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“Come over here,” he said and stretched an arm out towards me. I crawled over to him on my knees, my heart quickening in my chest as I settled into his arms. I couldn’t believe this was happening…that there was a chance that he might stay.
My head was supported by his arm as we stared up at the ceiling together.
“Try and get some sleep, Valentina,” he said, in a breathless voice and I quickly closed my eyes. I knew there was a smile on my face and maybe finally, I would be able to sleep again.
Chapter 11
King
The next morning, I left Valentina asleep in bed, and I snuck out of Moira’s apartment, hoping that she hadn’t heard us the previous night. I was just about to get on my bike and head back to my place to shower and change when my phone rang. It was my mother calling.
“Mijo, I need your help,” her voice cracked as she spoke into the phone.
“Is everything alright?” I asked her, already preparing to ride away.
“I had a fall,” she said.
“I’m on my way.”
I reached her house and parked my bike in a hurry before I ran up the steps to her apartment on the second floor. It had been three years since I found this new place for her to live in. All my life, I had worked towards earning enough to take care of my family and now finally, I could. My life had changed ever since I joined the Rogue Rebels and now I could do the things I always wanted to do for mom, which included buying her a safe and spacious new apartment to live in. I also made sure that she always had new clothes to wear and her pantry was stocked with food. Whatever had happened to me in my teenage years was not her fault. It had all been my dad’s doing.
I burst through her front door and found mom lying on her living room couch. The television was on mute in front of her, and she had one leg raised up.
“Are you bleeding? Did you break anything?” I rushed to her and knelt down beside her on the rug.
“No, just a sprained ankle, mijo,” mom reached for my face and stroked my cheek affectionately. She had fought hard against my father when he traded me in with the Muerte Viviente; essentially selling me into slavery. But against the physical and mental abuse of my father, neither she nor I were immune. She was powerless, spoke very little English at the time, and had no friends or family to turn to. She had left her life in Mexico, and immigrated with my dad to America at a young age and since then, she had been alone. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep me safe from him.
I sat down on the rug now, pressing my back against the legs of the coffee table that I’d bought her a few months ago. Now, she was at peace. My dad had been dead for four years, and I knew she was proud of me. Proud that I had escaped the clutches of Muerte Viviente and managed to make a life for myself. I looked into her aging face and saw a woman who had lived a hard life and had tried her best to give her son a better one. She had failed, at most of it other than raising someone who was strong and could stand up for what he believed in.
“Are you okay, mama’? Should I take you to the doctor?” I asked her, resting my arms on my folded-up knees and she shook her head. Some strands of her graying hair came loose from her bun and fell around her face.
“It’s just a sprained ankle, mijo; I just need to rest it for a few hours,” she spoke in Spanish to me and smiled. “I called you because I’ve run out of milk and eggs and I thought maybe you could do some grocery shopping for me,” she added, and I nodded.
“I’ll go in a bit,” I said to her, and she moved, trying to sit up straight so she could see me better.
“Keep lying down, mom, you need your ankle to heal properly,” I said and patted her knee. A few moments of silence passed between us, while she watched me closely. I had made it a habit to visit her once every week to keep an eye on her, and I knew mom could tell that there was something on my mind. Although, sometimes now, I wondered if Valentina knew me even better, better than my mother ever could. Now, of course, too much time had passed, and I wondered if she was the same person anymore.
“You know you can tell me anything, Jesus,” she spoke in Spanish again, and I met her eyes. She had interrupted my thoughts about Valentina, but I wanted to have a conversation with her that I had never dared before. I believed it was time. I couldn’t just sweep the subject under the rug anymore. Maybe it was the fact that Valentina was back, but I needed to know answers.
“Mom, why did dad sell me to Muerte Viviente? You don’t have to talk about it if it’s too painful for you,” I said a
nd aimlessly dug at the threads on the side of my jeans. Around my mother, I always felt like a small boy again, and now especially since she was watching me so keenly. Her lips quivered as she spoke, even though I could tell that she was trying to keep her head held high.
“He owed them money,” she said flatly, and I looked up at her. My brows crossed and she shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s as simple as that, mijo. Your father gambled, he drank a lot…you know all this. Well, he borrowed heavily from Muerte Viviente and couldn’t pay them back. Romero Luis made a deal with your father, claiming that all his debts would vanish if he traded you in for his fighting rings,” mom’s voice was cracking again as she spoke and I reached for her. She slid over the edge of the couch as she clung to me and I could feel my jacket wetting where she was crying on my shoulder. I patted her back as her body shook.
“I tried to stop him, mijo. I wish I could!”
“I know you tried, and I also know what kind of man he was,” I comforted her. The purpose of this conversation wasn’t to remind my mom how she had failed me as a parent, and it was because I wanted to know the truth. Nobody had ever told me how Romero got a hold of me, but I always had the feeling that my dad owed the man something.
“The gang forced us…forced your father, just like they are doing it to Romero now,” she cried, and I pulled away from her. I knew she still had some friends whose husbands and children were associated with the Muerte Viviente, but I didn’t think she would know what was going on with Valentina.
“What do you mean, mom?” I asked her, pretending like I had no idea what she was talking about. If she even got a hint that I was hiding Valentina, that I was associating myself with anyone from the Muerte Viviente gang, I knew she would lose her mind with worry. Gone would be her peaceful nights of sleep.
Mom wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands and took in a deep breath as she tried to steady herself.
“Well, Romero is now the one who is in debt, and he got kicked out of the leadership of the gang when he fell sick,” she said, hardening her voice. If I hated Romero Luis and the gang, I knew that she hated them more.
