CHAPTER 2 – PART 1
Hearing those words come out of my seven-year-old son's mouth made my stomach twist into knots.
My palms instantly became slick with sweat, and a wave of heat climbed from my chest to my neck.
I looked at Mateo, curled up in the dark corner of the closet, trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming down his little face.
This wasn't the ordinary fear of a child who had broken a plate or watched a scary movie.
This was something much deeper.
Real terror.
The kind that steals the air from your lungs.
"What man, Mateo?" I whispered gently. "Who are you talking about, buddy?"
But Mateo only shook his head.
His lips pressed tightly together.
He covered his ears with both hands and squeezed his eyes shut.
He was too frightened to speak.
I slipped off my work jacket and draped it over his shoulders, hoping the warmth would comfort him.
"Stay right here, champ. Don't make a sound. Dad's going to fix this. I promise."
I slid the closet door almost shut again, leaving it open just enough for fresh air to get inside.
The moment I stood up, rage began boiling through my veins.
My son's words echoed over and over inside my head.
"The man who comes with her... I'm scared of him."
I stepped back into the hallway.
My breathing had become quick and shallow.
My father was still sitting against the side of the bed, rubbing his lower back while trying to hide the pain twisting across his face.
My mother knelt beside him, silently crying as she held his arm.
And there stood Valeria.
She was leaning against the doorway of our bedroom with the same smug expression.
She no longer held the golf club, but every inch of her body radiated hostility.
Her arms were folded.
A crooked smile spread across her face.
It made me want to scream.
"So..." she mocked. "What did the brat tell you? That I'm a terrible mother?"
She lifted one eyebrow.
"I don't care what he thinks. Move out of my way. I'm getting him out of that closet, and we're leaving."
I walked straight toward her.
Fast.
I stopped less than two feet from her face.
I could smell her breath.
Mint...
But underneath it lingered something much stronger.
Cheap tequila.
Cigarette smoke.
Valeria never smoked.
"Who did you come here with?" I asked quietly, forcing my voice into a low, dangerous tone.
"Who else is in my apartment?"
She threw her head back and laughed.
It was cold.
Empty.
Not even remotely funny.
"Your apartment?" she sneered.
"Please."
"We both paid for this place, even though you never stop reminding everyone how hard you work in that pathetic little shoe shop."
She deliberately ignored my question.
"And it's none of your business who came with me."
"I came to get what's mine."
"Mateo isn't property," I snapped.
"And you're not taking him anywhere."
"Especially after what you just did to my parents."
I pointed toward the two elderly people sitting on the floor.
"You're completely out of your mind."
Just then...
I heard another sound.
It came from the kitchen.
The refrigerator door opened.
Then slammed shut.
A second later...
Pssst.
The unmistakable hiss of a beer can being opened.
I froze.
Someone else was inside my home.
Someone who felt comfortable enough to walk into my kitchen...
Open my refrigerator...
And help himself to my beer...
While my wife assaulted my elderly parents.
The floor seemed to disappear beneath my feet.
I looked back at Valeria.
Her smile widened.
"I told you," she whispered.
"I didn't come alone."
"And trust me..."
"You don't want to make a scene."
I shoved past her with my shoulder and headed toward the living room.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
Outside, the daylight had almost completely disappeared, leaving the apartment wrapped in gray shadows.
When I reached the kitchen island...
I saw him.
A man leaned casually against the granite countertop.
He was tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Probably around forty years old.
He wore a tight black T-shirt that exposed thick tattoos running across his neck and down both arms.
His hair was buzzed nearly to the skin.
A long faded scar cut across his right eyebrow.
He took another slow drink from one of my beers.
Completely relaxed.
Like he belonged there.
"Good evening," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
His voice was rough and gravelly.
He carried a heavy northern Mexican accent.
"So..."
"You're the famous husband."
I stood perfectly still.
My fists clenched so tightly my fingernails dug into my palms.
Who the hell was this man?
And what was he doing inside my home?
He chuckled softly.
Setting the beer can on the counter, he slowly walked into the living room.
His heavy leather boots echoed across the hardwood floor.
He stopped only a few feet away and slipped both hands into the pockets of his jeans.
"I'm a friend of Valeria's," he said, slowly looking me up and down as if sizing me up.
"My name's Héctor."
"And I came to help her pick up her son."
The casual way this complete stranger spoke about Mateo made my blood boil.
"Nobody's picking up anyone," I said.
"You and Valeria are leaving my apartment right now."
"Before I call the police."
I pulled my phone from my pocket.
Before I could unlock it...
Valeria walked into the living room.
She went straight to Héctor's side.
Then placed her hand gently on his arm.
The familiarity of that touch hit me like a punch to the stomach.
"You are not calling anyone," Valeria said.
Hatred burned in her eyes unlike anything I'd ever seen before.
"If you call the police..."
"Héctor's going to get angry."
"And believe me..."
"You don't want Héctor angry."
"I don't give a damn if he gets angry!" I shouted.
"You broke into my home!"
"You beat my father with a golf club!"
"There's blood all over his shirt, Valeria!"
"You've lost your mind!"
Héctor sighed slowly.
He shook his head as if dealing with an unreasonable child.
"Listen, buddy..."
He took another step toward me.
His tone remained calm.
But his dark eyes contained absolutely no kindness.
"We're going to do this the easy way."
"Valeria and I are taking the boy."
"She told me everything."
"She said you've been keeping him away from her."
"She said those old people treat her like garbage."
"We're only here for the kid and a few of her things."
"So hand him over..."
"And we'll leave quietly."
"No trouble."
"You're lying!" I shouted, my voice cracking with desperation.
"I've never kept Mateo from seeing his mother!"
"She walked out three weeks ago!"
"She emptied our savings account and disappeared!"
"She left me alone to care for our son and my elderly parents!"
"And now you break into my home with this thug..."
"And expect me to hand over my child?"
"Over my dead body."
Héctor stopped smiling.
Very slowly...
He pulled his right hand from his pocket.
My entire body tensed.
I was expecting a weapon.
Instead...
His fingers were covered with thick metal rings.
"Don't talk to me like that," he said quietly.
His voice had turned cold.
Threatening.
"I'm not asking."
"I'm telling you."
"Bring me the boy."
"No."
I stepped directly into his path.
"Not a chance."
At that exact moment...
A sound came from behind me.
I spun around.
It was my father.
Arturo.
He was slowly making his way down the hallway, one hand pressed against the wall for support while the other clutched his aching ribs.
Every step looked painful.
My mother followed close behind him, crying.
"Arturo, please!" she begged.
"He's going to hurt you!"
"I'm not hiding while these animals threaten my son," my father said.
His voice trembled.
But not with fear.
With determination.
He finally reached my side.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with me despite being eighty-eight years old.
He pointed one crooked, arthritic finger toward the front door.
"Get out."
His voice remained steady.
"Both of you."
"You're filth."
May you like
"And you're not taking my grandson."
To be continued...
