Victor was holding court. Finally, he was in charge. And he liked it.
Being the newly elected leader of Los Reyes was a position he’d stepped into with ease. Even before Manuel was shot down three weeks ago and bled to death in front a frozen-yogurt shop on Montgomery Street, Victor was the one who always came up with the best ideas. His plans worked, his strategies were clever. It seemed obvious he’d be the next in command now Manuel was gone. Who else would know exactly how to get revenge on Los Soldados for pulling the trigger?
And those motherfuckers need to pay for what they did to Manuel—shooting him in the back like that. Those cowards got it coming. Manuel was a good guy.
Victor knew he was a natural leader. Even before he first got jumped into Los Reyes when he was thirteen, he was never scared of speaking his mind, challenging the old ways of doing things and inventing new and better ones. People listened to him, they took his word and accepted it without question. He knew how to speak with authority—he knew how to make his words sound important. He imagined himself as a coach, and his job was to lead his team to one victory after another. Winning was all that mattered.
Some people thought Los Reyes were a joke. They weren’t powerful enough. They were small-time. They hadn’t done anything major in five years. They didn’t rule with as much fear as they used to.
All that shit’s gonna change. We gotta make a name for ourselves.
“You’ve got sharp instincts,” his father once said. “I hope you use them for something good.”
Yeah, what the fuck ever.
Victor always shunned his father’s advice. The old man didn’t know what he was talking about. He’d never been a member of Los Reyes or any other gang. He hated bangers. He called them cowards. He didn’t know the ways of the streets. He was timid and shy and lived in a fantasy world of magic tricks and white rabbits.
Growing up in Victor’s neighborhood, you either joined Los Reyes or paid the price for turning your back on them. Too many others who refused to bang had been taken out. Victor knew their names and the names of their mothers. He went to their funerals, not out of respect, because he knew they’d be looking down and they’d see him and they’d know. They were usually the smart ones, the ones who thought they were too good for Los Reyes and talked about college and shit like that. They couldn’t wait to get out and forget about their neighborhood. Without the protection of Los Reyes, they never lasted very long. No one did.
After Manuel died, Victor knew Los Reyes needed new fire. Not only did they deserve a new commander, but they needed a change of scenery. Manny had discovered the abandoned warehouse, insisting they meet there three times a week for the last year. It was an okay place, except for the rats. And it was always cold, even during the summer.
The second Victor had stumbled upon the dilapidated house a few blocks from the warehouse, he knew it would serve as the perfect new home for Los Reyes, even if the place looked like something straight out of a horror film.
“I know the place you’re talking about,” Paco said when Victor told him about it just minutes after Manuel’s casket had been lowered into the ground. They were standing in the cemetery, dressed in their funeral suits and ties. It still smelled like rain. “That house looks fucking haunted, man.”
Victor suspected it was.
The walls inside the abandoned Victorian house were covered with sorry-ass graffiti, mostly written in sloppy metallic spray paint, none of it their doing. Splashes of late-afternoon sun crawled through the jagged gaps in the broken windows, illuminating every mistake made.
Victor shook his head, dismayed.
Fucking idiots can’t even spell. What an embarrassment. We should just kill ’em and do everyone a favor. No one needs an illiterate motherfucker around.
Victor was distracted momentarily from the meeting in progress, even though he’d called it and it was an important one. They had some serious shit to talk about, but those poorly written words were pissing him off. It’s like they were teasing him, mocking him.
The wooden floors of the old house were covered with trash. Among the litter were five of Victor’s closest friends. Each was no older than seventeen and no younger than twelve.
Hugo, the youngest of the group, sat near Victor’s feet, staring up at him with an expression of awe and respect. Victor glanced down into his brown eyes when he told the roomful of guys, “We’re not taking this shit anymore. Punk-ass bitches need to be taught a lesson. Fuck those Soldados. They killed our brother.”
Javier was standing in the back of the room. He was tall and lanky. He had green eyes and a chipped front tooth, the result of a drunken attempt to bite the cap off a beer bottle, even though the stupid thing was a twist off. “Speaking of shit,” he said, directing his words toward Victor, “that’s what this place smells like.”
As he often did, Hugo jumped to Victor’s defense. He turned in Javier’s direction and said, “Toro will find us a new place.”
Victor locked eyes with Javier. “This place will do for now,” he said. “It’s all we got, Javi.”
“That’s cool,” Javier said, backing down. “But you won’t catch my ass here at night. Not with fucking ghosts running around and shit.”
Even though he was a year older than Hugo, Jorge was the smallest of the group. Sitting next to Hugo on the shiny wooden floor, Jorge raised the white sleeve of his T-shirt to inspect his new tattoo. He’d only joined Los Reyes a few weeks ago, in honor of his older brother, Manuel.
Even from the back of the room, Javier caught Jorge’s moment of weakness with his hawk-like gaze. “Don’t start crying over your new tat again, Jorge.” His words were a command.
He’s not crying because of that, asshole. He’s still upset because Soldados killed his brother.
Jorge winced a little. “It hurts.”
I know it does. But you can’t let it show.
Paco, intense and always thirsty for power, stood off to the side with his arms folded across his chest. He was intimidating and fearless. He was built like a Mexican superhero. Half of his body was covered in tattoos, the other in scars and muscle. “None of you pussies know shit about pain,” he said. His words were always singed with red-hot anger. Victor wondered if Paco woke up in a bad mood, day after day. Not once in the twelve years they’d known each other could he remember Paco ever cracking a smile. He’d never heard the sound of Paco’s laugh. Not even in kindergarten, where they’d met. Just rage-fueled words that slid like spit out of the corners of his tight-lipped mouth.
Even though Gilbert was overweight and always seemed out of place, he struggled to his feet to take a surprising stand against Paco. “We’ve kept Los Soldados out of our neighborhood, haven’t we?”
Paco sneered. “No thanks to Toro,” he said. “We need more. There ain’t enough of us now. Some of the gangs in Oakland got hundreds of homeboys in them.”
Victor felt a vein throb in his neck. “You calling me out, Paco?”
“Just remember, Alvarez, I didn’t pick you,” Paco said. “The others did. If it was up to me—”
Victor took a step in Paco’s direction. “Nothing’s gonna happen to us if I’m in charge.”
Paco held his stare. “We’ll see about that.”
“You said you had a plan,” Jorge spoke up, reminding Victor. “To get revenge for my brother’s honor.”
“I do.”
“Start talking,” Paco insisted.
“For shooting Manuel in the back, I say we take out two Soldados.”
“When?” Paco urged.
There was a noise at the front door then. Footsteps. Loud. On the wooden front porch. They were coming closer. Immediately, Victor and the five young men sprang into action, moving by pure instinct. Hands reached up the brick fireplace, retrieving hidden guns, all automatic. The weapons were distributed quickly. Each member of Los Reyes took a strategic position around the door, prepared and ready to kill.
We’ve done it before.
The front door creaked open. A petite figure stood in the doorway, surrounded by sunlight.
Before realizing who it was, Paco pulled the small figure inside and placed a gun to the temple of the unexpected guest.
Paco’s sister, Isabella, caught her breath once her brother released her from his grip and lowered his weapon. She looked like she wanted to punch him in the face for scaring her.
At once, Victor was angry. Isabella knew better. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked. “I told you to never come here, Isabella.”
She looked Victor in the eye and said with a flicker of panic in her voice, “It’s Alma. A bunch of Soldados have her cornered in the park.”