Page 91 of Grace

“So you know about his brother.” He clicks his tongue and sucks in air through his teeth. “Have you met him?”

I shake my head.

“Well, we have.”

Who is the other person in the “we”? Cyrus?

“Listen to me carefully.” He leans forward, lacing his fingers together on the table, and lowers his voice. “You guys can’t win. No matter what plans Cyrus has made. His life… you’re walking on thin ice. I know you’re the key.”

“What key?”

“The key to stopping what’s coming.”

I need a few minutes to organize my thoughts.

“Greta?” I whisper, my voice tiny.

Ortíz’s eyes soften, warmth blooming in them. His face looks like he’s mourning, his glance is suddenly warm. He closes his eyes and pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He slides it over to me.

“Don’t panic, she’s still alive,” he whispers, and stands up. He pinches the bridge of his nose and swallows back his tears. “But I have no idea how long that’ll be if he keeps defying them.”

He puts away his weapon and walks out.

He leaves me here, in the middle of this chaos. Alone. Exposed.

My legs tremble. Warm tears streak down my burning face. I unfold the paper with shaking hands.

Hi,

Shit, this sounds pretty lame, doesn’t it? This isn’t how you start a letter like this… I’ve never been good at this. I would never have thought that someday I’d have to write something like this. But if that’s how it is, I’ll try to do my best.

Dear Grace,

Grace.

Yeah. This is it. Grace. I love your name. Did you know my heart beats stronger every time I say it? Like it wants to break free of my chest. And did you know butterflies are fucking real? I don’t mean the ones flying around outside—I mean the ones that flutter in your belly.

They’re real, Grace. I swear. And do you know how I know? Because I feel them when I look at you. They beat their tiny wings, stealing my judgment and my appetite.

I hope you’re smiling, because I have a huge grin on my face. I feel like an idiot… an idiot in love. Either you found this letter ahead of time and stole it from me, or the thing I was trying to avoid happened—and I kicked the bucket. Don’t ask where I went. I’m not thinking about it, either. I don’t know if there’s a heaven or a hell, so I can’t tell you what it’s like. But I trust I did at least as much good in my life as bad.

I know this is the part where your tears start soaking the paper and the ink blurs. So please—stop. I could go on and on about how gorgeous you look naked in my bed… Because as I’m writing this, I have a painful erection: my dick wants to be close to you… And after I finish this letter, I’m going to make love to you. Yes, you read that right. Making love. But let’s drop it, because I’ll never get to the end of this letter.

Grace, even though there’s this huge gulf between us now—bigger than ever—I don’t want you to mourn me for long. Give yourself some time, but don’t cry for me too long. I won’t come back, and I don’t want you to follow me. You must live. You’re a goddamn survivor. A real cockroach—someone who can make the best of the shittiest situations. I want you to stay with the boys. They know how much you mean to me, so they’d never hurt you. And if anyone does, don’t worry—I have men who’d cut their throats in the night. I’m not kidding, Grace. I’ll look out for you even from the other side. I want you to become the leader of the team. I know you’re capable of it. I want you and Cameron to run the bar. If you give up, the “family” falls apart. Keep them together.

Kisses,

Cyrus

If your life really flashes before your eyes when you die, I think mine did as I finished the letter.

My blood boils with anger. A scream burns in my throat and lungs.

Behind my closed eyes, I see Chase’s angry dark gaze—flashing with threat. A chill runs down my spine, because I naïvely believed Cyrus could protect me. I was wrong. Chase is a cold-blooded killer. Cyrus is empathetic. After he shot that gang member—his “friend”—he felt guilty for days. Even though he did the world a favor: he got rid of someone who built his fortune illegally and corrupted teenagers.

Chase could kill him if he wanted to, but he wants something else. He has the same plan I do. I’m punishing him by being with Cyrus. He’d punish Cyrus by taking me. This has always been a game between the two of us—now it’s a bloody battlefield.

I can’t hide in a corner. I can’t stick my head in the sand. I can’t just walk around holding Cyrus’s hand, ignoring Chase, lying to myself. I can’t let Chase take even more people from me. There’s already a lot of blood on his hands. But I have a feeling Chase’s death wouldn’t break the cycle. The person who got him out of jail—he’s the one who should die. It’s time to dig up the bones that have been buried.