Page 3 of Forbidden Hearts

With a calmer voice, I say, “Just don’t say her name.”

Gustavo doesn’t enter the conversation. His eyes are steady on the dark road ahead.

“Perdóname, hermano,” Santiago says. “I didn’t mean… It’s just that I can’t imagine you ever retiring. You love your job too much. It’s who you are. It’s in your nature.”

I do enjoy it, and itisin my nature. But maybe it’s time for a change.

“So what are you going to do now?” he asks after I don’t respond.

WhatamI going to do now? When I joinedNuestra Casa, I started as a low-level drug dealer to pay for college. I worked on my art degree and dreamed of becoming a world-renowned artist.

I was young and naive back then. I thought I could become a millionaire by selling art to snobs with deep pockets. Still, beyond those shallow dreams, I always enjoyed art. It was relaxing.

Even after climbing the ranks ofNuestra Casaand becoming the person I am today, I continued to paint as a form of relaxation. I never told anybody inNuestra Casaabout my pastime passion, not even my own brothers. It was a secret I only shared with Esmeralda.

Every so often, especially on nights when I returned home with a bloody face or bruised limbs, Esmeralda would beg me to stop working forNuestra Casa. She would tell me we already had enough money to spend in several lifetimes and that I should focus on my art.

I should’ve listened to her.

Sometimes, I wonder what she would say if she knew I hadn’t touched a paintbrush in the past year.

She would probably tell me that’s why I’ve been so stressed that I struggle to sleep at night. She was always right about these things.

So whatamI going to do now in retirement? What Esmeralda always wanted me to do.

Chapter 2

Alex

PRESENT

All eyes are on me as I storm intoThe Den.

Men in black leather jackets and vests sit at every table in the club. They look up from their poker cards and half-empty beer bottles to follow my steps, piercing me with their lustful eyes, as they have done for the past year. The ones wearing vests reveal arms covered in ink and scars.

The air is stagnant with the odor of cigarette smoke and cheap beer, and the floor is sticky to walk on. It reminds me of movie theater floors after spilling soda, except beer and blood are the only things spilled in this place.

They call themselves a family, but I’ve seen a few fights break out in the club in the year I’ve been working here.

Loud music blasts from a speaker at the back of the club, where a woman in a blue polka dot bikini dances on a runway that spans a third of the club. Drunk men sit along the stage, cheering her on and inserting dollar bills into her bikini bottoms.

“Alice, is Jacob here tonight?” I ask the girl behind the bar. Like me, Alice is in her early twenties. Blonde braids spill onto her black leather vest, partially covering her patch. A blood-stained skull between four red roses.

“Alex!” she says with a smile. She tops off a glass of beer and slides it to a man sitting a few seats down the bar. “I didn’t know you were working tonight.”

“I’m not,” I say. “That’s the problem. Is Jacob around?”

In truth, I hate my job. I have to entertain smelly old men and their unwanted advances, but this is the highest paying gig in town for somebody like me. It’s just enough money to pay for college tuition and Mom’s medical expenses. But only when I get decent hours, and lately, they have been lacking.

“Jacob? You just missed him. He’s in a meeting with Ben and some other guy,” Alice says, motioning with her head to a door at the back of the club. A tall man with a large belly stands by the door. His arms are folded under his man-boobs. Like most nights, he has a stern look on his face.

“Some other guy?” I ask. Most patrons are regulars, so it’s out of the norm when somebody new comes along,especiallyto see Jacob and Ben.

“Yeah, some guy in an expensive suit. Hispanic, I think. He’s kind of hot,” she says before putting her hands over her mouth and widening her eyes with regret. “Sorry, don’t tell Ben I said that.”

She looks over at the men sitting at the bar. None are paying attention to our conversation. Even if they are eavesdropping, they probably have too much alcohol in their systems to remember anything by tomorrow morning.

“Don’t worry about them,” I lean in and whisper. “They won’t remember anything by tomorrow. And your secret is safe with me.”