_1968 . . . . _

A petite woman in her early forties with long, thick dark brown hair that was pinned up into a braid, dark bronze skin, freckles, and a firm look in her gaze, was perched at the counter of a bar, the dimly lit area disguising parts of her appearance as she gently, and lightly tapped her margarita against the counter. Everything was loud and dirty and brown and crowded. The perfect disguise for her. She pursed her lips, pulling her hat down as her impossibly dark brown eyes landed on the busybody of a bar tender. A soft sigh escaped her. She had no doubt that the white bar was better. It normally was, in America. She sat up straight, inhaling he fumes of alcohol that haunted the air with ease.

Miguel probably turned twenty-one last year. And Alejandra would have just turned twenty-one.

That all too familiar ache tackled her once more. She should’ve been there to celebrate with them. But no, instead she had to do this.

Damn Cordarius. Damn that stupid organization that got her involved more than she ever anticipated.

Her sister just had to marry the damned criminal.

Her eyes narrowed at that thought, at the memory of her sister insisting he wasn’t all that bad.

As if. It had been arranged for goodness sake. The only good thing that had come out of that marriage was their children.

She sighed, leaning back and placing the finished margarita down. “Thomas, mind getting me a refill?” She was a frequent patron, despite how that might contradict with her history. But the sickening taste of alcohol was all she had anymore. That, and the interest the organization payed her with. She

If only there was something she could do about that.

Thomas only nodded, easily whipping her up a new drink, his stoic, solemn eyes too depressing for such a spirited atmosphere. He slid over the new drink. “How many are you aiming for tonight? This is your third, Constancia.”

_Constancia.. _

She had to fight back the urge to correct him. To say she was Jacinta Contreras.

But she couldn’t.

She would have to get used to being called that.

A shrug lifted up her shoulders and she gratefully sipped the drink, savoring the taste. “This is my last, no worries, Thomas. I’m not that much of an alcoholic.”

“What about—“

She shot him a motherly glare to shut him up. Thomas instantly. He was a Puetro Rican man, probably in his mid twenties and kept to himself. At least when it came to his personal life. She continued to enjoy her alcoholic beverage before pausing.

She was getting that feeling again. The paranoid, uneasy feeling that was telling her something bad was about to happen. She stood up swiftly, pulling out her wallet and sliding over the cash. “Thanks for the service, Thomas.” He only nodded in esponse. He was quiet. Just like Khalil. Was her nephew still quiet? It had only been two years . . .

_Two years. _

_ _Had it been that long already?

She felt a sickening sinking feeling in her stomach and forced herself to finish the margarita quickly. She wandered through the bar, passing by a crowd of boisterous young men who had probably just recently turned twenty-one. She kept walking, trying to ignore their drunken laughter. She couldn’t even begin to imagine a time she had been that carefree. She got married at that age. Then divorced at twenty-five.

Then she heard Thomas call out, “Hey, wait a minute, Constancia!”

She raised an eyebrow, turning to face him again and walking back, a flash of irritation decorating her face. “Yes? Did I forget one dollar?” She asked sarcastically.

Thomas shook his head, hesitating. Her joking manner faded when she saw that he was somehow more serious than before . . .

He sighed, glancing around to look out for eavesdroppers and onlookers before leaning in close and murmuring, “A man came in looking for a lady of your description.”

The blood drained out of her face.

Oh, God no.

She was going to have to relocate again.

Jacinta cleared her throat, trying her best to remain neutral. “Oh?”

“Well, he said you were a family member, named Jacinta? I don’t know it was weird. I just kinda said the only lady I know of that description wasn’t named that—“ Thomas started rambling on nervously, swallowing hard. He seemed reluctant to finish. Jacinta’s eyes narrowed.

“And?”

Thomas let out a sharp exhale of air. “When I explained that, he said kinda amused like, ‘Oh, I see. She’s not who she says she is.’”

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—

Jacinta forced herself to remain calm and she smiled tightly. “He must have the wrong person. I don’t know a soul named Jacinta—what kind of name is that, anyway?” She scoffed. Thomas only shrugged helplessly. “Good day, Thomas.” She quickly walked out of the bar, her mind racing. After two years, three months, fourteen days, and twenty three hours with thirteen minutes on the line so far, Cordarius had finally tracked her down.

And she doubted it was to invite her to a party. Jacinta slowly reached down to her trench coat’s pocket, feeling the cool firearm hidden in her pocket. Just for protection. And just for protection, she was getting out of town. Maybe people would question her sudden disappearance but she had to be smart about this and not get hurt. The streets were dark and the street lamps hardly did anything to illuminate the dank part of this drab city. Oh, how she missed her home. She hugged herself tightly as she listened for noise. There was hardly any cars in this part of the city, despite the streetlights put in place. Everyone avoided this place like the plague and . . . Well, what was to be done about that? The concrete was damp from the early downpour, leaving dirty brown mud everywhere she went.

She hated the city while her sister loved it. She should probably be more careful about what she said but . . .

What if she couldn’t run anymore? What if she just apologized to Cordarius and he let her go back to her family?

_No, _the other side of her said vehemently, _you can’t just surrender, not now._

But would she ever be able to surrender? To see her children again? To watch them grow up?

. . .

She didn’t want to live like this anymore. She needed to be there to watch them grow up.

Jacinta stopped and spoke aloud in the supposedly empty street. “Get out of the shadows, Cordarius, I know you and your cronies are hiding there,” she said loudly and bluntly, her hand resting not he pocket with the gun.

Silence. Then just as she predicted from an alleyway—or a few, actually, dressed in black. Most of them felt faceless to her. They were all just people who decided working for a criminal was a good idea. Or they were manipulated into the job out of desperation.

But they weren’t the main threat.

Cordarius Mohave stepped out from the shadows, honesty looking bored and out of place in his perfectly white button down suit and black slacks, his strangely owl-like, yellow brown eyes landing on her with the slightest flicker of triumph. He was tall, maybe six-foot-three or six-foot-four, with light bronze skin, and curly black hair that he kept long enough to let the curls free, but short enough he didn’t look like a damn hippie. He smirked slightly. “Been a while, Jacinta. We’ve missed you.”

No, they hadn’t. At least, he hadn’t. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay calm as she turned to face her brother-in-law, determined not to let his arrogant confidence deter her. Or his huge amount of back up.

“You want me dead.”

“Dead is a bit over exaggerated. I can’t _kill _my wife’s sister,” he sighed with disappointment, as if he had been imagining all of the creative ways he could torture her to the point of excruciating pain enough to make her heart stop. The mere thought was sickening. Jacinta took a deep breath.

“But you want information.”

Cordarius smiled with fake sweetness. “Exactly. Come on, Jacinta. Why don’t you just come home? Your nephews and niece and sister and son and daughter all miss you,” he cooed.

Her heart ached at the thought of seeing them all. But if she wanted to see them, she would have to give in to him. She would have to listen to his every single order no matter how much she didn’t. She would be stuck. She would be the fly trapped in the spider’s web.

But perhaps that was the best way to get through this.

She smiled back sweetly. “I’ll consider it.”

His expression darkened for a nanosecond and he let out a deep sigh. “Oh, come on, do not be difficult. It’s been two years! Surely you’ve gotten it out of your system—“

“I’m not a rebellious teenager like Khalil. How is he? Still shouting at you for the countless people you’ve murdered?” She replied coolly.

Cordarius’s entire polite demeanor vanished. She knew that would get to him. “That is your fault you know. Men, grab her.”

The last thing she remembered was cool cloth being wrapped around her mouth and her vision blacking out.

Damnit.

For a first time kidnapped, she was eerily calm. Strapped to a chair in a dark room, all alone with a blindfold over her eyes and a gag in her mouth. She could feel the wooden chair below her.

Twenty three times. In the span of thirty six hours, she had been interrogated twenty-three times with every threatening and painful method used on her imaginable.

But she couldn’t crack.

Seeing Cordarius again had reminded her just what she was fighting for, and she knew that she couldn’t just give up so easily. She wanted to see her family again, but she also knew that this disgusting monster had ruined countless other families. He couldn’t win. Not for as long as her heart beat. She refused to let him win this battle.

For the twenty fourth time, she heard the door open. Loafers against the floor filled the air and she knew he was back. But there was a second pair of feet . . . Her gag and blindfold was ripped off just as she heard the disbelieving words, “Tia Jaci?”

Her eyes widened in horror when she saw Khalil.

He was nineteen now, and behind Cordarius who looked as clam and collected as ever. He was the splitting image of both of his parents, his mother’s dark bronze skin tone and dark brown eyes, his father’s black curly hair, and broad figure. He was frozen as they stared at each other.

“I told you not to speak, son,” Cordarius said languidly.

Khalil didn’t listen, bursting into chatter. “We Why is she here?! She’s alive? Why—“

“I _said _don’t speak,” Cordarius cut him off harshly. “Unless you’d like to see Esther’s head ripped off.” Her nephew went silent and Jacinta felt her heart drop.

No.

Oh god no.

Cordarius smiled with satisfaction at Khalil’s obedience. “Much better. Now, your aunt has been rather uncooperative . . .”

Jacinta couldn’t speak. she wanted to speak but no words would come out.

“So she must die. And since you have yet to prove yourself . . .”

No.

She could see the paranoid fear and panic on her nephew’s face. “Either shoot her, or Esther will be killed.”

Silence.

Jacinta knew she had to make the sacrifice now.

She forced herself to close her eyes. “You’re a monster, Cordarius.”

“You’ve both said that numerous times.”

She didn’t want to see the look on her nephew’s face. But she had to. She knew he would hesitate. She opened her eyes mouthed, “do it.”

Khalil was frozen. She mouthed it again.

The last thing she ever heard was a gunshot and a terrified strangled sob/scream.