Undone

12

Liam checks his watch. "Sun goes down in six hours. We hit the docks at midnight."

Zayn adds, "And until then, we lay low. No unnecessary movement. Vasquez has eyes everywhere."

The tension in the room feels like it's pressing down on my chest, suffocating. The others start packing up, double-checking gear and finalizing the details of the plan, but their voices blur into background noise. My heart's pounding too hard to focus on anything they're saying.

Without a word, I slip away from the table, my footsteps barely making a sound against the cracked concrete floor. I move to the far end of the warehouse, away from their scheming, their reckless confidence. The dim light barely reaches this corner, casting long shadows that flicker with every shift of movement from the others. It's cold here, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones.

I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. For a moment, I just stare at the cracks in the concrete, the peeling paint on the walls, trying to quiet my mind. But it's useless. The weight of everything presses in from all sides, and before I can stop it, my mind drifts back—to him.

I was twelve the first time I saw my dad kill a man.

7 YEARS AGO

It was really late—so late that the whole house felt weird, like even the walls were asleep. I couldn't sleep, though. My room felt too big, too quiet, and my blankets were all twisted up. I kept thinking about sneaking into the kitchen to grab one of those chocolate pastries Maria hid at the back of the pantry. She always pretended like I didn't know they were there, but I did.

So, I got up.

I tiptoed out of my room, careful not to make the floorboards creak. The hall was dark, except for the little sliver of light coming from downstairs. I figured maybe someone had left a lamp on. But when I started down the stairs, barefoot on the cold marble, I heard voices.

My heart jumped.

It wasn't just anyone—it was him. My dad. His voice was low and smooth, the way it always was when he was trying to sound nice. But there was something... off about it. Something that made me stop halfway down the stairs and press my hand against the railing so hard my fingers hurt.

I should've gone back to bed. I knew I should have. But something pulled me forward. Like I had to know.

I moved down the stairs slowly, careful not to let the old steps creak under my weight. As I got closer, I realized there was another voice—another man. I couldn't hear what he was saying at first, but his tone... he was scared. Really scared.

I followed the sound to Dad's office. The heavy double doors were cracked open just enough for me to peek inside. I pressed my back against the wall, holding my breath, and leaned in.

That's when I saw him.

My dad was standing behind his big oak desk—the one that always smelled like cigars and old paper. He looked calm. Like he was talking about the weather or something boring like that. But the man in front of him... he wasn't calm.

He was on his knees.

Right there on the fancy rug my mom always hated, saying it clashed with the curtains. His face was pale, like he was sick, and sweat was dripping down his forehead. His hands were shaking so hard I thought they might fall off.

"Marcello, please..." the man begged, his voice cracking. "I—I swear I can get the money. I just need more time..."

My dad didn't say anything at first. He just leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin, and watched the man squirm. The silence in the room felt heavy, like it was pressing down on my chest even though I wasn't in there. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall, each tick louder than the last.