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cloveroctobers · 2 months

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LOVE FOR A MINUTE — ARMANDO ARETAS [Summer Randoms]

A/N: I did say I was going to take a break with my summer collection soon but uh…THIS IS ACTUALLY SHORT WORK SO IT DOESNT COUNT! Anyways what if I bring you a dash of some mess that I randomly started writing on my lunch break based off one of my current overplayed songs?🏃🏽‍♀️

WARNINGS: language, toxicity, arranged marriages, mentions of gun violence, use of y/n & infidelity!

SYNOPSIS: in which Armando is trying to figure out a lot of things in his life but…it’s always something.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁

All it took was some passionfruit soda to figure out that you were cheating on him. Not only cheating but with someone he unfortunately worked alongside of.

Rafe.

And Armando already couldn’t stand his obnoxious ass. It didn’t take him long to figure it out either, the dots being connected unbeknownst to you and it was no secret that Armando was a man of few words but he was also very observant. Rafe had no issue being the loudest in the room, the type of co-worker that loved playing videos on his phone on the highest of volumes that one of his speakers was actually on its way out.

Rafe was all protein shakes, açaí bowls, and early morning workout routines but the moment he showed up with a plastic filled cup with a colorful beverage, burping up a storm from the other side of Kelly, who kept giving him warnings while she cleaned her favorite weapon of choice at her spot of the desk, that was the final blow for Armando.

Armando looked away from his own desk which was off to the side away from the original AMMO members—he had his own personal sticker thanks to the amusement of the team which read: does not play well with others right on the side of the table, he fully turned to face Rafe who laughed it up.

“C’moooooon, That was the best one!” Rafe held his hands up in defense.

Dorn rolled his eyes with a shake of his head, “not only are you annoyingly distracting, you also reek, dude. What the hell are you drinking?”

The ADHD must be kicking in as Rafe now had one hand on his phone, texting away with his thumb, giving Armando enough time to sneak up and catch a glimpse of a bikini photo that looked awfully familiar before Rafe quickly locked his phone. He clears his throat, lifting his head to meet Armando standing over him.

“Can I help you? Ever heard of personal space?”

Armando lifts his chin, his voice naturally low as he states, “Let me see your phone.”

“Uhhhh? No?”

“I’m not asking.”

“Which is exactly why I’m not handing it over.” Rafe smirked.

Armando crossed his arms, “You got something to hide?”

“No.” Rafe scoffed, “I just don’t appreciate you standing over me like you’re fucking Michael myers or something, making demands. We’re not even friends and I know you got your own phone, whether it’s from your deadbeat dad or from some dirty money you probably have stashed away.”

Hands were placed right on Rafe, making Dorn widen his eyes from his spot at the sound of impact while he sat at the end of the desk. Armando had his hands right at Rafe’s shirt, but not without slapping his hands flat against Rafe’s chest, almost knocking the wind out of him as Armando bunched up his shirt while he got right in Rafe’s face. “…Seems like you had a lot to say about me behind my back, so why don’t you say it all to my face this time?”

“Yeah okay…” Rafe starts as he sizes Armando up, “Maybe you should go on your lunch break because you’re doing a lot right now. More than usual.”

Armando doesn’t miss a beat, “Maybe I should ask your girl to join me instead. You know the one? The one you keep stringing along and is also the mother of your baby girl?”

Rafe tightens his square jaw, “what the fuck are you getting at, bro?”

Armando darkens his stare, “I see right through you, bro.”

“Oh yeah?”

“So I’m actually going to ask you a question that I already know the answer to: are you fucking my wife?”

Kelly and Dorn both flick their gazes to each other’s.

Rafe licks his full lips, breaking eye contact for a moment, but he knew he had an audience so he keeps his usual persona up, “…I’ll give her back if you want?”

And that was enough for Armando to swing. He didn’t need to know the details from Rafe but he needed to make the message clear, it was always fuck Rafe around these parts, and he stood on that. However Rafe wasn’t one to back down from a fight and sure he maybe taller than Armando, the well known muscle of the team but none of that means anything to Armando. He’s had plenty of bodies left to rot all over—so in short—none of these men were punks.

“As much as I love a good fight, I’m exhausted dealing with you assholes everyday! So cut the shit.” Kelly yells, one arm pressed up against Rafe’s throat on the other side of the room while Dorn is also holding Armando back.

Dorn nods, “We’re supposed to be a team, here!”

“He sucker punched me in the face!” Rafe points, “and we were forced to work with his bitch ass anyways!”

Armando pants, “The only backstabbing bitch I see here is you, motherfucker.”

“Oh whatever! I don’t owe you anything. You’re in your feelings over a chick that just wasn’t that into you and you knew that so you want to take it out on me.” Rafe yells, “face it, you got played by someone that was forced to be with you because of mommy dearest.”

Armando laughs humorlessly, ducking underneath Dorn’s arms but he jogs right after him, grabbing his wrists and pulling them back while yanking Armando, “I’m surprised it took this long for someone to knock you on your ass.”

“Oh it’s been awhile.” Kelly chimes in over her shoulder.

Rafe rolls his eyes, recalling just what Kelly was talking about, “I’d split your eyebrow open if it wasn’t for Mr. And Mrs. Smith here. And you got me while I was sitting, which is weak by the way.”

Armando shrugs, “what difference would it make? you’d still be garbage.”

“All that anger should go to someone who cares and newsflash, it’s not me.” Rafe mockingly grins at the ex-crime boss.

Dorn interupts, “wait…all this is over y/n? Rafe…the one you were sexting and talking about is y/n?”

Kelly throws her head back with a shake of her head, just wondering why her boyfriend would add more salt to the wound. Dorn sometimes ended up speaking his thoughts out loud before thinking them over, truly.

“Ding! Ding! Ding! Someone gets an B-!”

However that didn’t stop Kelly from shoving her forearm tighter up the dark haired man’s throat, making him wheeze. Rafe raises his hand in surrender as a sign that he was just joking.

“That’s fucked up, dude.” Dorn slowly loosen’s his grip on Armando who side eyes him for holding him back, then fixes his shirt, “on so many levels.”

The four in the room couldn’t erase the tension but two familiar forms definitely could.

“What is going on in here?!” Captain Secada demanded, as she viewed the damage to the tech, Rafe’s busted lip, who tried to hide the evidence by pulling his lips into his mouth, spilled fruit soda dripping off the counter and onto the desk chair, Kelly let’s go of the Asian man, placing her hands on her hips as she looked back and forth between the men in further irritation, Dorn awkwardly scratches the back of his head, and Armando appeared as if he was ready to leap again.

Detective Lowrey steps into Armando’s view, who still appeared as if he was looking right through his biological father, right at Rafe.

“Mando, talk to us.”

He says nothing, making Mike rub his jaw in frustration at the common wall his son liked to put up. “My guess is: Rafe got what was comin’ to him.”

Kelly snorts while Dorn nods his head, quickly looking away once Rafe throws his hands up is confusion on why Dorn didn’t have his back. Rita sends Mike a warning look but he just shrugs as he turns to stand side ways, so that he can get a good look at everyone again.

“Regardless of what happened before we arrived—which I will find out—Do I need to remind you all that this is a place of business, where professionalism and team work is supposed to be the number one priority?”

Rafe huffs, “try telling that to the cartel Tasmanian devil over there. I know what oath I took to be here…some people were just handed shit.”

All eyes snapped to Rafe at that.

He just didn’t know when to quit.

Armando snickered as he scratches at the side of his nose by his beauty mark. Although his heart was drumming in his chest over the truth, he kept his cool—now.

“…That’s fine, next time I’ll just put the gun in your mouth instead.”

“WHOA! WHOA! ALRIGHT!” Mike scolded, although he didn’t blame Armando, he didn’t need him locked up again.

While Rita interjected, “that’s enough you two!”

“I think that’s my cue to go home for the day.” Armando stated, not looking for permission from either of the higher ranks, as he turns to start grabbing a few of his items: phone, keys, and his backpack.

“Tell y/n I said wassup.” Rafe raises his chin while Armando sends him one last look with a mocking laugh, motioning a gun at him on his way out.

Mike runs his hands over his goatee as Rita sends him a glance, making him quickly dip his head to follow his son out of the trailer part of the building.

“Mando, hey!” Mike calls out to the shorter man who’s making his way over to his car.

Armando keeps moving, unlocking the door to the car, throwing his things into the passenger side. When Mike slams his hands down on the hood of the car, Armando turns from the ajar door to meet Mike’s eyes.

“Don’t do nothing stupid. Not when you’ve come this far.” Mike tells Armando, whose eyes are as dark as black coffee.

Armando blinks, “Sure, I’m a murderer turned agent but I’m not down for being disrespected.”

“Okay,” Mike nods, “I feel that. And I’m proud that you lasted this long not popping that asswipe in the mouth.”

Armando snorts, already being aware that Rafe had his share of words with Mike as well.

“Tell me now, are you plotting something against y/n too?”

“No.” Armando shrugged his shoulders, “I been knew—

“But you loved her so that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, right? You can be real with me.” Mike suggests.

Armando deeply inhales, “…I don’t think I know much about love after all, Mike.”

And with that, he climbs into the car, starting the engine, leaving the man on the outside to step out of the way and watch Armando go.

The stories you tried to spin when you got Armando to finally talk to you, made him blow up on you. It’s not the first fight you’ve ever had, the relationships always been toxic. Your mothers were in jail together, you and Armando were practically raised in that facility together in Mexico City until a certain age and then you were both uprooted away from your moms and away from each other.

Somehow you found your way back together, whereas Armando went into training underneath Benito Aretas, you didn’t exactly grow up in a loving home either. Finding yourselves into crooked crime and wealth, you both did well for yourselves and it was written in stone that you two would be in an arranged marriage. Your mother ended up dying in prison but that was her dying wish, believing that Isabel would do right by you.

Depends on how you define that.

You became Mrs. Aretas at twenty-one but once you came to the states and got a taste of a different life, you changed. Armando was always on a mission and ultimately you were on a different one.

You two were no longer a team so it seemed, carrying on tasks on your own where at times your home in Florida started to feel colder at times.

“I’m out here forced to pay off my debts with people I don’t even care for like that, knowing that my wife is doing me dirty. How do you expect me to continue living your famous lie of: everything’s fine when it’s far from it?” Armando asks after you slapped the laptop that he was working on, right off the dining table.

You’re folding your arms, “nothing about our relationship has been a lie, i love you and wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t regardless of what our mother’s wanted. I just—

“ Last I heard you don’t cheat on people you claim to love—guess that’s something you have in common with my mother.” Armando leans back in the chair, fingers folded together.

Raising your brows you deeply exhale, “Look…I know you’re pissed off with me and you have every right to be but i dont appreciate you comparing me to Isabel. I’m not anything like her.”

Armando shrugs his shoulders, “manipulative, selfish, calculated, narcissistic—

“Wow! Say it with your whole chest then.”

“You fucked up, so I’m done.”

“W-what?”

“All those years gone just like that.” Armando feels his jaw about to shake, “and with Rafe of all people? He’s somebody’s whole father and you know he treat’s Kennicott like shit so what was it? The crimson chin?”

You clench your eyes shut, “this is no excuse but the first time we were all drunk and at the club, Mike was there—

“Don’t bring him into this,” Armando snaps, knowing where you were going, “we been had that conversation months ago. You know what? I don’t even need the whole rundown because I’ve already got the gist. I just want to know when I should expect you out by.”

He’s back on his phone, app open to make a schedule and reminders already.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You argue.

Armando keeps a straight face although his brow wants to raise in annoyance, “cool then I’ll leave and have some people stop by to get my things within a week.”

“Armando.” You start, waterworks rising as you begin to follow him, “we can work this out.”

Armando stops in his tracks, almost making you bump into the back of him. He says over his shoulder, “there’s nothing else to work out, this hasn’t been working and I’ve constantly been turning the other cheek since we got here together. Since I got locked up but I guess you forgot about what a commitment entails. Maybe we’re better off without each other for good this time.”

Angrily wiping your tears you grit at his retreating form down the hallway that led to one of the five bedrooms, laundry room, and the side door that led to the car port outside, “don’t tell me you’re just gonna go off and fuck off with Kennicott and her kid? how cliche!”

He puts his shades on in the driver’s side as you rest your hands on the rolled down window, “take care of yourself the best way you know how, y/n and good luck with Rafe. Who knows how much longer he’s got left?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly, what that means.” Armando’s stare is heated even behind his expensive shades, “please, watch your feet. I’m outta here.”

You’re left a gapping fish, jumping back as Armando reversed out of the car port and out of your life for good, if he can help it.

“Hi sweetie,” you smile down at the five year old by the swings as you briefly peek back at Kennicott standing in front of Armando who’s sitting on the bench, shielding the sun from his eyes but his faint dimples are showing as he peers up at her like she created the damn sun.

You start to wonder when’s the last time he’s looked at you like that.

It’s been some time since he emptied his things out the shared home you had together. You still tried to keep up conversations and hookups with Rafe, mostly to keep tabs on Armando but Rafe caught on quick to your game. That’s when the ghosting started and you running up on every other girl Rafe tried to bring back to his place.

Deeming you as crazy but it wouldn’t be the first time.

This wasn’t healthy, you knew this but you couldn’t help yourself. Why did Rafe think he could just get rid of you? And why did Armando think he can just move on and do exactly what you knew he would do.

That’s where you got it wrong.

He wasn’t dating Kennicott but she did manage to get some smiles out of him. Of course he already knew her since she came around to headquarters doing sweet things for Rafe and the team that he never appreciated. It was like Kennicott was a bother to Rafe yet she was also the mother of his child? She deserved better much like Armando did and if you wanted to look at it in a petty way…it was nice to get underneath Rafe’s skin in the process by being her friend.

You still didn’t sign the divorce papers but when you received them, you thought about doing a drive by to be honest. That was more Armando’s style but it wouldn’t be so different than what you normally got into. Before getting to that you started off small, by keeping tabs on those Armando affiliated with and placing a tracker on Kennicott’s emerald green 4Runner. Which led to the park Kennicott always brought her daughter to on Saturdays.

Wednesdays were swimming lessons, Thursdays were Kennicott’s late nights at the office so baby girl was usually with Rafe’s mom. You had their schedule down pat and it was the perfect time to execute.

“Y/n?!” Armando screamed your name as you handed the five year old off to your accomplice in the backseat.

It was like slow motion as you spotted a worried Kennicott gripping Armando’s forearm, once your eyes switched from their comfortability and back up to their faces, you sent a wicked smile before tossing the door back and hoping into the tinted car.

Armando knows he could have taken the shot but you were still his wife, there were plenty of witnesses and children, and he always had the risk of being thrown back in jail hanging over his head. He knew your game, actually fell in love with it, so all he could do for right now was embrace a distraught Kennicott underneath his arm and call it in.

If that’s how you wanted to play, he was guaranteed to win.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁

Continue reading my summer anthology writings & prompts here.

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hyper-trash-panda · 21 days

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Bad Boys — Legacy pt 1/?

No clue how many parts this is gonna be, just running on vibes

Warnings = blood, violence, cursing

Rated R

The first light of dawn stretched over the Miami skyline, painting the horizon with streaks of gold and crimson. A thick mist hovered over the water, shrouding the old dock in a cloak of shadows. On the weathered planks, a group of Cuban men stood in tense silence. Their faces were hard, eyes sharp, scanning the area for any sign of trouble; dressed in dark suits that clung to their muscular frames, the sheen of expensive leather shoes glinting with each subtle movement.

At the center of the group stood a man whose very presence commanded respect. He was tall, with broad shoulders and an air of authority that was undeniable. His suit was a shade darker than the rest, almost black, tailored to perfection. A blood-red tie stood out against the crisp white of his shirt. His hair slicked back with precision, and a thin scar ran down the side of his face.

The soft hum of an approaching ship broke the silence. All eyes turned to the water as a large freighter, its name obscured by rust and age, glided into view. The ship's engines rumbled low, echoing through the stillness as it came to a slow stop at the dock. A moment later, the creaking of metal rang out as the gangway was lowered, and from the bowels of the ship, men began to emerge. They were a stark contrast to the polished appearance of Vargas and his crew. These men moved with the silent, practiced steps of those who lived in the shadows. At their center was a figure that drew every gaze, even from those who were trying not to stare.

He was a mountain of a man, standing nearly a head taller than the others. His skin was a canvas of ink that told a story of violence, loyalty, and survival. The lines and shapes crawled up his neck and over his bald head, a mix of intricate designs and symbols that marked him as someone who had seen the inside of more than one prison. His eyes were dark, almost black, as they scanned the dock with a cold, calculating detachment. He wore a simple black hoodie and cargo pants that allowed for easy movement. His look was nondescript, designed to blend in yet his sheer size and the aura of danger made him impossible to ignore.

The tattooed man stepped off the ship, his heavy boots thudding against the dock. He paused, waiting as his men, similarly dressed in muted tones and rough fabrics, spread out in a wide formation, creating a perimeter around him.

Vargas took a step forward, his eyes narrowing as he appraised the newcomer. Despite the size of the man before him, Vargas showed no sign of intimidation. He extended a hand, the gesture formal, but his expression was anything but friendly.

"You're early," Vargas spoke in Spanish, his voice a low growl, thick with a Cuban accent.

The tattooed man did not immediately respond. Instead, he reached up, slowly pulling back his hood to reveal a face that was a patchwork of scars and faded ink. His lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"We don't like to keep people waiting," he replied, his voice a deep rumble, carrying a hint of an accent that was difficult to place, yet held Hispanic origins.

For a moment, it seemed as though the air itself had thickened; suffocating. Neither man moved, each waiting for the other to make the first gesture.

Finally, Vargas broke the silence. "You have what we agreed on?"

The tattooed man's smile widened just a fraction. "It's all here," he said, gesturing to the ship behind him. "But first, I want to see your end of the deal."

Vargas nodded, a brief, curt motion. He turned to one of his men, who quickly opened a large, steel case at his feet. Inside, stacks of cash were neatly arranged, the crisp bills reflecting the early morning light.

"Everything as promised," Vargas said, a note of pride in his voice. "Now, let's get this done."

The tattooed man's eyes flicked to the case, then back to Vargas. For a second, something like amusement flashed in his gaze before it vanished, replaced by the same cold indifference.

"Let's," he agreed, his tone almost mocking as he moved toward the ship.

The tattooed man turned on his heel, walking back up the gangway and disappearing into the shadows of the ship's hold. Vargas and his men watched him closely, their hands inching toward their concealed weapons, ready for anything. After a few moments, the tattooed man reemerged, carrying a large black duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He descended the ramp with deliberate slowness. When he reached the dock, he dropped the duffel bag at Vargas's feet with a heavy thud. The sound echoed through the stillness, but Vargas remained unmoved, his expression hardening as he glanced down at the bag.

"That's it?" Vargas asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "This is what you bring me after all the promises? This... pathetic little bag?"

The tattooed man's jaw tightened, a flash of irritation crossing his face. He folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes narrowing as he locked gazes with Vargas. "If you want more, you need to pay more.” he shrugged coldly. His voice was low, a warning that Vargas would have been wise to heed.

But Vargas was not a man to be threatened. His lip curled into a sneer as he gave a slight nod. In an instant, his men raised their weapons, the clicks of safety switches echoing in the quiet morning rays. Rifles and pistols were now trained on the tattooed man and his crew, fingers itching to pull the triggers.

"I don't think you understand how this works," Vargas said, his voice a deadly whisper. "You don't get to dictate terms here. I paid for a full shipment, not some half-assed delivery. Now, give me the rest of the supply, or I'll take it myself-starting with what you owe me."

The tattooed man remained still, his expression unreadable as he glanced at the weapons now aimed at him. He didn't flinch, didn't blink. Instead, a dark smile crept across his lips.

"You think you're in control, don't you?" he murmured, almost to himself. Then, louder, he added, "You talk a lot for someone who doesn't know what he's dealing with."

Vargas's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Don't play games with me. I know you're not the real leader here. You're just the muscle—the errand boy. I want to talk to the one in charge. I want to talk to—“

Vargas's words were cut off by the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot. The sound shattered the morning calm, reverberating off the dock and across the water. For a split second, time seemed to freeze. Then, as if in slow motion, Vargas's head snapped back, a single bullet hole appearing dead center between his eyes. The shock in his expression remained frozen on his face as he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Blood sprayed in a fine mist, some of it spattering across the tattooed man's face. The Cuban leader's men stood in stunned silence, their weapons still raised, but now useless in their trembling hands. The tattooed man didn't so much as blink as the blood dripped down his cheek. Without a word, he knelt down beside the fallen body of Emilio Vargas. The once-proud tyrant now lay in a growing pool of his own blood, eyes vacant, staring up at the dawn sky. The tattooed man reached into the dead man's jacket pocket and pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief. He unfolded it with a flick of his wrist, wiping the blood from his forehead with calm precision.

Rising to his feet, the tattooed man glanced at the remaining men, who were still frozen in place, their weapons slowly lowering as the reality of the situation sank in. He turned back to the ship, wiping the last remnants of blood from his cheek as he spoke, his voice laced with irritation. "You sure took your time making your entrance."

From the shadows of the ship's hold, a figure emerged, his presence immediately commanding. He was a tall, imposing man, his frame exuding both power and control. He wore a sleek black leather jacket that clung to his muscular build, the fabric smooth and unblemished, reflecting the dim morning light with a subtle sheen. Matching black gloves encased his hands, the leather creaking softly as he recalibrated the weapon he had just fired. His thick, jet-black hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his skin was deeply tanned.

As he descended the gangway, each step deliberate and measured. The men on the dock, both his own and the remaining Cubans, seemed to instinctively straighten. There was no doubt in anyone's mind now—this was the man in charge, the true leader of the Cartel. Reaching the bottom of the gangway, he looked down at the lifeless body of Emilio Vargas, his expression unreadable. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the scene before him with mild curiosity, then spoke in a calm, almost casual tone. "He wanted to speak with the leader," he said, his voice carrying a faint accent that hinted at his origins but remained elusive. "So I took that as his last dying wish." He shrugged.

The remaining Cuban gang members began murmuring to each other in rapid Spanish, their voices a mixture of panic and defiance. Their weapons rose once more, but their hands trembled, betraying their fear. They were outnumbered and outclassed, and they knew it.

The dark-haired leader turned to tattooed one, his expression softening only slightly as he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Handle the nuisances, Alejandro," he said, his tone both an order and a display of trust.

Alejandro nodded, understanding the unspoken command. He turned to the group of Cuban men, his eyes narrowing as he assessed them with the cold precision of a predator sizing up its prey. Without hesitation, the men under Alejandro's command moved into action, their weapons firing with deadly accuracy. The sounds of gunfire echoed across the dock, mingling with the cries of the Cuban gang members as they were cut down one by one. The air filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood, the once-peaceful dawn now shattered by violence.

The dark-haired leader didn't bother to watch the carnage unfold. He turned his back on the scene and began to walk back toward the ship, his posture relaxed, his hands casually slipping into the pockets of his leather jacket.

As he reached the top of the gangway, he paused for a moment, looking out over the city of Miami as the first rays of sunlight began to pierce the horizon. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. This was only the beginning. The real work was about to start, and soon, the entire city would know who truly controlled its streets. He disappeared into the ship's hold, leaving the chaos behind him, confident that when he emerged again, Miami would be his for the taking.

Mike gripped the steering wheel tighter than usual, his knuckles faintly turning white as he navigated the streets of Miami. The late morning sun cast a golden glow over the city, but inside the Porsche, the atmosphere was anything but warm.

Armando sat in the passenger seat, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed out the window. His expression was neutral, unreadable. Behind him, Marcus was wedged in the backseat with Reggie, both of them doing their best to pretend the tension wasn't thick enough to cut with a knife. Mike stole a glance at Armando, struggling to find the right words. He'd rehearsed this moment a dozen times in his head, yet now, everything he wanted to say seemed to evaporate into thin air. "So, uh..." Mike started, his voice low and hesitant, "you catch that game last night?"

Armando turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge Mike's attempt at conversation. "No."

Silence. Mike's jaw tightened as he searched for something, anything, to keep the conversation alive, but Armando's single-word response shut it down cold. The young man returned his gaze to the window, clearly uninterested in continuing.

From the backseat, Marcus watched the exchange unfold, his mind racing for a way to ease the tension. "Hey, nephew.” Marcus began, leaning forward slightly, "Can I call you that?” He began, “It’s nice to finally have someone I can say that to, you know?”

Armando turned slightly to the older man across him, his gaze indifferent and unreadable as Marcus continued to ramble. “My sister, Syd—ah Sydney, had a daughter last year, so I got a niece, but Mike and I have been like brothers since forever. My kids call him Uncle Mike, always have. He's family, you know?"

Armando's expression remained impassive, but his brows knitting together slightly. The word 'nephew' hung in the air. Marcus caught the look and felt a momentary twinge of regret.

"But hey," Marcus hurried to add, sensing his first attempt was a miss, "you don't have to call me Uncle Marcus or anything. It's just a formality, really. I mean, Mike never had kids, so I couldn't have a nephew until now, but that doesn't mean you have to, uh..."

"Okay," Armando interrupted, his tone flat. He turned back to the window, clearly done with the conversation.

Marcus blinked, his enthusiasm deflating like a balloon. "Okay," he echoed softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned back in his seat.

In the silence that followed, Reggie shifted uncomfortably beside Marcus. He glanced at Mike, then at Marcus, and then back again. Finally, he cleared his throat, setting his gaze on Mike, trying to lighten the mood. "Since I'm Mr. Burnett's son-in-law, Sir, does that make you my uncle too?"

Mike and Marcus both turned their heads sharply, their voices overlapping in an unplanned chorus. "Shut up, Reggie!"

Reggie nodded in understanding before he slouched back into his seat, clearly regretting his attempt at humor. The car returned to its strained silence, the only sound the hum of the engine and the soft whir of the air conditioning.

The silence persisted as they arrived at the police precinct, the car's tires crunching over the gravel before Mike parked in his usual spot. The four of them stepped out, the Miami heat wrapping around them like a blanket. Mike adjusted his sunglasses, his jaw set in that familiar hard line, while Marcus stretched, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the uncomfortable ride.

Armando followed Mike's lead, his face betraying nothing as he took in the precinct. He hadn't been here before, so the place felt foreign, like walking into enemy territory. Reggie brought up the rear, locking his hands behind his back and trying to blend into the background as they made their way inside. As they entered the precinct, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations dimmed, and the once-busy hallway grew quieter as officers and detectives turned to stare at Armando. Mike felt the weight of the stares as if they were aimed at him, too.

"Eyes front, people," Mike muttered under his breath, but he knew it was a futile command. Everyone knew who Armando was: The man who killed Captain Howard. The son Mike didn't know he had until it was almost too late. The kid who went from enemy to something...else.

Armando's reputation walked ahead of him, clearing a path through the crowd, but it wasn't respect that parted the sea of officers. It was fear, suspicion, maybe even hate. Mike could feel it, and he knew Armando did too. Marcus tried to deflect some of the tension by nodding at familiar faces, offering a few quick hellos, but it was like trying to stop a flood with a sponge. He could see the wariness in their eyes, the way they glanced at Armando and then away, as if looking too long might invite trouble.

Marcus glanced at Armando, then at the officers, and leaned in closer to Mike. "Man, you'd think they'd never seen a drug dealer before," he whispered, trying to sound casual.

Mike gave him a look, a silent warning to drop it. This wasn't the time or place to make light of the situation, not when the past hung over them like a storm cloud ready to break. They finally reached the glass conference room in the narcotics division. The door was slightly ajar, and Mike pushed it open without hesitation, leading the way inside. Rita was already there, her expression serious, though a flicker of something softer crossed her face when she saw Mike. She stood at the head of the long table, her crisp suit a stark contrast to the informal tension they carried with them from the car. Beside her, Dorn nodded in greeting, his usual stoic demeanor in place.

"Detectives," Rita greeted them, her tone professional but warm. Then her eyes shifted to Armando, and the warmth cooled, replaced by something more guarded. "Aretas."

"Captain," Armando replied, his voice even, giving her a respectful nod. But there was no warmth in his tone, just the acknowledgment of her rank and position.

Rita's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she looked at Reggie. "Officer Burnett," she greeted, her tone slightly less formal, almost as if she was relieved to address someone without the baggage.

"Captain Secada, ma’am" Reggie replied, throwing in a small salute that made Marcus roll his eyes.

"Man, I'm never going to get used to you changing your last name." Marcus comments before leaning back in his seat.

"I find it rather respectable that he didn't pressure Megan to change her last name and changed his instead." Rita nodded, returned a half-smile before getting down to business.

Everyone took their seats around the table, the tension lingering like a storm cloud. Dorn, ever efficient, moved to the side and retrieved a single folder, placing it directly in front of Armando. The half-Mexican man eyed the folder for a moment before flipping it open. His eyes scanned the first few lines, and Mike could see the muscles in his jaw tighten as he absorbed the contents.

Rita, watching Armando closely, began to speak, her tone measured and precise. "The folder contains the terms of your contract with the District Attorney. You're here because Detective Lowrey"—she glanced at Mike—"convinced the DA that you're no longer a threat, but an asset. Your expertise in the underworld is invaluable, and that's why we've offered you this deal."

Armando didn't look up as she spoke, his focus still on the document before him. Mike knew what was going through his son's mind; he could see it in the slight twitch of Armando's brow.

"The terms are simple," Rita continued, her voice carrying a note of finality. "You'll work as a consultant for AMMO for the remainder of your prison sentence. For every case you help us close, your sentence will be reduced. However, during this time, you'll be under 24/7 surveillance, as if you were still in prison."

Finally, Armando looked up, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked from Rita to Mike and then to Marcus, who sat stiffly in his chair.

"Detective Burnett," Rita continued "has agreed to open his home to you during this time. The DA felt it would be too unreliable for you to stay with your father." Her eyes flicked back to Armando, gauging his reaction. "This is a controlled environment. We can't afford any slip-ups."

Armando's gaze shifted to Marcus, who gave a small smile, but made no attempt at humor—just an acknowledgment of the reality they were all in.

Dorn stepped forward, a metal case in his hands. He placed it on the table in front of Armando and flipped the latches open. The case clicked, revealing a sleek ankle monitor nestled inside.

"This," Dorn began, his voice low and authoritative, "is your new accessory." He stepped back, nodding to Rita, who took over the explanation.

"You'll be wearing this monitor at all times. It's calibrated to track your whereabouts within a specific zone in the greater Miami area." She motioned to Dorn, who pulled up a projection on the screen behind her. A map of Miami appeared, with a large circle indicating the designated area. "This is your boundary. Step one foot out of this zone, and every patrol car in the area will be notified and instructed to arrest you."

Armando's eyes flicked to the screen, his face remaining stoic as he took in the information.

"You get three strikes," Rita continued, her tone firm. "Three violations, and the deal is off. You'll be sent back to prison to serve the remainder of your sentence. No appeals, no second chances."

The room was silent for a moment as the weight of Rita's words settled over them. Mike watched Armando closely, wondering what was going through his son's mind. He knew this wasn't the life Armando had imagined for himself, but it was the only path forward now.

Armando finally leaned back in his chair, his eyes meeting Rita's. "I understand."

Rita nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response. She glanced at Mike and Marcus, then back to Armando. "Good." Rita nodded to Dorn as he stepped forward, picking up the ankle monitor from the case. Armando watched him, expression neutral, as Dorn knelt and fastened the device around his ankle.

"This monitor is tamper-proof.” Dorn stated, “It's been calibrated to send an alert if it's removed or tampered with in any way." Armando remained silent, his face a mask of indifference as Dorn secured and activated the monitor. "If that happens, you'll be treated as an escaped convict and hunted down accordingly. You're also restricted from engaging in any unsanctioned activities, which include but are not limited to: contacting known felons, carrying unauthorized weapons, or entering areas flagged as high-risk for narcotics activity—those will get you strikes. Understand?"

"Sí," Armando replied, his voice clipped but clear.

"Good." Dorn handed Armando a pen, pointing to the necessary sections in the contract. "Sign here, here, and here."

As Armando began to sign, Mike stood and moved toward the door, catching Rita's eye. She raised a brow but followed him out of the room. Mike closed the door behind them, ensuring they were out of earshot of the others.

"Rita," Mike began, his voice softening, "I just wanted to thank you for helping me get Armando this deal. I know it wasn't easy."

Rita crossed her arms, her expression serious but not unkind. "Michael, you should be thanking Judy Howard. It was her testimony, along with Callie's, about how Armando saved her life that made the DA even consider giving him a chance."

Mike nodded, acknowledging the truth of her words. "I know, and I have. But I also know that your reputation, your standing as the Captain of the narcotics division, made a difference. Your dedication to protocol and procedures is what convinced the DA to let Armando stay here in Miami, instead of being shipped off to some precinct in the middle of nowhere."

Rita's tough exterior softened slightly, and she allowed herself a small smile. "I'll take that as a compliment. But remember, Michael, this is still a gamble. Armando's got a lot to prove."

Mike followed her gaze back into the conference room, where Dorn was pointing out the sections Armando needed to sign. "I know," Mike said quietly.

Rita nodded, her expression thoughtful. "But I can see the good in him. He just needs the right guidance."

Mike looked at her, his expression softening with affection. "And I can't think of anyone better for that job than you, Captain." Mike grinned, stepping closer to her, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone. "It's a good thing Armando has the chance to work under such a dedicated Captain. Someone who'll keep him in line."

Rita's smile widened, her eyes flicking up to meet his. "Keeping Armando in line won't be easy. He's a lot like his father, unfortunately."

Mike's gaze locked with hers as the distance between them shrank. "Is that right?" he murmured, inching even closer.

But before the moment could go any further, a sharp rap on the glass pulled them both back to reality. They jumped apart, turning to see Marcus standing on the other side, knocking on the window. Through the glass, his voice was muffled but still clear enough. "Hey, Mike, we're gonna show Armando around the station."

Mike sighed, annoyance flickering across his face. He waved Marcus off, trying to salvage the moment. "Go ahead without me, man."

Marcus gave a thumbs-up, not oblivious to the tension he'd just interrupted, but turned back to the room, leading Armando and Reggie out.

Mike turned back to Rita, attempting to pick up where they left off, but she had already taken several steps back. The flirtation in her eyes had cooled, replaced by her usual professionalism.

"I'm late for a meeting," she said, her tone polite but firm. "We'll catch up later, Mike."

"Rita, wait—" Mike started, but she was already halfway down the hall, her heels clicking against the tile floor as she made her exit.

Mike watched her go, a mix of frustration and admiration in his expression. He ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath.

The neon lights of Eclipse flickered, casting vibrant hues of pink, blue, and purple onto the sidewalk where a line of eager patrons stretched down the block. Among them were four teenagers, standing out just slightly due to their awkward mix of confidence and trepidation. The two boys, tall and lanky, wore their best attempts at looking mature, sporting button-down shirts and jeans that fit just a bit too loosely, while their dates were dressed to impress.

Zach, the taller of the two, kept running his hand through his hair, trying to look nonchalant as he leaned over to his friend Tyler. "Just play it cool, man. We're in."

Tyler nodded, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him. "Yeah, no sweat."

On the other side of the boys stood Madison and Hannah, the girls' heels clicking softly on the pavement as they shuffled forward with the line. Madison, with her confident smile and perfectly styled hair, was the picture of excitement, craving the thrill of sneaking into a place where they clearly didn't belong. Beside her, Hannah clutched her tiny purse a little too tightly, her eyes darting nervously to the bouncer at the door.

"I don't know about this, Maddie," Hannah whispered, her voice tight with anxiety. "These IDs are trash. We're gonna get caught. My dad will kill me if he finds out."

Madison rolled her eyes, though there was affection in her tone. "Relax, isn't your dad out of town for another week? And besides, all you gotta do is act natural. Mature." She threw a playful smirk at her friend, who didn't look convinced.

Hannah bit her lip, casting another glance at the bouncer, a hulking figure whose muscles seemed to strain against his black T-shirt. "What if he asks questions? Or calls the cops?"

"Hey, come on. We didn't get all dressed up just to bail now." Madison looped her arm through Hannah's, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You've got this. Just follow my lead."

The line inched forward, and suddenly they were next. The bouncer, with his stern gaze and clipboard, motioned for them to approach. Madison stepped forward first, handing over her ID with a smile that bordered on flirtatious. "Good evening."

Hannah let out a frustrated sigh at what her friend considered 'mature', but followed suit; though her hand shook slightly as she handed over her ID. The boys did the same, standing a little taller, a little straighter, as if they were trying to will themselves into adulthood on the spot.

The bouncer scrutinized the IDs, his brow furrowing as he flipped them over, once, then twice. Hannah's heart pounded in her chest, her nerves making her feel faint. She could practically feel her father's disappointment and the grounded-for-life sentence he'd no doubt hand down already.

But just as the bouncer looked ready to ask a question, a loud shout came from behind him. Two men burst out of the club, fists swinging as they grappled with each other, knocking over a trash can and sending a cascade of bottles clattering to the ground. The bouncer turned, momentarily distracted by the commotion.

"Hey, knock it off!" he barked, stepping away from the teens. He waved them on without another glance.

Madison nudged Hannah, a triumphant grin on her face. "See? Told you it'd be fine."

Hannah could only nod, her pulse still racing as they slipped past the distracted bouncer and into the club's pulsating interior. As the heavy bass of the music washed over them, she let out a breath—her nerves slowly giving way to the thrill of the night ahead.

The sun dipped low on the Miami skyline, casting the city in hues of burnt orange and deepening shadows. The late evening air was thick with humidity, seeping into the black interior of Mike's sleek Porsche as it glided through the streets. Inside, the atmosphere was stifling in more ways than one. Mike's hands gripped the steering wheel, his usual swagger muted by the tense silence that had settled between the four men.

It had been a long day, most of it spent at the precinct acclimating Armando to his new role. The morning and afternoon were a blur of briefings, introductions, and tense meetings. Armando had been called upon to weigh in on several current narcotics cases—mostly low-level operations that wouldn't normally warrant attention. But that was the point. These cases were a test, a way for the team to gauge Armando's trustworthiness and see if he could be relied upon for accurate intel. He'd done his part, offering insights and identifying key players with a level of expertise that even the most seasoned detectives had to respect. Yet, despite the productive day, the air between him and the rest of the team was still thick with unspoken mistrust.

Marcus sat in the passenger seat, his eyes darting between Mike and the rearview mirror, where he caught glimpses of Reggie and Armando in the back. Reggie, who sat directly behind Marcus, stared out the window, while Armando, seated behind Mike, kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his expression unreadable. Marcus fidgeted with his phone before finally clearing his throat. "So, uh, Armando, Theresa called me earlier. She wanted to know if you liked smothered chicken." He forced a grin, trying to inject some warmth into the moment. "She's makin' it for dinner tonight to welcome you to our home."

Armando, finally turned his head slightly, his voice flat and accented as he replied, "Never had it."

Mike glanced in the rearview mirror, catching Armando's eye for a brief moment before returning his attention to the road. "Trust me, man, Theresa makes the best smothered chicken. Ain't nobody do it like her."

Marcus nodded eagerly, "She's got this special gravy, right? Learned it from her grandma. It's somethin' else, man. You won't find anything like it anywhere else."

Reggie, who had been silent up until now, leaned forward, "Is Miss Theresa gonna be makin' quinoa with the chicken?" Reggie asked, his voice almost casual.

Marcus whipped his head around to stare at Reggie, his face twisted in a mix of confusion and mild disgust. "Quin-what now? What the hell is that shit? And why would you even think that goes with smothered chicken?"

Mike smirked, glancing at Marcus out of the corner of his eye. "Quinoa, man. It's like rice, but healthier. High in protein, fiber—good stuff."

Marcus wasn't having it. He threw his hands up in the air. "If he wanted rice, he should've just asked for rice! Why you gotta complicate things with some fancy shit nobody asked for?"

Reggie shook his head. "I don't want rice, sir. I want quinoa."

Marcus looked ready to argue back, but Mike cut him off, "Man, you really should be eatin' quinoa. It's good for your blood sugar, helps with cholesterol, and it lowers the risk of heart disease."

Mike put particular emphasis on the last part, and Marcus immediately bristled. "Oh, here we go," Marcus muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'm the picture of health, Mike. I don't need no damn quinoa."

"Alright, show of hands. Who here has *not* had a heart attack in the last five years?" Mike took one hand off the steering wheel, raising it high.

Reggie raised his hand as well, throwing a cheeky grin in Marcus' direction.

There was a moment of silence as all eyes turned to Armando, who had been watching the exchange with quiet interest. He hesitated, clearly uncertain whether he should join in on the banter or keep his distance. Mike caught his eye in the rearview mirror, a small, encouraging smile tugging at his lips.

"Come on, man," Mike urged. "You got something to tell me, or what?"

Armando glanced at Marcus, who was glaring daggers at Mike, then slowly raised his hand, a reluctant grin finally breaking through his stoic expression.

Mike let out a whoop, the victory sweet on his tongue. "There we go! Three to one, joker. You're outvoted."

With a defeated sigh, Marcus slumped back in his seat, facing forward once more. "Theresa better not be makin' no damn quinoa."

Hours passed in a blur of pulsing lights and thumping bass, the night fully enveloping Eclipse in a haze of sweat and alcohol. The four teens had long since shed their initial nerves, now fully immersed in the wild energy of the night. At their table, a collection of empty shot glasses bore witness to the evening's indulgence.

Maddie and Hannah clinked their glasses together, giggling as they downed another shot of tequila. Hannah, who had started the night tightly wound and wary, now felt a warm, buzzing sensation coursing through her veins; leaving her feeling light, carefree, and, for the first time all night, fully present. She swayed to the music, laughing freely as Maddie cheered beside her.

"Best night ever!" Maddie shouted, her words slightly slurred, but her excitement unmistakable.

Before Hannah could respond, Tyler stumbled over to their table, his eyes wide and unfocused. "Yo, guys," he started, a grin plastered on his face, "some dude just gave me this." He held up a sleek, black vape pen as if it were a trophy.

Zach raised an eyebrow. "What's in it?"

Tyler shook his head, his movements loose and uncoordinated. "No idea, man. Took a couple of hits, though, and it's way stronger than any drink we've had tonight."

Maddie reached out for the pen. "Let me see that."

But Tyler quickly pulled it back, wagging a finger at her. "Nah, the guy said you gotta get your own. But he's over there if you want one." He pointed across the dance floor to where two men dressed in all black were seated in a booth mostly obscured by the crowd.

Even through her drunken haze, Hannah felt a flicker of hesitation. "I don't know about this, Maddie," she muttered, though the sharp edge of her earlier fear was dulled by the alcohol.

Maddie, unbothered by Hannah's uncertainty, waved her hand. "If you're that worried, just stay here. I'll get us both one."

Hannah watched as her friend sauntered over to the men, her confidence unwavering even in her slightly tipsy state. From her spot at the table, Hannah couldn’t make out the words exchanged over the blaring music, but she noticed how Maddie gestured back towards her at one point. One of the men, his chest exposed by a loosely buttoned shirt, turned to look directly at Hannah, a strange smile playing on his lips. She noted the wings inked across his skin, barely visible under the dim lights.

After what felt like an eternity, Maddie returned, stumbling slightly on her heels as she handed Hannah a vape pen identical to the one Tyler had shown them. "Here you go," she said with a smirk. "The guy said this one's just for you."

Hannah frowned, her earlier apprehension returning for a brief moment. "Why would he say that?"

Maddie shrugged, unbothered. "Probably thought you were hot or something. Who cares? Let's just enjoy it."

The two girls walked back onto the dance floor, joining the swaying mass of bodies as they each took several huffs from their pens. The vapor filled Hannah's lungs, a strange but not unpleasant taste lingering on her tongue. The effects hit almost immediately, her entire body warming with a comforting, almost overwhelming heat. The warmth spread from her chest outwards, melting away any last traces of anxiety, leaving only a sense of blissful euphoria. Hannah felt herself floating, the world around her softening into a dreamlike haze. The lights danced in time with the music, every beat sending a ripple of pleasure through her body. She grabbed Maddie's hand, laughing as they spun together, the club seeming to pulse with life.

Everything felt perfect, the night a brilliant kaleidoscope of color and sound, until suddenly, the heat in Hannah's body began to intensify, shifting from pleasant warmth to an unbearable burning. She felt herself begin to sweat, her skin clammy as she tried to focus on her friend.

"Maddie, I—" Hannah reached out, but her words died in her throat as Maddie turned to face her.

Blood poured from Maddie's eyes, staining her cheeks with crimson tears. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a wet, gurgling sound came out before she began to cough violently. Her body convulsed, her limbs jerking uncontrollably until, with a final, shuddering breath, she collapsed onto the floor.

Hannah's mind refused to process what she was seeing. It had to be the pen, or the alcohol, or maybe just a twisted dream. She couldn't move, couldn't think, as she stared at Maddie's limp form, her eyes wide with shock. Around her, the nightmare only deepened. The same grotesque scene began to unfold with others nearby; people screaming as blood poured from their eyes, noses, ears, and mouths; their bodies seizing before crumpling to the ground. The music pounded on, deafening and relentless, but all Hannah could hear was the sound of her own ragged breathing.

A wetness dripped from her nose. She touched her top lip, feeling the slick warmth of blood. Her hand trembled as she pulled it away, staring at the crimson stain on her fingers. The pain in her head was unbearable now, like her skull was being split open from the inside. Her vision blurred, the world around her spinning out of control. With a final, desperate gasp, Hannah's legs gave out, and she collapsed beside her friend, the night's horror swallowing her whole as the darkness claimed her.

Mike eased the car into the driveway. The ride had become quiet as the banter died down, but a weight had been lifted from the air. As soon as the car came to a stop, Reggie was out, eager to determine just which side would be accompanied with dinner. He gave Marcus a quick nod before heading to the front door. Marcus followed, keys already in hand, ready to step into the familiarity of home.

But Mike stayed put, watching as Armando unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out into the warm Miami evening. Mike took a deep breath, then reached for the trunk release. The click of the trunk opening broke the silence as Armando walked around to the back, retrieving his bag. The sound of the trunk closing seemed to echo louder than it should have in the quiet night.

Mike leaned against the car, his eyes fixed on Armando. "You know this is just temporary, right?" he said, his voice steady but carrying an edge of concern. "A few months of good faith with the department, and I'll see if we can renegotiate your deal. Maybe get you your own place. Or..." He paused, weighing his next words. "You could live with me if that’s what you want."

Armando didn't answer right away. He just stood there, his bag hanging at his side, eyes staring into the distance as if searching for something. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but there was a heaviness to it. "I knew what I was signing up for before I came back here. It's all good, detective."

Mike nodded, understanding the burden Armando was carrying. He wanted to say more, to offer some kind of reassurance, but instead, he forced a small smile. "Come on, let's get inside before Theresa has our heads for letting dinner get cold."

Armando gave a small nod, his grip tightening on his bag as they headed toward the house, the warm glow of the porch light guiding them to the doorstep. As Mike and Armando stepped into the house, the first thing they heard was a chorus of voices shouting in unison, "Welcome to Miami!" The sudden burst of sound startled both men, causing them to glance around the room in surprise.

Before them, a group stood grinning beneath a banner that read "Welcome Cousin Manny," the letters becoming more smushed and chaotic toward the end of the phrase. Theresa was front and center, her warm smile a beacon of welcome. Beside her stood Megan, Marcus's daughter, with a little girl who couldn't be more than one perched on her hip. The toddler, with big curious eyes, clung to her mother's shirt, looking at the newcomers with quiet interest. Reggie was flanked by two boys who looked like they were ready to burst with excitement.

Marcus moved forward first, his usual swagger tempered by the genuine warmth in his eyes. "Welcome, man," he said, clapping Armando on the shoulder before gesturing to his wife. "This is my better half, Theresa."

Theresa stepped up with a welcoming smile, her hand extended. "It's great to finally meet you, Armando. Welcome to the family."

Armando shook her hand, feeling a little overwhelmed by the warmth of the welcome. "Thank you," he said, his voice soft, but sincere.

Theresa nodded, then gestured for Megan to come closer. "And this is our daughter, Megan, and her littlest one, Amala."

Megan shifted Amala to her other hip and smiled. "Hi, it's nice to meet you," she said, while Amala regarded Armando with wide, curious eyes.

Armando nodded to both mother and daughter. "You too," he said, his gaze briefly lingering on the little girl, who gave a shy wave.

Reggie nudged his boys forward. "Alright, boys, introduce yourselves."

The older of the two, who looked about six, flashed a big grin, showing a very visibly missing front tooth. "I'm Marcus Jr., but everyone calls me MJ," he said proudly. "And this is my brother, Dwayne."

Dwayne, who couldn't have been more than four, stared up at Armando in awe, his eyes wide and unblinking. There was a moment of silence before MJ, sensing his brother's hesitation, gave him a gentle push. "Go on, say hi.”

But Dwayne had a different question on his mind. "Have you ever killed anyone.” he asked, his voice filled with innocent curiosity.

The room seemed to freeze for a moment, the air thick with the adults' collective intake of breath. "Dwayne!" came the chorus of scolding voices, but Armando simply shrugged, unphased.

"Yeah," Armando answered simply, meeting the boy's wide eyes with calm seriousness.

Dwayne blinked, his mouth slightly agape. "How many?" he asked before Reggie could reach him, covering his mouth with a swift hand.

But Armando answered anyway, his voice steady. "A lot."

Dwayne, his father's hand still over his mouth, managed to pull it away just enough to whisper, "Cool," his eyes still locked on Armando in amazement.

Megan, catching the moment, stepped forward quickly, herding the boys with practiced ease. "Alright, you two, time to wash up for dinner," she said, her voice firm but loving as she guided them toward the bathroom.

As the kids shuffled off, Marcus gave Armando an apologetic smile. Theresa clapped her hands lightly, breaking the moment of introductions. "Reggie, why don't you show Armando to the room he'll be staying in? It's your and Megan's old room."

Reggie snapped into a playful salute. "Yes ma'am," he said with a grin, then gestured for Armando to follow him.

Armando hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking back to Mike as if silently asking for permission. Mike caught the glance and gave a small nod. Reggie led the way, and Armando followed, disappearing deeper into the house. As they vanished down the hallway, Theresa turned her attention back to Mike and Marcus. "Alright, you two, help me finish setting the table. Dinner's almost ready."

"On it," Marcus said, trailing after his wife. As they moved toward the kitchen, he leaned in closer to her, lowering his voice to a curious whisper. "Hey, babe, you know what quinoa is?"

Mike chuckled at the exchange and was about to join them when the doorbell rang. He paused and called out, "I'll get it!"

Mike strode to the door and opened it to find a young woman standing there, holding a tattered yellow suitcase. She was beautiful, with deep brown hair of twists and single-stranded curls cascading down to her shoulders. Her white and red floral dress, cut off the shoulder and stopping just below her knees, contrasted beautifully against her dark skin.

She wore a polite smile, her eyes warm as she asked, "Is this the Burnett residence?"

Mike took a moment to assess her, his instincts quickly deeming her non-threatening. He returned her smile. "Yeah, you're at the right place. And you are?"

Before the woman could answer, a voice called out from the hallway. "Val?"

Mike turned to see Armando standing there, a look of confusion and surprise on his face.

The woman, Val, however, seemed relieved and stepped into the house, closing the distance between them as she embraced Armando tightly.

Though he hesitated at first, his arms encircled her waist. He leaned in closer to her ear, speaking in a hushed tone of Spanish. "¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?" ("What are you doing here?")

Valerie pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a puzzled expression. She answered in Spanish, her voice at a normal volume. "Terminé el trabajo temprano y tomé un vuelo antes." ("I finished work early and caught an earlier flight.")

Their conversation continued in Spanish, but Mike, who was fluent, caught every word. He watched them carefully, still trying to piece together who this woman was.

As the couple spoke, Marcus reentered the room. "Hey Mike, who's at the—" His question trailed off as he caught sight of Valerie standing there.

Having heard Marcus's voice and the name he called, Valerie turned her attention to Mike. "You must be Armando's father," she said, switching back to English.

Mike nodded, still piecing things together. "Yeah, that's me."

Before he could say more, Valerie threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. "I've heard so much about you," she said, pulling back slightly to look at him. "Well, as much as Armando is willing to tell me. You know how he is."

Mike smiled, though the confusion didn't leave his face. "Yeah... I wish I could say the same about you."

Valerie chuckled, but as she glanced between Mike and Armando, she began to sense the awkwardness in the room. Her smile faltered, and she turned to Armando, speaking in Spanish again. "¿Le has dicho?" ("Have you told him?")

Armando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "No estabas supuesta a llegar hasta mañana por la mañana." ("You weren't supposed to arrive until tomorrow morning.")

Mike, having had enough of the half-whispered conversation in a language he was fluent in, spoke up, his tone firm. "Alright, who is she, Armando?"

Valerie looked at Armando, irritation evident on her face. The silence stretched out before Armando finally sighed again, this time in resignation. He straightened up and wrapped his arm around Valerie's waist, pulling her closer to his side.

"This is Valerie," he began, his voice steady but resigned. "My fiancée."

#armando aretas #jacob scipio #bad boys ride or die #bad boys for life #bad boys legacy #bad boys movie #mike lowrey #marcus burnett #fanfic #writing #alexander ludwig #armando x oc

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