Trevel barely knowsanyone, other than 62, of course.
So how in the holy hell did this come about?
WhoisAngel Alvarez? Where did he come from?
And why does he looksodamn familiar?
Right off the bat, from the name, I’m going to go ahead and assume this is the twin brother of Avianna Alvarez… The girl wethought was being held in the prison by The Ivory, but who, it turns out, died in Vegas a few years ago. Which would mean that this person and Manuel Blanco go way back…
But that doesn’t explain why he’s herenow.
Stepping up to him slowly, my eyes trail his features top to bottom, studious gaze narrowed in suspicion. He backs up like an instinct—it’s okay, I like it—cheeks flushing a deeper pink than they have been since the moment he set foot inside this concrete box with us.
It’s only been like a minute, but the quiet feels as though it’s been dragging out tension for hours since he spoke his name.
Angel Alvarez swallows visibly, his eyes darting to Trevel briefly, before making a quick pass around the circle of my men, and Joy—myfamily. All standing by, stiff and unmoving, like they’re hanging on by a thread. When he lands on Dash, I can’t help noticing that the blush in his cheeks darkens and he looks away fast. I don’t see any visible recognition on 101’s face, but he is kind of squinting at the kid like he’s trying to place him.
And now Angel is going to great lengths to avoid eye contact with Reznikov. In service of that, he peeks at Darcey. Lips quirking shyly, he offers The Carver a timid wave, which Darcey returns.
Okay, what is going on right now??
Grabbing the kid, I pat him down quickly for any weapons. And would you look at that…
I pull a familiar butterfly knife out of his pocket.
Holding it up, I cock a brow. The mound of his throat dips.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, a low rumble of interrogation for the stranger while pocketing the ivory-handled knife.
Something tells me he’s been in our midst for a lot longer than any of us were aware…
The kid’s lips part. Then they snap shut. He purses them at the ground before releasing a hushed answer. “A while.”
My lashes flutter, head cocking.So very familiar…“How long isa while?”
His eyes spring to mine. They look like emeralds in this light, and in that one look, a memory finally snaps into place.
A gasp fleas my lips.
Oh… shit.
It’s late. And I’mtired.
As usual, really, but the past few weeks have truly been a test to my abilities; my carefully crafted skill in stuffing things down and never thinking about them. My capacity to party hard, and fuck harder… To do this job, handle italllike a fucking boss while running on fumes, like my entire composition is made up of whiskey and Adderall.
I’ve been doing it for so long—a decade plus almost three—that sometimes I forget I’m human. I forget that my bodyisn’ta machine designed to pound holes and beers and faces. It’s actually a vessel of mortality that used to belong to someone with a lot more morals.
But this version of me was designed, byhim, to conquer all that human shit, and be a fucking animal.
It’s fine. It’s good… It’s what I’m goodat. It’sallI’m good for…
And yet, things have felt different lately. There’s a shift in the air, like when winter turns to spring, and the sun resurrects the color and the warmth and thelifeof a once cold and barren place.
I can’tpossiblyfathom why that is…
Okay, I know why. Of course I do. But I’m not gonna say it out loud, nor am I going to think about it and obsess over it theway I have been, because that’s stupid and unnecessary, and feelings are for assholes.
I’m fine. I’m a henchman, and I own that shit.
