Page 100 of Santiago's Conquest (Four Dark Horsemen 1)

Because only our unity allowed us to survive until we could beat them.”

Santiago

Location unknown, United States

Santiago, 12 years old

The car stops abruptly, sending Artem and me forward, but gracias del Dios we don’t hit our heads against the van walls.

“This asshole doesn’t know how to drive,” I mutter but then shrug. “Good thing these driving around days are over.”

Artem throws me a disbelieving look, clearly thinking how in the fuck what we are about to face now is better than the previous three years?

Well, I’m optimistic at heart.

As long as I don’t go back to Andreas, I’m good.

“Well, at least you are happy.”

I wink at him, slapping him on the back but making sure not to touch any of the bruises inflicted by Philip’s clients. “That’s the spirit.”

The van’s door opens, blinding us for a moment, and we try to block the sunlight with our arms, but they don’t let us. “Get the fuck out.” A man barks the order; he’s middle-aged with a beard and heavy keychain dangling on the belt wrapped around his belly. “I don’t have all day for you.” He’s pointing a gun at us while several guards stand behind him.

We do as he says. We’ve learned the hard way that resisting the gun might result in them firing at us just for the fucking fun of it. We stand on the ground in our feet bare, right in front of a huge mansion.

It’s a spacious, horizontal brick building that is so huge I wonder why one might need so much room for such business. There are at least twenty windows, which lets me know whoever runs this place deals with rich clients who would pay any price in order to indulge in their perverted cravings.

All Philip had was some dumb warehouse where he sold our asses twice a week, and the rest of the week, we cleaned up after them or tolerated their drunk slurring.

Once a week, they beat us so hard we bled and barfed all over the floor, only for them to press our faces in it and order us to wash it up quickly. They liked to remind us that boys like us were nothing but dirt under their nails, and we had no fucking rights.

As Philip preached, this should have taught us to respect and fear him.

We fucking hated the guy and wished him death in the cruelest way possible, and finally the wish was granted when one of his big bosses found out he’d stolen from him.

I bet Andreas tipped them off so he could create another fucking challenge for me and test my resistance.

Fuck him and his last level.

They killed Philip right in front of our eyes, making him drink gasoline while stabbing him like a hundred times. His men followed shortly, their throats cut near arteries where their blood poured, soaking them red and forever taking their life away.

Never had a view been this satisfying to us.

I only regretted not being the one holding the knife, to feel their skin dip under the tip, slowly drawing blood as they struggled in my arms to survive and failed.

If I ever get the chance to punish fuckers like those holding us captive, I’ll watch them choke for hours with a smile on my face and send my regards to the devil while doing it.

I just need to get out.

And fucking get out I will, because I can survive in any circumstances.

God knows the last three years have proven it.

Sighing dramatically, I say, “What a boring Victorian-style mansion.” I guess the style, because Mom used to talk about architecture all the time.

My heart contracts inside my chest at the thought of her, a beautiful mirage popping in my mind occasionally and bringing me so much pain I always push it away.

Rebecca Cortez had a son, once upon a time, whom she loved.

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