Page 8 of The Silent Night Stalker
I fuel my rage so I don’t choke on my grief. Now isn’t the time.
“Because you are grieving, I will let your disobedience slide, but you will not talk to me as such again. Understood?” His voice is deep and deadly calm, accent thicker whenever he’s angry. The quiet tone carries danger, so I quickly back down.
My body sags, and I give him a nod. “Yes. Apologies, Halcón.”
His face softens, and he places his hands on each of my shoulders. “You are forgiven, my friend. And I swear to you, we will find who did this. But I cannot attack without evidence. If we hit the wrong person, there will be hell to pay. There could be war, a war we cannot afford right now. I will not lose one more family member. Do you understand me?”
I nod and look at him with pleading eyes. “Yes. Thank you, sir. I just…”
“You are hurting. I am too. Enrique was special, just as you are.”
“Will you let me be a part of it? If you find them… I would like to—”
“You are not a killer, mi artista. You paint walls, do your martial arts, and sell arms for me, but you never kill.”
My face burns, and my hands clench so tightly that my fingernails dig into the palms. I want to argue, but I know he’ll punish me. I’ve already yelled at him once. Instead, I say nothing and stare down atmy feet, drowning in pain and anger. I want to run. I want to scream. I want to fuckingbeatsomething.
Alfonzo lifts my chin to look at him, not in an affectionate way, but firmly, to remind me he’s in charge andnotto disobey him.
“We will hunt down his killer. They made a huge mistake in attacking this family. I will make sure they suffer once I learn who took our Enrique. Now go, Enzo. Go to the ring. Find someone to take your frustration out on. Plus, I still expect you to train and be ready for your fight coming up. New Year’s Eve will bring us a lot of money. I will call you with any news.”
“I will. Thank you, Halcón.”
I turn to face my brother again, still in a daze that he’s dead. It’s hard to process. Half of my brain is trying to gaslight me, telling me that what I’m looking at isn’t real. That it’s someone else lying there dead, and not Enrique. But if Alfonzo is right about anything, it’s that I need to take my aggression out on someone’s face.
“Adiós, ’Que,” I whisper to him. “I’ll see you in the next life.” If there even is one.
Vinny’sMMAFightingClubisn’t just for training to fight, but it’s one of many businesses Alfonzo uses to launder his money. Enrique first brought me here right after I aged out of the system. He wanted me to be able to defend myself in case he wasn’t around. Now he’s gone for good. No more sparring, talking about everything under the sun, or drinking a beer and barbecuing in the backyard.
My eyes sting with the threat of tears, but I can’t let it all out yet. Not here. Not now. I sit on the worn wooden bench and carefullywrap my hands in boxing wraps to protect them. I don’t look at my sparring partner, Manny, waiting for me in the ring.
He’s perfect for me because he can take a beating. He’s bigger too, and not an easy challenge, but Manny’s exactly who I need right now. I’ll be able to lash out without worrying about my partner.
Once I finish wrapping my hands, I tug on my boxing gloves.
I love fighting. I’ve always preferred painting and graffiti, but when I first sparred, I fell in love with it. Eventually, I improved enough to fight in the ring for sport, making extra cash. None of it is legal, but I don’t care. I don’t need to be some pro. I make good money working under Alfonzo.
The gym is cold, the heaters barely sputtering out any warmth, so I’m trying not to shiver, wearing only boxing shorts. But when I spar, I’ll quickly warm up.
I walk over to the ring and slip between the ropes. Manny is tucked in a corner with his meaty arms folded over his chest. His cold, narrowed eyes watch me carefully. He keeps his head shaved, and his face is covered in acne scars. Who knows how many times his nose has been broken because it’s perpetually crooked.
He ambles my way toward the center of the ring, and we fist bump our gloves.
“Sorry ’bout ’Que,” he says. I clench my jaw and give him a curt nod. “But don’t think Imma go easy on ya.”
“I wouldn’t fucking dream of it,” I reply, smacking my gloves together as we start to bouncing around one another in a circle.
My eyes never leave his, and his never leave mine, waiting for that one moment before we begin, using our peripheral vision to know when a punch or kick is coming. You take your eyes off your opponent’s face to look at a leg, and you get slammed with the fist you didn’t see coming.
The key to fighting Manny is never letting him corner you. He’ll grapple and pin you down. Once he has a hold of you, it’s over. And despite his larger size, he’s fast.
As we work out, my mind starts to clear, focused solely on my sparring partner. I keep my face calm, not showing anything that will give away my intention to attack. It’s next to impossible, though, with the rage consuming every fiber of my being.
Like a viper, I throw an uppercut, and before he can block me, I connect with his chin, knocking his head back, but he quickly recovers, bouncing lightly on his feet, looking like he isn’t affected at all.
Soon, we’re all fists, legs, and feet, lashing out, getting hits in where we can. I spend more time dodging and blocking him than hitting him, but I manage to get some kicks and punches in. Sometimes blocking can hurt as much as the kicks when you meet muscle against muscle, bone against bone, but you’re so high on adrenaline and endorphins, you don’t feel the pain until later.
I’m sweating, and a cut on my brow leaks blood into my eye, stinging and blinding me. It doesn’t take me long to grow tired. Distracted from Enrique’s death and the grief, I’m letting anger rule, unable to keep a calm and focused head. This gives Manny the upper hand, and when he gets the upper hand, it only makes me more pissed for allowing it to happen.
