People tend to be intimidated by my tattoos and piercings, and the guy immediately holds up his hands.
“I apologize,” he says, his accent heavy. “I need to show you something.”
“Do it slowly,” I say, raising my brow.
His eyes lock on mine as he nods and carefully reaches back, pulling a folded piece of regular office paper from his back pocket.
Hell, why does he smell so damn good?
For fuck’s sake, Lev—focus.
Darting a look at Ant, the stranger hands me the piece of paper. I clear my throat and unfold it, quickly scanning.
“It’s a printout of yesterday’s article about the clean-up,” I say, showing it to Bram.
In the article is a picture of Nacho and Ant carrying large bags of trash, smiling at the camera. Well, Nacho is smiling. Ant looks like he’s been told to smile. Both are identified by their full names: Ignacio Rivera and Antonio Allende. Ant is circled in the picture, and his name is underlined.
The man keeps staring at Ant, seemingly unable to look away.
“Who are you?” Ant repeats.
“My name is Javier Hernández. I think I may be your uncle,” he says, a tear tracking down his cheek.
“What?” Ant spits out, incredulous. “How?”
“Because you look just like your mother,” he replies, his voice cracking. He looks at me and points to his other back pocket. “I have a picture. In my wallet.”
“Okay,” I say, touching his arm. “Just go slow.”
The man blinks at me. “Si, si. Uh, yes. Of course.”
Slowly he retrieves his wallet and flips it open. Pulling out an old photograph, he holds it out to Ant. Before Ant can touch it—who the fuck knows what kind of picture we’re talking about here—I intercept it, showing it to Bram first.
It’s the photograph of a young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, holding a kid in her lap, maybe seven or eight years old. Despite the years that’ve passed, there’s no doubt in my mind who that little boy is. Carefully, I hand the picture to Ant.
He takes it and scans it, tears forming almost instantly.
“How do you have this picture?” he asks, holding it up like an accusation. “They…the traffickers. They took it from me.”
The handsome man leans forward as though he’s been punched in the stomach. I know that look. It’s the look a parent gets when I have to explain to them that something terrible has happened in their child’s past.
It’s one of my least favorite parts of my job.
At the same moment, Charlie, Justin, and Erik drive in through the gate, then course correct straight for us.
Erik is the first out of the truck and strides up to Ant. “Who is this?” he asks, glaring at our visitor.
Ant looks up at him, holding the picture in his hand. “He says he’s my uncle. This is my mom.”
Erik takes the picture and looks between it and Ant. “This is you?”
Ant nods, more tears falling.
Erik steps in front of him, facing the man, his voice like a thunderclap. “Are you thefuckwho sold him?”
The man straightens from his bent-over stance, swaying as he shakes his head. “No! God no.”
“Are you related to the fuck who sold him?”
