Chapter 4

El Martillo entered the area like a storm front, his presence sucking the air out of the room. He was older than I remembered from the Bronx, his face etched with the brutalities of his trade, but the same cold authority radiated from him. He was displeased, his eyes scanning the scene with sharp disapproval.

"What is all this commotion?" he demanded, his voice a low rumble.

His men stiffened, trying to drag me out of his line of sight. They wanted to hide their mistake, to dispose of the evidence of their transgression.

But I wasn't done.

Bound and gagged, I fought back with the last ounce of my will. I twisted, thrashed, and with a final, desperate effort, I headbutted a nearby metal drum.

CLANG.

The sound echoed in the sudden silence.

El Martillo turned, his annoyance clear. His gaze fell on me, a battered, broken heap on the floor. He started to dismiss me, to turn away.

This was my last chance.

In a moment of pure desperation, I twisted my body, contorting myself to expose the small, faded patch of skin behind my ear.

It was my artist's signature, a tiny tattoo I'd gotten years ago. The original, intricate coyote stencil, complete with the three tiny stars in its eye.

El Martillo's eyes, which had been cold and dismissive, widened in disbelief. He strode over, pushing his terrified men aside as if they were children. He knelt, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he pushed my hair aside to get a better look.

His breath hitched.

"It's you," he said, his voice a low murmur, a flicker of something almost like wonder in his eyes. "The girl from the Bronx."

He stood up, his face a mask of cold fury. He turned on his men, his voice lashing out like a whip.

"Fools! Idiots! Do you know who this is?" he roared in Spanish. "This is my good luck charm! The artist who gave us our mark! And you beat her half to death?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He backhanded Hector across the face, the sound a sharp crack in the tense air.

"Get her to the infirmary! Now! Get the best doctor we have. If she is not treated, I will skin every single one of you alive."

His men scrambled, their fear a palpable thing. They untied me, their hands trembling, and lifted me with a care that was a stark contrast to their earlier brutality.

As they carried me away, I locked eyes with El Martillo. He gave me a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

I was alive. I was in.