The fluorescent lights of St. Mary's Hospital emergency room hummed like dying insects. Marcus Reyes sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles had gone white. Blood—his youngest brother's blood—had dried in brown streaks across his forearms. He'd stopped trying to wipe it away.
Twenty-eight years old, and this was what his life had become: waiting rooms and violence, poverty and prayers that went unanswered.
"Family of Kenneth Reyes?"
Marcus stood. The doctor looked exhausted, the kind of tired that went bone-deep. Marcus recognized it. He saw the same exhaustion every morning in his own mirror.
"He'll live," the doctor said, and Marcus felt something unknot in his chest. "Three broken ribs, fractured orbital bone, significant internal bruising. Someone worked him over professionally. This wasn't a robbery or a random assault."
"Can I see him?"
"Ten minutes. He needs rest." The doctor paused, studying Marcus with the clinical assessment of someone who'd seen too many young men on gurneys. "Detective will want to speak with him when he wakes up. This kind of beating—someone sent a message."
Marcus nodded. He knew exactly what message had been sent.
The room smelled like antiseptic and failure. Kenny lay propped at an angle, his face a palette of purples and reds, one eye swollen completely shut. At twenty-two, he looked like a child, small and broken against the white sheets.
"Marc." Kenny's voice came out wet, painful. "I'm sorry."
"Don't talk."
"They knew. The Valdez people. They knew I was selling on their corners." Kenny coughed, winced. "Said next time they'd kill me. Said to tell you and Dante that the Reyes family doesn't own shit in this city."
Marcus pulled the chair closer to the bed. Outside, through the narrow window, Southside sprawled in all its decay—twenty square blocks of forgotten people living in forgotten buildings. The place they'd grown up. The place that had calcified around them like a cage.
"Where's Dante?" Kenny asked.
"Working." Marcus checked his watch: 2:17 AM. "I'll call him after we talk."
"Dad know I'm here?"
"No. And he won't. Far as Pastor Reyes knows, you're at a friend's place."
Kenny laughed, then immediately regretted it, clutching his ribs. "He'd love this. His youngest son beaten half to death for selling fake Rolexes. Real proud moment for the family."
Marcus said nothing. Their father's pride had died years ago, slowly suffocated under the weight of unpaid bills and unanswered prayers. Pastor William Reyes still climbed into his pulpit every Sunday morning at Southside Community Church, still preached redemption to a congregation of twenty elderly souls, still believed God had a plan. But his suits had worn thin at the elbows, his shoes had holes in the soles, and his sons had learned that faith couldn't pay rent.
"I'm done with the counterfeit game," Kenny said quietly. "I know you told me it was stupid, that I'd get caught or hurt. You were right."
"You need to rest."
"I'm serious, Marc. I'm done playing around. We need real money. The landlord came by yesterday—we're three months behind. Dad doesn't know. I've been lying to him, telling him it's handled. But it's not handled. We're getting evicted."
Marcus felt the anger rise, cold and familiar. Their father spent his days counseling drug addicts and homeless veterans, dispensing spiritual wisdom while his own family drowned in debt. The church paid him $800 a month—barely enough for groceries. The rest fell to Marcus and his brothers.
"I've been working two jobs for five years," Marcus said, his voice flat. "Warehouse during the day, security at night. Dante sends money when he can. We'll figure it out."
"No." Kenny tried to sit up, failed. "We won't. You make $15 an hour and sleep four hours a night. Dante is out there breaking legs for the Mitchell crew, making shit money and risking prison. And I'm selling fake watches to tourists until the real dealers beat me senseless. This is what we've figured out. This is our life."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to admit we're doing it wrong." Kenny's good eye fixed on Marcus with sudden intensity. "We're smarter than this. You especially. You should've gone to college. You had the grades, the scores, everything. But you stayed here to take care of us after Mom got sick. And now you're stuck."
Marcus stood, walked to the window. Below, an ambulance pulled up, lights strobing red and blue. Another casualty of Southside. Another family about to receive bad news.
"Mom didn't die," Marcus said quietly. "She's alive. Living in that apartment with Dad, watching him pray us out of poverty."
"Yeah, but she might as well have. The stroke took everything that made her her." Kenny's voice cracked. "And we're taking care of both of them now while they quote Scripture at us."
It was true, and they both knew it. Their mother had suffered a massive stroke three years ago. She'd survived, but the vibrant woman who'd sung in the church choir and volunteered at the shelter had been replaced by someone who needed help bathing, who confused their names, who sometimes didn't recognize her own sons. The medical bills had buried them. The church had prayed. God had not provided.
"I've been thinking about something," Kenny said. "The Valdez guys who beat me up—they were young. Stupid. High on their own product. They bragged about how much money they make, how easy it is. Said people in Southside are so desperate they'll buy anything."
"Don't."
"Just listen. They're making millions, Marc. Millions. And they're idiots. You've seen them—gold chains, flashy cars, talking loud in clubs. They might as well paint targets on their backs."
Marcus turned from the window. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying we could do it better. We could be smarter. You know systems, logistics, management—all that stuff you learned trying to make it honest. Dante knows the streets, knows the players. And me—I can sell. I've been selling fake merchandise for two years. Imagine if I was selling something people actually wanted."
"You're talking about dealing drugs."
"I'm talking about not being poor anymore. About paying Mom's medical bills. About getting Dad's church a new roof before it caves in. About not working ourselves to death for scraps while everyone around us gets rich or gets out."
Marcus sat back down. He should've been horrified. Should've shut this down immediately. But he wasn't, and he didn't. Because Kenny was right about one thing: they were smart enough to do it better.
"The Valdez Cartel controls Southside," Marcus said slowly. "They've been here for twenty years. You don't just start dealing on their territory."
"That's why we'd need protection. Political protection."
"From who?"
Kenny smiled through his broken face. "You ever met Victor Kane?"
Marcus had heard of Victor Kane. Everyone in Southside had. The city councilman represented their district and three others, a career politician who'd held his seat for twelve years through a combination of charisma, strategic charity, and rumored corruption. He threw Christmas parties for underprivileged kids, showed up at church on Easter, and made sure his face appeared in community newsletters. But people whispered other things too—about deals with developers, about money from questionable sources, about his ability to make problems disappear.
"Kane shops at the bodega where I sell," Kenny explained. "Comes in Tuesday mornings, early, before the crowds. Always alone. No security, no handlers. Just him and a newspaper."
"So?"
"So I've sold him three fake Cartier watches. He knows they're fake. He doesn't care. We talk. He's asked about you, actually. Says he remembers you from high school, that you were the smart one, could've been something."
Marcus did remember Victor Kane coming to speak at their school—some career day presentation about public service. Marcus had been seventeen, still believing that education and hard work could lift you out of places like Southside.
"What does Kane have to do with us dealing drugs?" Marcus asked.
"Everything. He controls the police presence in Southside. He decides which corners get raided and which don't. The Valdez people pay him, but they're sloppy about it. Too visible. He's looking for someone more... professional."
"And you know this how?"
"Because he told me. Last week, after he bought a watch. Said Southside needs better management. Said the right people, with the right approach, could do a lot of good while doing well for themselves. Said if I knew anyone smart enough to think strategically, he'd be interested in a conversation."
Marcus stared at his brother. "He was recruiting you?"
"He was recruiting you, through me. Everyone knows you're the brains of our family. Dante's the muscle, I'm the face, but you're the one who makes things work."
The hospital room felt smaller suddenly. Marcus could see it playing out—the choices, the compromises, the gradual descent into something he'd sworn he'd never become. His father's voice echoed in his memory: *The Lord will provide for those who walk in righteousness.*
But the Lord hadn't provided. The Lord had given them poverty and pain and a mother who couldn't remember her children's names.
"If we did this," Marcus said carefully, "and I'm not saying we are—we'd need rules. We'd need to be different than the Valdez people. Smarter, cleaner, more controlled."
Kenny's smile widened despite the pain. "I knew you'd see it."
"I didn't say yes. I said if." Marcus stood again, restless energy coursing through him. "We'd need Dante. Can't do this without him."
"He'll say yes. He's tired too, Marc. Tired of being poor, tired of watching Dad pray while we starve, tired of working for the Mitchell crew for pennies while they make thousands."
Marcus checked his watch again: 2:43 AM. In three hours, he'd need to be at the warehouse. In eight hours, his father would lead Sunday service, asking God to bless the congregation while his son lay broken in a hospital bed.
"I'll talk to Kane," Marcus heard himself say. "Just a conversation. See what he actually wants."
"When?"
"Tuesday morning. At the bodega. You'll introduce us."
Kenny exhaled slowly, painfully. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. This might be the stupidest thing we've ever considered." Marcus moved toward the door, then stopped. "And Kenny? Not a word to Mom or Dad. They can never know."
"Obviously."
"I mean it. Whatever happens from here, whatever we become—they live in their world, we live in ours. That's the only way this works."
Kenny nodded. "Their heaven, our hell."
Marcus left the room, walking past the nurses' station and through the automated doors into the humid night. His phone vibrated—a text from Dante: *Where are you?*
*Hospital. Kenny got beat. He'll live. Meet me tomorrow afternoon. Your place. We need to talk.*
The response came immediately: *About time.*
Marcus slid the phone back in his pocket and started walking. It was three miles to his apartment, but he needed the time to think. Southside stretched around him, all broken streetlights and boarded windows, liquor stores and check-cashing places, the infrastructure of poverty maintained with brutal efficiency.
How many times had his father preached that the meek would inherit the earth? How many times had Marcus sat in those pews, watching his father's passion, his conviction, his absolute certainty that suffering now meant salvation later?
But Marcus had seen the other side. He'd seen the dealers with their cars and their women and their power. He'd seen men younger than him living like kings while his family survived on rice and beans. And he'd realized something his father never would: the meek didn't inherit the earth. They inherited eviction notices and medical debt and broken sons in hospital beds.
The decision had been made, really, long before Kenny's beating. It had been made in a thousand small humiliations—every bill collector's call, every time his mother forgot his name, every shift at the warehouse moving boxes for $15 an hour while men with half his intelligence made fortunes.
His phone vibrated again. Unknown number. He almost didn't answer.
"Is this Marcus Reyes?" A smooth voice, cultured, the accent of someone who'd left Southside far behind.
"Who's asking?"
"Victor Kane. I heard about your brother. Terrible thing. The Valdez people have become increasingly undisciplined."
Marcus stopped walking. "How did you get this number?"
"Your brother gave it to me months ago, in case I ever wanted to have that conversation." A pause. "I think it's time we talked, don't you?"
"Tuesday. The bodega."
"Too public, too uncertain. My office, tomorrow night. Ten o'clock. Come alone. The building will be empty except for us."
"What if I say no?"
"Then your brother gets beaten again. And the next time, they won't stop at a message. The Valdez Cartel doesn't tolerate competition, Mr. Reyes. And they've noticed your family sniffing around their territory."
Marcus felt ice in his veins. "We're not competition. Kenny was selling watches."
"On their corners, cutting into their business. They don't differentiate. But I can protect you. If you're smart enough to understand what I'm offering."
"Which is?"
"A chance to take what's rightfully yours. Southside is dying, Mr. Reyes. The Valdez organization is parasitic, extractive. They take everything and give nothing back. But what if someone smart, someone from the community, someone who actually cared about these streets—what if that person controlled the flow of product? Think of the good you could do. The families you could help. The neighborhood you could rebuild."
It was a seduction, Marcus knew. A poisoned apple wrapped in the language of social justice. But God, it was tempting.
"What's the catch?"
"I need a favor first. A demonstration of commitment. There's a young man named Connor Mills—son of Councilman Richard Mills, my political rival. He's been dealing independently, cutting into everyone's profits, protected by his father's position. If someone were to remove him from the equation, it would solve several problems. And it would prove to me that you're serious about this opportunity."
There it was. The price of admission.
"You want me to kill someone."
"I want you to solve a problem. How you solve it is your business. Connor Mills is a cancer on this community, Mr. Reyes. He sells to children. He's caused three overdose deaths this month alone. His father protects him, and the system won't touch him. But you could."
Marcus closed his eyes. He saw his mother's confused face, his father's worn shoes, Kenny's broken body. He saw the warehouse where he'd spend tomorrow loading boxes. He saw his entire life stretching forward, gray and small and insufficient.
"I'll think about it," Marcus said.
"Don't think too long. The Valdez people are planning another visit to your brother. And they're asking questions about you and Dante. The clock is ticking, Mr. Reyes. Tomorrow night, ten o'clock. My office is in the municipal building, fifth floor. I'll leave your name with security."
The line went dead.
Marcus stood alone on the empty street, halfway between the hospital where his brother lay broken and the apartment where his mother wouldn't recognize him when he walked through the door. Above, the sky was that particular shade of pre-dawn darkness, not quite night anymore but not yet day.
The pastor's son, about to become a murderer.
His father would say this was the devil's work, that Marcus had failed some cosmic test of faith. But Marcus didn't believe in the devil anymore. He believed in money and power and the hard mathematics of survival.
He pulled out his phone, texted Dante: *Change of plans. Your place, tonight. Bring that thing you keep under your mattress.*
Dante would know what he meant. The gun their brother had bought three years ago, insurance against the violence that soaked Southside like rain.
Marcus started walking again, faster now, purpose replacing hesitation. By the time he reached his apartment, he'd made the calculation. One life—Connor Mills, who by all accounts was indeed a piece of shit—in exchange for a chance to lift his family out of poverty. To pay his mother's medical bills. To give his father a church that didn't leak.
The math was simple, really.
He climbed the stairs to his apartment, unlocked the door, and found his father sitting at the kitchen table, Bible open, reading by the dim light over the stove.
"You're up early," Marcus said.
Pastor William Reyes looked up, and Marcus saw the weight of years in his father's eyes. Fifty-eight years old, but he looked seventy. Poverty aged you fast in Southside.
"Couldn't sleep. Praying for guidance." His father closed the Bible. "Where were you?"
"Work ran late."
It was a lie, the first of many. Marcus felt it settle into place, a brick in the wall he was building between who he'd been and who he was about to become.
"Your mother was asking for you earlier. She couldn't remember where you'd gone. Got upset."
Guilt twisted in Marcus's chest. "I'll see her in the morning."
"She won't remember you were gone by then." His father stood, moved to the stove, poured coffee into a chipped mug. "The Lord works in mysterious ways, Marcus. I know you don't believe anymore. I see it in your eyes. But I pray every day that you'll find your way back to faith."
Marcus wanted to scream. Wanted to shake his father and ask what good faith had done them. But he just nodded, said goodnight, and went to his room.
He didn't sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the building settle around him, and planned a murder.
By the time the sun rose over Southside, painting the decay in shades of gold, Marcus Reyes had crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed. The pastor's son was dead. Something else had been born in his place.
Something that would either save his family or destroy them all.