Reinaldo

Ignoring the filth and debris on the street around our feet, I disconnected the call and turned to my brother, Aléjandro, second-in-command to our padre. “Fuck.” I stuffed my phone in the pocket of my jeans to stop myself from throwing it.

“Qué pasό?”

“He promised her to a Russian.” My fist connected with the metal dumpster, sending shooting pain up my arm. “Fuck,” I screamed. The pain wasn’t enough. Turning toward the brick wall, I balled ...