**So I don't know much about when and where to give trigger warnings. I tend to give them if it's triggering for me to write, because that means it's probably triggering for someone to read. I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable, so read cautiously.

And FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, do not leave insensitive comments. This is real, so please. Be kind.

❝first time i felt like i was gonna die,
but i've gotten pretty good
at telling myself it's fine.❞

❘❘

A FUCKING PROBLEM?

Heart sinking and head spinning, I sway on the sidewalk.

I don't have a fucking problem. I'm fine.

As I try to steady myself, I shake my head. This is just what happens. Esta no es la primera vez I've been abandoned, feeling hueca y vacía, down and out. Deprimido. There are always moments the morning after, watching the world whir by beyond a foggy mirror and trying to find a place to slip back in unnoticed.

There are always the fights—grinding teeth, wading through riptides, forcing back nausea, choking on sobs, cursing, hating everyone around me, hating cocaine, hating myself.

The miserable memories rise to the surface, tangling the entire conversation with Emmy into a faint murmur, un tornado retorcido de pensamientos that just keep tumbling over... and... over... and... over...

"Neva, I'm worried about you."

I sniffle, tears springing in my eyes.

"I love you, and I'm so worried about you."

A sob chokes me. Why did I yell at her?

"I think you have a problem, Neva."

I don't. No tengo un problema. I...

I try to steady myself. Why can't I stay steady? ¿Por qué me duele tanto la cabeza?

Bushwick is fucking haunting, blurring past me, spiraling and swimming; it moves like a ghostly cityscape, clashing with the impact of each fractured footstep. Everything is echoing, dancing like stars beneath my eyelids every time I blink and pulsating, just throbbing, like el latido del corazón of a decaying urban jungle.

The stoops sprint by me in streaks of black and white. Desperate to catch up, or escape, I fumble faster and faster, away from her voice, away from her worry, away from her, her, her.

No. No tengo un problema.

A weight settles on my windpipe, so heavy that for a long moment, I can't find oxygen. Every breath from my lungs drags like a raspy cough, ragged pants of frustration.

Hace demasiado calor. Why is it so fucking hot en finales de octubre?

A sheen of sweat coats my forehead; plasters tangled strands of hair to my cheeks and neck. Como una segunda piel that I need to peel off. My nails dig into my palms painfully, resisting the urge to scratch and itch and claw at my arms, to pull apart my body one fucking layer at a time. ¿Por qué todavía me siento así?

Like there's something dentro de mí. Gnawing.

A soft breeze sifts through my hair, caressing damp skin and sinking into my bloodstream. I slow, slow, slow, taking in los sonidos y el aire, letting it numb the truth.

It's not hot. I am.

My heart hiccups, but I come to a grinding halt, boomeranging into a frigid position on the sidewalk.

Suddenly, everything around me is still. Nothing is spinning, nothing is swerving, nothing is spiraling. Dimly lit in the early sunset, the neighborhood is frozen.

I shiver.

I'm fine.

As I swipe at my damp forehead, I force a deep inhale. It feels wrong, so fucking wrong, shaky and unsure and scared.

Why am I scared? Why do I feel like I can't even breathe?

My chest heaves; my lungs constrict. A flutter starts in my chest, so fucking fierce that my breath hitches with the motion, slowing, slowing, slow... slow...

Yeah. I'm fucking fine. It's not me. It's her. Why does Emmy think it's okay to just go through my purse? Why does she care about Marina fucking Forero?

A cold wave sweeps through my chest.

Before I can completely decipher the icy feeling, my fingers are trembling, clutching the purse tightly, digging, digging, digging for... for...

Beneath my eyelids, the ripple of red is violent.

MISSING

My breath hitches, but I still pull the ID out cautiously, nervously, anxiously, cupping a hand over it to look at the tiny black and white photo.

Marina Forero stares back at me with the same smile.

It's her. Desaparecida.

"Oh, mamacita, pretty girls like you get killed with that kind of attitude."

No desaparecida. Muerta.

The consequences were always there, like red-hot irons of impulsive recklessness, spurring me to the edge of euphoria—those sleepless nights, sharing kisses through wisps of smoke and living on stolen time... stolen snow.

Those were my problems—missing girls and stolen snow.

Because how could this end?

Nada es para siempre.

Would someone post photos of me like that when I went missing? Would a fuzzy photo circulate Facebook for a few weeks? Would anyone ever know I was murdered over a couple kilos of cocaine?

Would anyone ever get caught?

My knees buckle, a jolt of panic crippling me. Why didn't... why didn't I die last night? If Javier, or Half, knew that I... por qué... ¿por qué no me mató a mí?

"While you're at it, you can tell Rivera that I'll come for him."

It winds me. Wobbling on the sidewalk, dizzy with nausea, I gasp for air. This is because of Julian. It's his fault. I'm not... I'm not going down for something he did.

"Greed, Neva. Remember that. That's what gets you killed."

"Greed," I say, the word like a soft promise—a death sentence.

The low, long sound of laughter reels me back to the moment. I blink in surprise, fumble to catch my footing, and then trip. My palms hit gravel, my bare knees scraping to steady myself before I can completely sprawl onto the sidewalk.

Wincing, I reach for the ID to tuck back in my purse. I grind a curse back and shake my head, peering up timidly to find several men hanging out in front of the bodega at the corner, dark, dark, dark gazes lingering on me.

Tears burn at my eyes, but when I stumble up to my feet, everything burns. Cheeks flaming, knees rubbed raw, and heart constricting, I swallow a pathetic cry.

It's one of those fucking moments—uno de esos momentos that I hate. I feel small. So fucking small.

I tuck my chin, let my hair curtain my face, inhale shakily. My gaze skates away to latch onto the Honda Civic at the curb, and relief clogs my throat.

I just need to get the fuck out of here.

As I push past the last few stoops to my parked car, the laughter stalls. It feels like fire trickling down my spine, simmering under the weight of a million heated stares. I squirm, tugging at the hem of my dress as I stray further from the milk crates and the scent of cigarettes and the unsettling silence.

I steal one fucking glance, and it's fierce and frantic, a lighting bolt of dread propelling me off the curb quickly. The footsteps are quiet, but swift, parting from the group, behind me, behind me, behind me, and I round the trunk to the driver's side with a quick curse, scrambling for keys, spurts of breath coming in short pants, knowing, just knowi—

Fingers lacing around my arm, a grunt, shoes smacking against concrete.

Bushwick spins.

My back hits the door of my car.

The impact sends me reeling. A violent cough breaks free, plunging my vision into darkness as I drift through another dizzy spell. "What th—"

"Mmm. We've been waiting for you."

My throat tightens. "What?"

"Florida plates, baby." It's a playful drawl, spilling into the space between us with a warning. "Knew we'd find you."

I blink up at him. A silhouetted figure in the last few hours of daylight, fringed by a faint orange glow. As everything sharpens, my gaze traveling up his lean chest and to his face, icy cold fingers of fear clench around my heart.

My stomach twists just like it did that day.

All the hazy memories of summer come fluttering back—dangerously dark clubs and sun-soaked Jersey City.

"I... I recognize you," I breathe.

A small smile toys at his lips, a trace of teasing in the edges, almost as if he's playing nice. "Yeah, you stole an 8 ball from me, babe."

"I d—"

I barely feel it. I hear it.

The back of his hand colliding with my cheek, cracking through the crisp air, slicing the moment into a deadly stillness.

I collapse against the car with a silent sob, but when I reach for my cheek, he catches my wrist. Twists it.

Gently, so fucking gently, fingertips trace the stinging skin, almost willing the pain into a soothing numbness. "You know," he lulls, his voice low and menacing, a whisper against my lips. "Your boy stole four kilos."

Something metallic fills my mouth. "I swear, I didn't know he was going to—"

Those fingers wrap around my throat. Tight. "Oh, but he knew. He knew he was going to do it. Why do you think he used your car? Your plates? It would only lead us back to you. Not him."

My car. My plates. Me.

"So what do you say, huh? Should you pay for it?"

The numbers whirl in my head, cluttered and contorted into a chaotic jumble. I barely remember how much it was worth; I barely remember the money because todo siempre... everything has always been free.

Stolen.

"I can't—" I choke on my words, swallowing the meek excuse as I meet his gaze.

"That's okay, baby," he soothes with another lazy smile. There's a calculated edge in each loose word, a friendly facade to mask a threat glinting across the black ice in his eyes. "I did hear that he actually likes you."

My pulse spikes. Too close, too close, too close. Shrinking back into the car, I fumble to put space between us.

It's too hot.

He leans closer, and as our chests brush, another flutter of panic erupts inside of me. "I wonder how true that is. Does he really like you?"

When his fingers loosen around my neck, I shake my head, panting breathlessly. "Please, d—"

Something cold.

I freeze.

As it dances up my bare arm, lighting every nerve to a chilling sensation, I've never been so fucking cold.

"Mmm. I bet if I cut up his bitch a bit, he'd get me my money."

My heart fucking surges up my throat. "No, I—"

"Or we could put a train on you, baby." The blade twists up to tap my jaw teasingly. Icy panic slithers through my veins. "I bet you'd even like it. I heard his girl was sleeping around on him."

Where did he... how did... I...

My mouth opens. Closes. I blink, paralyzed in fear. Still and silent, I can only stare at him, watching the amusement flicker in his eyes and tug his lips into a wicked grin.

He cocks his head to the side. "No way that pussy is worth how much he stole from us," he snickers. "Not a dirty little border rat like you."

It burns in the back of my throat. A cocktail of shame and disgust, gathering with bile and acid, a sob, a curse, something strangled in Spanish. It doesn't come up; it simmers and sets, leaving nothing but a bitter aftertaste.

Chuckling lowly, he dips closer to me. Warm air wafts across my lips, tainted with a stale scent of cigarettes. "You should probably go back to where you came from, bitch," he slurs, a mild warning, laced with hostility. My stomach lurches. "Before that mamabicho gets you killed."

His chest presses to mine hard, pinning me to the car. As the icy blade tracks across my burning cheek, the clashing sensations elicit a shiver. "I di—"

His fingers slip to the edge of my dress.

And suddenly, I'm thrashing.

I jerk my knee, I swat at his shoulder, I writhe beneath his weight until I'm dizzy, desperate to escape his grasp, just... desperate.

Somehow, I end up crushed against the car tighter. With his hand between our bodies, with a knife at my throat, with a violent warning flashing in front of me.

My chest heaving, my lip wobbling, my head reeling, my entire body shaking. I grind my teeth together. "Don't touch me."

"Oh, come on," he teases, never halting of slowing. As I wriggle uncomfortably, his fingers inch higher, dancing to my inner thigh lazily. "I saw the way you looked at me that day. Practically asking for it."

Asking for it.

It tastes like gravel and glass, blood and black skies—a breathless plea to stop. "I wasn't asking for a—"

"I think you were," he chirps, his brows raising. "Even today, walking by us in this slutty dress, just begging to be fucked, huh?"

Indignation blinds me. "You're pathetic," I spit viciously. "Fucking pathetic."

With a slowly dying sunset, the light above Bushwick is fading, casting us into darkness on the street. A shadow passes over his features. "I think you're pathetic. You'd probably suck my dick for a little blow, baby. Or maybe to get you and your man out of trouble."

"Never," I grind out between clenched teeth. "Sobre mi cadavér, pinche pendejo. Prefi—"

It's metal and stars.

My head smashes against the car, and for a second, I can only taste blood, and I can only hear a ringing, and I'm swaying, and I'm wincing, and I'm crying.

"Speak English, bitch."

Fingers rope through my hair, pulling, yanking, wrenching me back against his body. I whimper, a fresh pain exploding in my skull and buckling my knees. Black spots dance through my vision, leaving trails of dying streaks and foggy words. What... ¿qué está diciendo?

I hear it faintly, a harsh voice, a raspy command, but it's rippling beyond a screeching echo, floating above me as I sink, as I'm shoved lower... lower... lower...

"On your knees."

Another ache blossoms in my skull, dimming the world into a watery darkness. A tight grip on my roots, fisting chunks of hair, pushing me to the ground haphazardly.

"I can send Jules a cute picture of his girl," he drawls. "With my dick in her mouth."

A button pops, a zipper snips, a—

"No, no, no!" I shove at his hips frantically, scrambling, fumbling, flailing in panic. When he stumbles back, I crumple, knees and palms digging into gravel. Tears attack, spilling over my cheeks, and as I level with the waistband of his boxers, just inches away, I let out a violent sob.

No.

Why does no never work?

He stills, laughing lowly. "Oh come on, baby, I heard you love to suck dick."

I peer up at him through wet lashes, feeling... small. Helpless.

Dirty.

"Practically asking for it."

Something fragile and weak, a mess of tear-stained cheeks and tangled hair, lost at the bottom of the city... cracking like ice.

Cold.

Another sob shakes my shoulders, and I flinch back, curling into myself to keep him from touching me. Todo duele, and I can't make it stop.

I don't want to feel like this.

"Fuck, I didn't think you were going to cry," he hisses, glancing around cautiously. When his gaze falls to me again, he rolls his eyes. "Seriously? Jesus Christ, get the fuck up."

No puedo.

I shake my head, blubbering something incoherent, but then his hand is around my arm, gripping tight, twisting skin, pulling me back to my feet.

"No." I tear away from him, wobble, crash into my car with a cry. "Get away from me."

"Do yourself a favor, bitch," he whispers, steadying me with a glare. "Get my money from him. Soon."

❘❘

**UGH. It took a lot to publish this. There are two more chapters of Part III and... they're hard for me, but they're coming soon! 💕

I love you guys so fucking much.