Chapter 1

Petty war rages in my head as I stand in front of the open fridge.

Should I eat the rest of the leftover arroz con leche and risk going into a sugar coma? What if I’m sluggish in dance classes tomorrow morning? Would one bad day ruin my reputation as a dedicated soloist? Or do I say fuck it and reward myself for once?

A hand suddenly smacks against my abs, curling me over with a grunt of pain.

“The fuck was that for?” I shout, glaring up at my older brother.

Laz is shirtless—what’s new—all that threatening muscle he earned in the fighting gym on display for the world to gawk at. His thick, dark curls fall perfectly over his brows, no trace of the frizz I battle on a daily basis with my own unruly hair.

“Protein, manito,” my brother replies. “It’s better for you than sweets.”

I’m about to complain that he doesn’t know shit about my macro needs, but then he grabs the pan I was eyeballing, pops the lid off, and scoops half of the rice pudding into his mouth like an animal.

Rage snaps through me, quicker than lightning. I go to shove him, but my hands meet a solid wall of unmovable mass. Laz chuckles.

“Asshole,” I mumble.

“Hey. You told me to keep you on track with dance shit.” He dives his fork in for another big bite. “This is me keeping you on track.”

Okay. So I would have wallowed in self-hatred after eating the entire pan. Only because I’ve worked so hard to get where I’m at in my career. I’ve bled and callused over, practicing almost every day since I can remember.

When you move around a lot, you have to find some sliver of normalcy to cling to. Some form of routine to keep you grounded.

That’s always been ballet for me.

Still, the sugar high from the homemade dessert would have been real fucking nice, even if it only gave me temporary reprieve from the stress of approaching auditions for our company’s new show.

“Yeah? And how about your next weigh-in?” I retort, shutting the fridge door hard enough to rattle the contents.

Laz reaches a hand out to ruffle my hair, but I smack it away. “No stress, manito. I’ve got this next fight in the bag.”

He saunters off like the baddest predator in the jungle. My leaner muscles coil up on instinct, ready to spring into an attack. Always ready to fight for what’s fucking mine. In this case, the last of the dessert Laz and I made together.

I know for a fact I could get my older brother in a rear naked chokehold and drop him to the ground.

But keeping him there…that’s another struggle.

As the sons of the Colombian Muay Thai king, Laz and I are both trained in mixed martial arts. However, I don’t have Laz’s brawn. Or his patience to think out next moves.

Jaw clenched, I file revenge away for another day and brew a cup of black coffee for Papi.

At twenty-one, I probably shouldn’t be living with my family, but considering Mamá was taken from us, I think we have a solid reason for wanting to stay together.

The night Laz told me the truth about Mamá replays in my head, even all these years later. What had started as a trip to visit Papi’s side of the family in Cartagena to celebrate Noche Buena turned into an extended three-month stay.

When I’d asked Laz for the hundredth time why Mamá hadn’t come with us, he’d hugged me and told me that Mamá was murdered by bad people. Papi was pretty messed up about it, so much so that he was considering leaving us in Cartagena.

I’d rushed to find Papi in one of the guest bedrooms, slouched down on the floor with a lost look in his eyes. I threw myself at him and broke down into hysterics.

Don’t leave us behind, Papi. Por favor. I’ll be good. I won’t ever complain about anything. Just please. Please don’t leave us.

Papi had rocked me in his arms while Laz draped himself over me like a weighted blanket. We’d fallen asleep like that right there on the floor, three aching hearts beating in synchrony.

The next morning, Papi moved us to a cold, rundown cinderblock apartment in Santa Teresa, New Mexico.

And thus began the never-ending game of moving. Every time Papi got an itch like something was lurking outside of whatever hole in the wall we’d come to occupy, I knew what to expect.

I’m sorry, mijos. This is the last time. The next house will be our home. Lo prometo.

Always lo prometo.

To this day, I don’t know the definition of home. Papi makes sure we always have a roof over our heads, but none of the places we’ve ever lived are anything more than a place to sleep. The possessions I have fit in a suitcase. Makes it easier to pack up my shit and leave on a moment’s notice.

But the nightmares…those come with me everywhere we go. They always star a faceless horror hunting us, formed out of some fucked-up mix of anxiety, confusion, and fear over whatever may have happened to Mamá.

So yeah. The idea of leaving my family makes me want to claw my fucking skin off.

Pushing out a breath to settle my emotions, I carry Papi’s coffee up the creaky wooden stairs of our small rental house and bring my knuckles down on the cracked study door.

“Come in, mijito.”

A little on edge, I push through the door. It’s not that Papi’s an intimidating man. He’s actually pretty levelheaded for someone who could kill you with a single kick.

Having watched recorded fights of him breaking literal bones, I thought it was messed up that he kept fighting for so many years, but maybe I don’t have enough Álvarez blood to understand the need to destroy things.

Maybe that’s why I ended up a dancer instead of a fighter.

It’s just…I’m not really sure what Papi does for work since we left Colombia. Some days, I think too hard about it, and it brings a sickening feeling to my gut. Like it’s somehow tied to whatever happened to Mamá.

But I don’t ask because I don’t want to know. We all have our secrets. Unspoken house rule is we don’t pry.

Rich brown eyes meet me as I approach Papi behind his desk. Even with the remnants of sleepless nights clinging to his face, he’s classically handsome. His dark waves swoop artfully over his thick brows, and a pair of wire-framed glasses sit on the bridge of his slightly crooked nose.

Laz is handsome, too. I take more after our mother—fairer and not so sharp in my features. My curls are a reddish brown and require threats to cooperate. I have a beauty mark under one eye. I used to wish the spot away when I was a kid, until I worried about wasting a wish on vanity when I’d rather have Mamá back in our lives.

Papi closes the black leather notebook he was scrawling in moments ago. “What’s wrong, Dante?”

“Laz ate my dinner,” I pout, setting the hot coffee down on his desk.

There’s nothing cozy about his study. It’s drafty around the old windows, and the radiator no longer works. The two armchairs positioned in front of a dirty fireplace were left here by previous renters and have almost no cushion left. All Papi added was a shabby desk he picked up from a thrift store and a small metal filing cabinet where he keeps his notebook when he’s not obsessing over it.

No lie, this place kind of sucks. At least I have a promising future in dance here.

“We can order something from our favorite pizza spot,” Papi offers. “Garlic bread and meat lovers?”

Laz’s muffled voice bleeds through the walls. “Thin crust.”

Huffing, I plop down on the floor. “I shouldn’t eat junk food this close to auditions.”

We don’t speak of the dessert I’d debated scarfing down in the secrecy of my bedroom. Times of emotional crisis, okay?

Papi takes his glasses off and leans back in his desk chair. I have his full attention now. As much as it’s a bit unsettling, it also brings a little surge of happiness through me.

“So soon already?” he asks.

I bend over my left leg, hooking my hands around the arch of my foot for a deep hamstring stretch. “Two weeks.”

“And when do I get to see you perform as the lead?”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not really how it works, Papi. I’m a soloist, not a principal. I don’t get lead roles.”

“Your talent will shine through. You will save me a front row seat, yes?”

“I can’t promise front row.”

“You know your brother will threaten others out of their seats.”

I snort. “Might as well call Laz a thug.”

“I would never.” But when I glance up at Papi, there’s a glint of humor in his kind eyes. “Tell me he wouldn’t do anything for you.”

“Kill for you, manito,” Laz calls out.

Fuck these thin walls. Fuck this house.

“Fine. I’ll do my best to save you both front row seats,” I grumble.

“Then we’ll go out for a big dinner after,” Papi states.

I sigh and lean back on my hands. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Papi nods. Returning to his work, he slips his glasses on and cracks open his mysterious black book once more.

I flop down into a starfish pose on the floor, shutting my eyes and visualizing fouettés and pirouettes and saut de basques. Every little leap and turn I still need to perfect. All the choreography Trey has been sharing with me while he worked on his original queer piece.

A gunshot cracks outside.

The slam of my heart against my ribs lurches me upright. My head snaps to Papi. He’s staring out the window into the night, face rapidly draining of color. He holds so still, I worry he might not be breathing.

“Viejo?” Laz peeks his head in the study, his brows furrowed.

My brother speaks Spanish whenever he can, whereas I struggle to keep the language. I think he’s afraid to lose it, like he’d be losing another piece of Mamá, who he shared more memories with than me.

Papi raises a finger to his mouth. A silent command.

Another shot fires, closer this time. Instinct has me jolting to my feet.

“Papi?” My voice cracks as I look to him for reassurance.

His response is quiet but firm. “Hide, mijitos.”

When I don’t immediately obey, Papi’s tone sharpens. “Dante.”

I shake my head. I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to run anymore. I want to stay here. I want to carry on living like we’re a normal fucking family with dance practices and fight nights and family dinners.

“I’m not afraid,” I lie, my pulse thundering beneath my skin.

“Lázaro, handle your brother,” Papi orders.

Laz barges into the study and grabs for me. I duck under his arm, rushing toward Papi, ready to defend him against whatever brings him fear, even though I’m definitely the weakest in the room.

My brother snags me by the waist and drags me out into the hall. I’ve forgotten all fighting techniques at this point in my desperation to stay with Papi. I’m kicking and clawing to break free as Laz pulls me into the hallway closet and fights with the broom handle in the way of the door closing.

We both freeze when a bang echoes downstairs. Dread tumbles through me as the reality sets in.

Someone’s inside our house.

I fight Laz more aggressively. “Papi!”

Laz snaps a hand over my mouth. “Quit it, manito.”

He hauls me deeper into the cramped space, hiding us in the musty coats that were here when we moved in.

Of course I don’t listen. I never do.

I struggle against him, seeking to throw him off, but he drops me onto my ass and wraps his powerful legs around me. We’ve fought enough in the gym to know each other’s weaknesses. I’m good at takedowns and striking, but I’ve never been skilled at rolling.

For once in my life, I’m upset about my lack of discipline in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

I slam an elbow back into Laz’s ribs. Grunting, his hand pops off my mouth.

“Let me go, Laz,” I protest.

His hand returns to my mouth. He tugs my head back hard against his chest. “Shut the fuck up or we’re all dead.”

Fear momentarily paralyzes me. Is that what we’ve been running from? Death?

I’m not ready to die. I haven’t even fucking lived. I haven’t known the rush of performing a lead role in front of an audience or the caress of a lover, not just a random guy looking for a quick fuck.

Peeking out of the closet, I see Papi sitting in his study chair. He must have tucked his notebook away because it’s no longer on his desk. He makes no effort to move as footsteps thud up the stairs.

Fuck. We should call for help. We should fight back, right? Papi has a gun in the house somewhere. He made sure we were all trained to use it.

Laz must hear my thoughts because he squeezes me hard enough to make me question if he could crush my bones.

A shadow moves across the gap in the closet door, and my heart stops beating for a few seconds. The intruder is worse than anything I could have imagined. Clad in dark tactical gear and a demonic black skull mask with horns and too many sharp teeth, there’s nothing human about him.

Especially not when he raises a pistol to Papi’s head.

My heart kicks into overdrive. I scream against Laz’s hand covering my mouth, but he quickly winds an arm around my neck and applies enough pressure to keep me in check.

Hot tears roll down my cheeks, spilling onto his forearm. I never thought I could hate my brother. But I do right now.

I hate Laz.

The masked intruder tilts his head to the side, seeming to communicate silently. If it’s money he wants, I have six hundred dollars tucked under my mattress. If Laz would just let me the fuck go…

Papi’s chest caves with a sigh of defeat. “This ends with me. Their lives are spared—”

Crack.

This gunshot doesn’t just split the night. It shatters me into pieces. Cleaves me apart, and not cleanly.

I slam my eyes shut. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to look. This can’t be real. It’s just another nightmare. I’ll wake up soon.

Someone fucking wake me up.

Tremors wrack my body as Laz clings to me tighter and rocks me. At this point, I don’t know if he’s still trying to hold me or find comfort for himself. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his own tears seeping through my shirt.

Seconds drag on like hours. Days, maybe. I don’t care about dying anymore. My brother’s arms are the only thing keeping the bloody shards of me together at this point.

Heavy footsteps thud closer, and I dare to open my eyes.

Fuck him. I won’t go out cowering.

The intruder, no, my father’s murderer, is staring right at me through the gap in the door. I’m not sure he can see me in the dark. I can’t make out his eyes in the holes of his mask, but somehow, I think he knows we’re in here.

He tilts his head again, almost tauntingly. Then he lifts a gloved hand to the jagged teeth of his mask and makes a shushing gesture.

My blood runs cold.

I cling tightly to Laz’s forearm, convinced this is the end. All these years of running away were for nothing.

“Love you to the fucking moon, manito,” Laz whispers against the back of my neck.

More tears spill from my eyes. It’s not fair. My brother doesn’t deserve this. Papi and Mamá didn’t deserve this.

The murderer’s attention shifts away from me as police sirens wail in the distance. Someone must have heard the gunshots and called 9-1-1.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to make a decision on what to do. My lungs burn from lack of air and my vision blurs in a new swell of hot tears as I confront my fate.

The murderer turns and strides off.

Laz slowly eases his hand from my mouth, but I wait until I hear the murderer’s boots thud all the way down the steps before I suck in a ragged, gutting breath.

Pain spreads through my chest like wildfire. I wriggle in Laz’s hold, torn between the need to get to Papi and terrified of what I’ll find if I get free.

Blood. There was so much blood.

No. Papi’s okay. He’ll be okay. It’s about time for us to move again. We’ve been here too long. Almost two whole years now. I won’t fight Papi this time when he tells us to pack up. I’ll go happily.

Laz continues rocking me as the police swarm our house. I think I might be screaming. I’m not even sure I recognize the sound of my own voice.

The door to the closet swings wide open. I wince, shutting my eyes against the blinding glow of flashlights. When they click off, an officer kneels down in front of us. I feel Laz’s rumble of a voice responding to him, but I don’t hear their words.

I’m too focused on the other officers slipping into Papi’s study in the background. Their expressions confirm what I already know in my gut.

Laz and I are alone in this cruel world.

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