The heat behind my eyes flared. I wanted to rip the cigar out of his mouth and shove it down his throat if I could.
But I didn't move. Not with those guns. Not with Kaleb and the others behind me.
"Did he tell you," the man said slowly, "how he used to help us move product through little church donation boxes?"
"Shut the fuck up," my father growled, low and sharp.
One of the boss's lackey turned and punched him hard in the stomach.
He hit the floor, coughing.
The bag dropped with a thud.
"¡Con cuidado, idiota! No queremos que se muera todavía," the boss said in a scolding tone to the guard.
I didn't speak Spanish fluently. But I understood enough.
(Be careful, idiot. We don't want him dead yet.)
My father wheezed, clutching his ribs, but he didn't look at me. I could see the sweat dripping from his forehead. His whole body was shaking now.
Michael shifted closer to Olivia protectively, Lily still in his arms. Olivia whimpered. The kids were waking.
