake’s girlfriend, Jess, even those occasions were rare. I never had more than a passing interest in the opposite sex, or I guess a more accurate fact was, they’d never had much interest in me, so when I saw the girls with Ángel, I ignored them.
On my days at the warehouse, I wanted to spend it learning to fight and smoking weed with my buddies. I didn’t want to ogle slim chicks who hung on Ángel’s every word.
But that was before Diana. The first time I saw her, I was enraptured by her waist-length blond hair, the freckles dotting her face and bare arms, and her quiet confidence.
She was breathtaking, like a rainbow after the storm. Though she could have dressed sexy and had the attention of everyone in the room, you noticed her because of who she was and not what she wore.
Diana didn’t fit with Ángel’s type, and that’s what concerned me. Because, at first, he only brought girls he liked, girls he obviously was having a fling with, once or twice, then we’d never see them again. Most were street girls in miniskirts and cleavage-revealing tops, with flirty winks and fake smiles that were supposed to be sultry, but to me only looked plastic.
Then Ángel brought around beautiful girls, ones that he obviously wasn’t dating but were hanging around him anyway.
Members of the Fénix Blood were older now, and some of us would often bring our sleeping bags or blankets to stay for days at a time. We’d get high or drunk, and sometimes both, playing Dungeons and Dragons until we were too wasted to think straight.
When the high died, I’d pull out my journal and write, because sometimes words were the only things I had.
But even in my stupor, I saw Ángel bringing these young women around odd hours of the night, saw strangers come and go with them, saw things I could never unsee—things that only made me question the existence of God.
And I know I wasn’t the only one who saw, who guessed what was beginning, and yet we didn’t ask questions. We trusted Ángel, and I guess that was our first mistake. Many of us didn’t have good dads, and maybe we hoped to have Ángel replace that hole in our lives.
Or maybe we were plain naïve. I grew suspicious when Ángel started having extra cash lying around, when some of my buddies hooked up with the girls Ángel brought with him.
They never talked about it, but I saw that look in their eyes that something lethal had entered what had once been a gang simply hoping to escape the prison called life. It was as bad as any drug, maybe worse.
Being a gang leader wasn’t enough, dealing drugs for extra cash wasn’t enough—Ángel had added prostitution to the mix.
Knowing this riddled me with guilt. I neither asked for a night with his girls, nor was I offered one, and I finally reached the conclusion: I could have the decay of my own body on my conscience but to watch my leader turn girls into slaves made me second guess my place within the Fénix Blood.
And what would happen next.
I only saw Diana a few times, and instantly I knew that she didn’t belong, and every sane fiber in my being wanted to warn her to get out while she could, to not listen to the lies Ángel fed her. I wanted to tell her that this job would be the death of her sanity, that it would tear her value apart, that she would become nothing more than an object.
One day, I was boxing with my punching bag, over and over and over. It was late fall but the temperatures were abnormally warm. We had no air conditioning or fresh air, and sweat stung my eyes.
A slender figure with Ángel stepped into the large room. I didn’t pause at beating my bag, but my heart flipped in my chest. Ángel was whispering in Diana’s ear, and her face remained void of emotion as she seemed to stare beyond the room.
I didn’t know why she put up with him, what made her stay. Or maybe, thinking back, I couldn’t help but wonder if she thought she had no choice.
A phone rang, and Ángel pulled his mobile out of his pocket. I heard him say, “Excuse me a moment,” and take the call. He stepped away, and I knew I had one chance.
Tossing my gloves on the ground, I shoved my hands in my pockets. Diana leaned against the concrete wall, the sun from the overhead skylights illuminating her pale face and the smattering of freckles on her nose. She wore cutoff jeans that showed off her legs and a black crop top that showed off a sliver of creamy midriff.
She intimidated me and gave me courage all at once, a twisted rush of fear for her safety and attraction for the beautiful girl I was about to talk to.
I casually walked toward her, but inside, my heartbeat kicked up a notch, and I knew I had only minutes before Ángel returned. Diana watched me, not speaking.
“You don’t belong here,” I whispered.
Her unfocused gaze turned sharp. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Split while you have the chance,” I said, ignoring her jab. “Ángel isn’t the kind of man you think he is.”
Diana smiled, but her expression lacked humor. “I can take care of myself.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.” I leaned closer, and my nose caught a whiff of vanilla. “Get. Out. While. You. Can.”
Then I paused, considering my next words. Ángel appeared to be finishing up his phone call nearby. “If you want to stay alive, you need to split now. Trust me.”
She raised a slender eyebrow. “Why don’t you take your own advice then?”
And that was the last time I saw the girl whose real name was Mia, not Diana, when she was whole and real and tangible, not gasping for life. That was the last time I would see her before she lay dying, before Ángel let his anger and obsession with death and control cause him to rape and beat innocent girls.