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CHAPTER 8

Blake Moreno Bowmen

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Blake Moreno Bowmen was royally fucked. So much so that by the end of first period, he got in his car and left school.

Making that bet with Rhodes was supposed to be a good idea. It was his first independent decision since becoming cyng, and it would shut his elder kin up after it got him the East. Unfortunately, he had not considered the possibility that the girl was already taken.

The bitch got me, he thought.

Clicking his tongue, he texted Enrique and Jack to pick Lynch up after school, lit a cigarette, and sped off. By the time he got West and the gates to his estate were opened by the guards, Blake finished his smoke. Up the winding driveway, he swore out loud at the cars parked in front of his house. He knew his elders would show up after news spread, but hoped for more time.

Parking his car, Blake got out and mentally prepared himself as he walked up the curved entryway steps. The house was large, like a prison, with six looming pillars at the front and three storeys of identical grand windows looking down on him. The butler, Charlie, welcomed him inside before Blake could knock. A headache was waiting for the young cyng at the glass dining hall.

"I knew you were stupid, Chico. I just did not know you were reckless, too," Dominic Moreno said from where he was slumped at the head of the table. His demeanour seemed calm, but those dark, narrowed eyes suggested otherwise. A classical piece played in the background, Rachmaninov's The Isle of the Dead. Violins rose.

"We barely landed before news spread, and we had to fly back to Tygerwel," Anthony Vargas added, lighting a cigar.

"This is why you should consult us," Thomas Delgado said.

Peter Quintero stayed quiet, but the look he had said enough. Blake's Elder kin consisted of his uncle's friends. He was convinced the lot of them shared the same brain. Not in the mood to argue about the bet, the young cyng leaned against a wall.

"Whenever something even slightly interesting happens, she calls you. Does my mother truly have nothing better to do?" he asked, twirling his bracelet around his wrist.

Dominic scoffed.

"If you think we're giving you a hard time, you should prepare for my sister's wrath. She's searing."

"Where is Antonella?"

"Church."

"You weren't kidding," Blake sniggered. "She's furious."

"I suggest you go explain this mess to her," his uncle said as he got up from his seat, the others following suit. "We can continue our conversation at tonight's end-of-the-month shipping."

"I told you last week, I don't need you to handle a few containers," Blake asserted with gritted teeth.

Dominic passed him and was about to leave, but glanced over his shoulder. He gave the young cyng the worst kind of look. Pity.

"No, clearly you do, Chico," he said before leaving.

Blake was left alone in the glass dining hall and thought for a beat that everything would shatter and break. Table and chairs still intact, he swore, lit a cigarette, and turned the music off.

The devil was waiting for him at church.

His drive was short. The old church was in Western territory, after all, built back in 1810 when his ancestors helped to develop Tygerwel. It was exactly how one would picture a 204-year-old church to look like. Faded white stone, a simple geometric shape, commanding pillars, and a carved pediment on top depicting a religious scene. The more alarming part of the church was the convertible car parked at the front.

Regretting being born, Blake got out and headed inside. Past the rows of pews, a massive glass-stained window stood glaring on the other end. The dimly lit nave swallowed all who entered with high arches and grand décor. But no amount of intricately carved saints could hide his mother.

Antonella Sofia Moreno was the only other soul in church. The Colombian woman stood in front of the bye-alter, a statue of Mother Mary gazing down upon her as she lit a single votive candle. She raised her necklace to her lips, a prayer kissed upon its cross.

"I'm surprised the both of us aren't burning," Blake greeted. "I doubt our Lord would be flattered by sinners like ourselves."

Antonella was quiet, finishing her prayer before slowly turning around and staring icebergs at her son.

"El que reza y peca, empata," she replied.

Blake chuckled at the woman's composed words. He who sins but prays breaks even overall. It was a phrase she often repeated when he still attended Mass.

"More like, he who sins but pays breaks even, Mother."

Antonella held out a matchstick for Blake to take. He reluctantly stepped forward, lighting the match before selecting a candle. There was no question who it was for. For the last three years, every single candle in this church had only been for one person.

You watching, Brother? Blake thought as he lit a flame. Do you see the shit you left me to deal with?

The cyng of the West took his time with his prayer. Only once he was prepared for his mother's wrath did he finish and turn to her. She had a look that could snuff out every candle in the church.

"Hand," she said as expected.

He stuck out his left hand as his mother took a candle from the bye-altar. She held it under his palm, and the scent of burnt skin followed. Putrid and steaky. Through it all, Blake refused to make a sound, only gritting his teeth. As a child, he cried everything out.

Before the burn could become too severe, Antonella returned the candle. Finally, she looked ready for a conversation.

"Explain," she said. "Explain what the fuck made you seal that bet. In blood, no less!"

Blake had his hands behind his back, not daring enough to look at the damage as he kept his mother's glare. His steel bracelet was a cool salve against the wound.

"I thought it was time for me to..."

"That's your first mistake, Chico! You thought!" Antonella cut off. "There's no need for you to think! I told you, didn't I? When your elders say sit, you sit. And when they say smile, you grin like it's the happiest day of your life. I did not say to suddenly discover your brain out of nowhere. You are not your brother. All you have is your blood. Stunts like this only prove my point!"

"The West could double in size," Blake defended.

"And the West could vanish! You sealed it, Chico. By the end of this childish bet, one of the last seven bloodlines will be gone."

"Making us a step closer to being the one true bloodline, Mother. Is that not what all this is about? Two hundred and twelve years of war? The Dynast was never supposed to split up. That was what father told us. And that is what my brother tried to correct. Don't shun me for living by their ideals."

Antonella inhaled deeply. She looked tempted to grab another candle.

"Fine," she said, "let's pretend you made an attempt at an intellectual thought. Are you undoubtedly certain you can win this bet? Do the odds favour you? Were you clever enough to trick the East into a deal they could never win from the start? Or was this all merely reckless impulse?"

"Well..."

"Well, what, Chico? Is this bitch already in love with you, or haven't you even started yet?"

Blake reached for his pocket, fingers brushing his pack of cigarettes, but stopped himself. He would be burnt to a crisp if he tried that in church. Instead, he leaned against a pillar.

"Her name's Amber, Mother. And I, well, I really thought I had it in the bag when I made that bet," he answered truthfully.

Why was the girl's relationship status such a problem? As the child of a loveless marriage, and with Western tradition, likely the future husband of one, it really should not have bothered him at all.

Antonella's eyes held no such conflictions.

"What do you mean, you thought so?"

"I found out Amber already has someone."

"Then kill him."

"Mother."

"Ave María, Chico! You're going to win that bet at any cost. The fate of the whole business rests on your ridiculous capability of fucking that girl," Antonella said. She was not shouting, but the sharpness of her voice sent an uncomfortable scrape down his spine.

"I'll make it work," Blake said, "by any means."

He held the woman's glare with narrowed eyes and knew exactly who he must have looked like. Although he had his father's eyes, there was no mistaking that at that moment, he was his mother.

Antonella had a small, satisfied smile crawl up her lips.

"That's my good boy," she said. "You weren't the first choice, but you'll make this work. I don't expect you to make your father and brother proud, but at least don't embarrass them."

The words stung more than his burnt palm. It was the same words he heard the morning after he was crowned as cyng. The very same morning he returned to that road where dried blood and bullet holes proved the night before was real. The morning where, for the first time, he found himself unable to do anything he once loved.

Antonella slowly made her way to the exit while Blake followed, the sound of his dragging feet filling the church.

"Why don't you invite this girl over? I can be the loving mother-in-law and make her feel right at home."

"I'll think about it," Blake mumbled.

He had no problem with playing a part or having to lie. A trait he got from his mother and was slowly perfecting. It was strange how something so uncomfortable came entirely naturally to him.

"And don't forget to play the dead father and brother card. She'd be sure to feel sympathy towards you and hate the Rhodes boy in the process," Antonella added like she was talking about clothing options.

"Sure," Blake replied, going along with those strings that always made him dance.

"Let your uncle take the lead for tonight's shipment. I'll call him and explain the situation with the bet clearly. All you have to do is show up and show your pretty Bowmen face. Understood?"

"Understood."

"That's my boy." 

When it was late enough for the seagulls to rest and the harbour restaurants to close, the West gathered at the docks. The bay was shaped like the maw of a beast. The upper part was referred to as the harbour, lined with restaurants and fishing boats, while the lower part was known simply as the docks, reserved for large ships. Lengthy concrete slabs jutted out the land and sat neatly on the water, like teeth. There were seven such slabs in total, each able to dock a large shipping vessel. The first slab belonged to the town, second to the West, third to the East, fourth to the North, and the last three to the South.

Blake stood watching from the Western dock as his elder kin approached the anchored feeder vessel. The ship was transporting legal-looking tobacco products as well as not-so-legal cocaine. As long as the media did not get a whiff, things were all set.

"They start yet?" a voice came from behind. Familiar bulky steps accompanied that sturdy tone, and Blake turned to greet his kin.

"Evening, Enrique," he said, attempting and failing a smile.

Enrique Garcia laughed, running his hand over his cropped hair as he stood next to his cyng.

"Jesus, Blake. You sound like the dead."

"I went to church."

"With Antonella?'

He nodded.

"No wonder," Enrique said. "That woman can scare the devil."

A salty breeze drifted over. The two friends watched as the transporters got off the ship and greeted Blake's elders.

"I can't stand those smug bastards," Enrique commented. His fingers fiddled with the zipper of his leather jacket.

Blake quirked an eyebrow before looking back ahead at where his elder kin joked with the transporters. Out of earshot.

"I see you're still clean," he commented.

"If I smelled like smoke, Jessy wou— my landlady would kill me. The woman always complains when she's bringing over dinner," Enrique clumsily tried to explain.

Blake almost smiled.

"There's still room at the community house. Or even mine."

"My... You know my landlady would be disappointed. I think taking care of me keeps her busy."

"Right."

The elder kin shook hands with the transporters. They belonged to the E24 gang, one of the West's blood banners who swore loyalty to the bloodline. Blake could recognise the leader, Enzo Vier. The group stopped laughing when a large man joined them, dragging a heavy sack along and explaining something to Dominic.

"Where's the rest of my kin?" Blake asked.

Enrique stopped fiddling with his zipper, hands in his pockets.

"Jack's entertaining Lynch back home. You mentioned you don't want the kid here. Cal said he'd be late. Dealing with border stuff."

The group ahead turned to look at Blake, and Dominic waved him over with that condescending smile of his.

"No matter," he said to Enrique. "Seems we're done here."

Blake walked over to the men, not saying a word as he shook Enzo's right hand. He felt that familiar scar across the man's palm.

"My cyng, we have disappointing news," his uncle said with a pout, as if playing the part of a loyal elder was funny to him.

"What happened?"

The large man kicked the sack on the ground. The flap opened enough to reveal the boy inside. Bound and gagged with large, frightened eyes. He was wriggling desperately. So young, Blake thought. Likely the same age as him. Tears and regret spilled down the boy's cheeks, staining the cloth stuffed in his mouth.

Dominic offered his gun, and words were not needed.

The cold night bit at Blake's skin. His bones. His blood.

Why? He wanted to ask the whimpering, crying boy. He took the gun. Why did you steal from the stupid product? He pointed. Why did you take from me? Everyone was watching. Why couldn't things stay as they were? His finger gripped the trigger. Why are you making me do this? He had to prove he could do this.

Why did you leave me?

The shot echoed.

Handing Dominic back his smoking gun, Blake passed his uncle and left. Casual laughter behind him. There was some blood on his jacket. His bracelet. But not enough to be too familiar. He walked to the edge of the dock, the very edge, and stayed there.

"Hate that shit," Enrique said next to him. Blake's fingers struggled to light a cigarette. "If Cal's dad was still around, things wouldn't go down like that. Speaking of."

Long steps that could only belong to his first kin approached.

"Excuse me for being late," Calvin Castell greeted, taking his place on Blake's right side. "Things took longer than expected."

"Things here are already settled, Beanpole," Enrique said.

"How was it?" Calvin asked, only shooting Enrique a quick glare.

"The meeting, you'd have to ask my uncle," Blake answered. "The body back there, I could go into great detail about."

Calvin was quiet.

"The elders should learn their place," he eventually said. "They are meant to advise, not control."

"Yeah, but if Blake resists them, they'll cut him off from the suppliers," Enrique pointed out.

"They can't go against their cyng."

"Not directly, but they have ways to dodge around it. Not to mention, they've got all our cartel associates in their pockets."

Blake listened to his kin argue, his eyes on the bay's dark surface. He wondered how many bodies down there were sent by him. He wondered if one day he would be sent next.

"Anything happen at school after I left?" he ended the argument.

Enrique sighed.

"Nothing good," he said. "That Amber chick told Owen about that boyfriend of hers. Alan's his name."

"And?"

"And it doesn't seem like the East cares."

"No surprise there," Calvin commented.

Blake had a tight grip on his cigarette.

Of course, the East is fine with it, he thought. While Blake left to clear his head, that damned Rhodes was moving in. The guy was a pimp, after all. Why would he care about Blondie being taken? As long as a girl was fuckable, he probably could not care less about the details.

"Any suggestions?" Blake asked.

"Camila's monthly party's coming up this weekend. It's here at the docks, so neutral ground," Calvin said. "There's a chance Amber would be there, but the East wouldn't miss the opportunity either."

"Aren't the East participating in the races this weekend? Their driver always wins after all," Enrique pointed out.

"I doubt Owen would let that party go."

"Fuck," Blake swore. He flicked his cigarette to the floor and stepped on it, twisting his foot while imagining Rhodes' face. "Get Jack to do some digging on Amber and this Alan guy."

"And the party?"

"We'll be going," Blake said. "I never miss my shot."

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