Page 10 of Brick's Retribution

"Fine." I make no effort to hide my displeasure. "Anything else?"

My father hesitates, something so rare it instantly puts me on alert. "Be careful,mija. Trust no one."

It’s slapping me right in the face now. He's truly worried, and my father doesn't worry easily.

"I'll call when I arrive," I say, softening my tone slightly.

"No. No contact. Not until I reach out first."

The weight of it sinks like stones in a pool. This is worse than I thought.

"Papi..." My voice breaks slightly. "What's really happening?"

For a moment, I think he might actually tell me the truth. The silence stretches, filled with two decades of things left unsaid between us.

"Just stay alive. That's all that matters." The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone, a sick feeling spreading through my stomach.

Fear is a luxury we can't afford, but right now, I'm afraid.

Not of dying—that particular fear burned away long ago when I watched my mother and brother get gunned down in our own home.

No, I'm afraid of something much worse: being kept in the dark while my family's empire crumbles around us.

I finish packing, focusing on practicality rather than comfort.

Clothes I can move in. Shoes I can run in. Jewelry valuable enough to bribe or barter with if necessary.

My laptop with triple-encrypted files detailing all of my father's legitimate business operations—the ones I've been working to expand, fulfilling my mother's dream of eventually transitioning our family away from the more dangerous aspects of the cartel business.

The custom Beretta goes in last, nestled between layers of silk.

A graduation gift from my father when I returned from Harvard.

His way of reminding me that, regardless of my Ivy League degree, I'm still a Torres. still cartel royalty, still a target.

A text from Diego arrives exactly at 11:30.

Location secure. ETA 30 minutes.

I check my appearance one last time. Designer jeans, blouse worth more than most people's monthly rent, leather jacket that conceals the other gun at my back without sacrificing style.

Hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, makeup subtle but flawless.

The image of a successful businesswoman, not a cartel princess fleeing for her life.

The mask I've perfected.

The private elevator requires both a key card and a fingerprint scan.

Another layer of security that apparently wasn't enough to keep someone from wanting me dead.

I descend to the private garage beneath the building, where my rarely-used Mercedes waits.

Another text from Diego provides the address—an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district.

Clearly, subtlety has gone out the window.

---