Well . . . what I’d told them Romero’s orders were. “Take the girl and do whatever it takes to make the department release us,” he’d said to me. By that time, harming her was out of the question. It wasn’t just because she was female; it was because it was her. I couldn’t stand the thought of any of my brothers laying a finger on her, let alone torturing her.

When Romero gave an order, he only gave it to the person who was supposed to carry it out. With him in prison, none of us had an option other than trusting each other that we had relayed them correctly. Besides, if you changed an order, or didn’t follow through . . . Romero would have you put out. There’d never been a thought to go against him like this . . . until she came into my life.

We wouldn’t hurt her fiancé—that hadn’t been a lie—even though he and his partner were the reason all this was happening in the first place. But Romero was sure this would work, and the brothers would do anything to get the core of our family back together. So until the department gave in to the demands, they were going to continue to get very authentic-looking pictures, videos, phone calls, and packages that suggested the girl asleep on that mattress was going through hell on earth.

Not that I would say anything to Marco or Jaime, but I knew eventually they were going to test the hair and blood and find out neither belonged to her. Just like eventually one of the brothers was going to slip up somehow and the detectives would realize everything had been faked. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who realized that, but I’m positive everyone was banking on the fact that Romero and the main brothers would be released before then.

Despite who and what I was, I felt bad for her fiancé. We may not be causing him physical harm, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being tortured far worse than she could imagine. I couldn’t even imagine what he was going through as he looked for her and got the “evidence of torture” the guys had been sending.

If I’d lost someone like her, I’d f**king lose my mind. And he didn’t just lose her—she’d been taken from him.

If people were torturing my girl, I’d hunt them down and kill them. And I had no doubt that was exactly what he planned to do.

She rolled over on the mattress, and even through the dark of the room, I could make out her bare legs curled up to her stomach. Images of how she looked when she got out of the shower tonight hit me hard, and I welcomed each and every one of them.

I wasn’t a f**king idiot. I knew she was going to drown in the shirts I’d gotten her. But I’d spent four months watching her every move as we waited for the right time to put our plan into action. Seeing her walk around in nothing but an overly large shirt had become one of my favorite things. So when given the opportunity of choosing what she wore, it had been simple . . . and worth the torture it would put me through.

I held my breath when I heard a harsh huff come from her. Every night she did this, and every night I felt like even more of an ass**le.

“Stop . . . please,” she pled. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and after repeating those two words a few more times, she was silent.

I wanted to take whatever nightmares she was having away, but I had no doubt I was the source of them. Who wouldn’t have nightmares of being kidnapped? Especially after being kidnapped and kept in a tiny f**king room with the man who had taken you. Raking my hands over my face again, I wanted to die in that moment. Just like I had every night I’d heard her beg someone to stop. I didn’t want to be a part of kidnapping her. I didn’t want to be in this life.

But I didn’t have a f**king choice.

Like I said, when given direct orders from the head of your crew, the rest of the brothers don’t question them. They carry them out. When you’re the one who let the only blood relative of the head of your crew get murdered, you’re the one that’s chosen to carry out the bad orders. Every. Time.

I’d had a nightmare of a childhood. My mom skipped out when I was young, my pop had been in prison most my life, and the uncle who raised me had always been strung out. When I turned fourteen, he’d celebrated my birthday by bringing in one of his gang’s whore’s daughters so I could become a man. He’d rewarded me with bags of smack he wanted me to sell at school for him.

My best friend, Dre Juarez, had been my only way to escape my uncle at the time. His brother headed up a neighborhood gang, and they’d always provided a sense of loyalty for me. But I hadn’t wanted to be in a gang . . . even back then. I’d seen what it had done to my old man, and I’d had to live through the shit with my uncle. No matter how normal Romero Juarez’s house seemed, I wanted a different kind of normal.

That all went to shit when I turned sixteen. Uncle was demanding I join, or get out, and I didn’t have anywhere to go but to Dre’s brother. Dre was already fully in, had been for years, and the rest of the brothers were ready to welcome me. That weekend my uncle was arrested, and it was all over the streets that his boys blamed me.

One night they came looking for me, and in looking for me, ended up murdering Dre instead. It’d been a drive-by that I hadn’t even been present for; I’d been hooking up with some chick from school. But after that, I hadn’t had a choice, Romero made me join as a payment for getting Dre killed. The other half of the payment was retribution on the men involved in the drive-by.

Those were the first three men I killed. But they hadn’t been the last in the eight years since I’d gotten in. Most of the brothers could do as they pleased, as long as they followed the rules. Me? If I didn’t do what Romero asked, Romero swore he would make me join Dre six feet under. I hated this life, and I hated who I’d become. But I swore to myself that one day I would get out and start over far away from this shithole. Now, more than ever, I was craving that life because of the girl not ten feet away from me. I would get out . . . someday. Until then, this f**ked-up family was all I had.