The Under Boss's Final Mistake

Bella POV The air in Mexico always felt suffocating and heavy. Like the sky itself is coming down on our little neighborhood. The sound of crickets was echoing in the grass, and dogs were barking in our neighborhood. And the sound of cars driving some distance away. I swore I heard the echoing of gunfire. It has always been the kind of sound I had lived with growing up; at a point, it felt like a normal sound to me. I sat at the door with my schoolbook clutched to my chest while I was watching Papa polish Don Romano's black SUV. His movements were slow, steady, and almost ritualistic. He cleaned every inch of chrome as though it were holy. His sweat dripped from his forehead, making his clothes slip off his hands more than once. His hands were rough, scarred, and stained with oil and sometimes with blood—trembling slightly as he tried to reach for the bucket of water. I noticed it. Yes, of course, I always do. “Papá,” I asked softly, “are you okay?” He glanced at me and stepped into the porch light, his face cracking into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Estoy bien, mi hija. I'm fine.” I stared at him for a while; I noticed he wasn't fine. His lips were too tight, his jaw locked, and he was holding back words he would never say. But instead of pressuring him. I bit down on my lips and hugged my book tighter. That was how it always was. Questions stuck in my throat, but silence was safer. Papá always says it is silence that has been keeping us alive. When he finally slammed the hood shut and raised his greasy palm on his faded black trousers, he tossed me the keys. “Come. I'll drive you to school.” I froze. “In Don Romano's car?” He avoided my gaze. “It's late. This will be quicker.” The dark color in the sky gave me no option because it was getting dark, and a storm was gathering. But never did my body scream that it was a mistake. The car wasn't a car; it was a symbol. It is the moving flag of the most feared man in Mexico. Driving it was like walking into the lion's den without any caution. I felt like we were approaching the battlefield with a target strapped to our back. But I didn't argue. I just slid into the leather seat; the smell of gun oil and cigar smoke was clinging to it like perfume. Papa tightened his fingers around the wheel, knuckles pale as we pulled onto the road. The city of Mexico was full of vendors shouting, children in uniform walking up, buses honking, and individuals running around the side of the road. For a moment, everything almost felt normal. Then it happened, after a long drive. Headlights blazed in the rearview mirror, blinding us. Papá cursed under his breath, pressing harder on the accelerator. My heart slammed against my ribs as a black van swerved in front of us, blocking the road. Before I could scream, the world exploded. Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat. A bullet tore through the SUV; glass shattered like falling stars. I used my book as a shield before Papá shoved me down, his body covering mine. I couldn't hear anything, and my sight became dim. My nose filled with the metallic stench of gunpowder. A hot piece of glass cut through my cheeks, making me taste my own blood on my tongue. “Stay down, Bella!” Papá growled, his voice shaking. I held his T-shirt, praying in the way my mother taught me, though I haven't prayed for years. Each second felt like forever—the thud of bullets, the screech of tires, the scattering of glass, and men shouting in Spanish at the roadside. And then, somehow, the car lurched forward. Papá slammed his foot on the gas, the SUV swerving hard into the narrow alley. Metal groaned, tires screamed, but we broke free. My breath came in ragged gasps as I picked up. The windshield was spiderwebbed with cracks, the mirror gone. Papá's hands were shaking so badly that he could barely keep the wheel straight. “Papá,” I whispered with my voice broken, “you're bleeding—” “It's just a scratch,” he snapped. Though his white T-shirt became dark and wet from his blood around his ribs. Darling, It's nothing. Nothing serious. He continued while his blood was soaking through the seat. My throat burned with words, but I swallowed them back. Silence always, silence. Bella," I whispered to myself. Finally, we limped into the driveway; men were already waiting. Don Romano's men. They swapped around the ruined SUV like vultures, their sharp suits and sharp eyes shining like touch lights, scanning and observing us from a distance. And then he came. Don Romano himself. His presence alone was enough to silence the night, and the noise in the street, including the barking dog, stopped; the cricket seemed to also be afraid of his presence. He steps out of a sleek car, a gold ring glinting under the streetlights, his eyes colder than the barrel of a gun. He gazed over the bullet hole, touching and tilting his head, then the shattered glass; he then turned to papá. “You drove my car,” he said slowly, taking some dangerous steps closer to Papá. Blood kept on dripping on the floor, and Papá bowed his head, holding his ribs. “I had no choice, Don Romano. My daughter—” “Your daughter?” Don Romano's voice was a snare. “You risk my car, my reputation, for her?” I stood frozen behind Papá, with my nails digging deep into my palm until they bled. I wanted to scream, to beg, to defend him. But I couldn't. Papá had warned me never to speak to Don Romano. Never to stand up against him. Silence was our survival. The Don turned away as if he didn't see Papá bleeding to death. "You'll get nothing more from me; your salary and your protection are all gone. Consider your debt doubled.” He murmured while sliding back into his car; he was gone, his convoy of black vehicles fading into the dark. Papá didn't move; he kept on holding his ribs. His shoulders hunched, his head still bowed. For the first time in my life, I saw him look small before his fellow man. Later, we got back to the house; the house became silent and darker, and I couldn't sleep. The smell of gunpowder still clung to my skin. I crept outside and saw Papá in the garage, scrubbing off blood from the ruined SUV. His hands were trembling, and his shirt was still stained, but the wound had been bandaged. “Papá.” I whispered, stepping closer. He didn't hear me. Or maybe he pretended not to. His cloth dragged over the bullet holes, over the c***k, over the stain on the seat that no amount of scrubbing could erase. I took a step toward him. That was when I saw it—headlights, bright and sharp, slicing through the dark. Another car. I froze. With my mouth open, unable to shout. Papá straightened, and his rag fell off his hand. The car door opened. A man stepped outside with his face masked. Then he raised a gun slowly and steadily, aiming at Papá. “Papa.” I breathed, my voice breaking. The masked man's hands were in the center of the metallic clicking. Lifting his hands higher still, aiming at Papá.