Page 82 of The Slayer
Marcos got out, but he was still in.
He was in more than ever.
Now Marcos had a fuckingcause.
God help them all.
“These are rules, Marc,” Chuito tried to say as evenly as possible, because how the hell was he supposed to compete with a cause like that? “These are rules that have been around a lot longer than you have. If they’ve got ink, you can’t touch them.”
Marcos’s response was quick and predictable. “Fuck the rules.”
And that, right there, summed up Marcos’s life.
Chuito called him Hurricane Marcos for a reason. Most of the time Chuito even loved him more for it, because one didn’t come across someone as flat-out ballsy as Marcos every day.
Even Tino didn’t have anything on Marcos.
Marcos was so fearless it was awe-inspiring.
But that didn’t fixthisproblem.
Tino’s brother Nova, who was easily the smartest gangster Chuito had ever met in his life, would often say,“There’s always a solution.”
It might not be moral, it was more than likely illegal, but an answer was out there somewhere. One of the small benefits to being a born criminal. Their playing field was wide-open.
Chuito wasn’t real sure what the solution was yet, but he liked Nova’s theory that one was out there, so he decided to go with it. “Give me a day to think.”
“Chu—”
“I’m hungover. I’ve got a concussion. I’ve got shit going on here,” Chuito confessed, for one moment letting himself sound as tired as he felt. “I need a day.”
“I’m not giving up on these kids,” Marcos warned him.
“I’ll factor that in,” Chuito promised him, surprised to find that he meant it. “If they’re your kids, I guess they’re my kids too. I’ll think of something.”
Chuito felt like he had just gotten jumped into another gang without his permission. He already had his old crew to worry about. Half the money he made went into ensuring his old crew was taken care of. He owned houses in Miami that he rented for a buck a month to any Los Corredores OG who had earned the right to get out of gang life and was trying to stay straight while still caring for their families, which wasn’t easy. When a new one decided to get out, Chuito bought another house, telling himself at least it was a fucking investment, and he told them that too, hoping to ease the guilt. Some fighters put their cash in money-market accounts; Chuito put his in houses he rented to retired gangsters. He had loaned just about all of them money he never expected to get paid back for. He footed the bill for their kids’ dentist and bought a crazy amount of new school clothes every August. He had an attorney on retainer for when, inevitably, one of them fucked up and ended up in jail.
Technically, they were Angel’s crew, and they were getting arrested for Angel’s crimes, but like Marcos said, Angel didn’t care about that shit.
This day officially sucked balls.
“Look, I know you got your own shit,” Marcos started, sounding guilty. “I don’t mean to dump on you, but maybe the Italians can pull Angel back. They already got their hands in his business; why not rein him in on recruiting?”
Jesus, Chuito had to practically sell his soul to the Italians to get Marcos out. They owned him for life now. What would he have to do to get all these kids out too?
Nova Moretti wasn’t a man one walked up to and just asked for a favor.
Nova hated favors, maybe because he spent most of his life taking care of everyone else’s shit. It never stopped for him. Every day was one problem after another.
Everyone wanted a piece of Nova.
Chuito knew how he felt.
“You know I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important,” Marcos went on. “Life-and-death important. Omar is the last kid Angel’s stealing from me, and if I have my way, I’m getting him back too.”
“I know,” Chuito finally admitted, because he did know. “Give me a day. Life and death. I get it.”
Chuito hung up with him and stared at the trees, knowing what Marcos was telling him.
