98 Emotional chaos

98 Emotional chaos
Date = 14 August
Place = San Francisco (Black Pit)

POV - Enrique

The club is chaos. Not the wild, sweaty kind we built it for — but the kind with white ribbons and floral tape and people arguing over centerpieces. I spot River barefoot on one of the bars, trying to hang peach streamers with her teeth, while Mel yells at someone about candle symmetry.
If hell threw a wedding, it would look exactly like this. Lights are half-installed, florals are everywhere, and at least three people are arguing about whether peach is technically a color or just a fruit with delusions of grandeur.
I step over a ladder, avoid a child wielding a hot glue gun like a small war criminal, and find Aria outside the club near the delivery area.
Her cheeks are flushed from laughing too hard, probably at something Noah said. He always has that casual golden-boy charm. It’s annoying. I adore it.
Aria grins like she’s been keeping the world’s best secret, and when she presses a set of keys into Noah’s palm, it’s with a kind of reverence that makes him freeze.
She’s bouncing on her toes, practically vibrating, while Noah stands slack-jawed beside the truck — big green beast, chrome glinting like it’s been dipped in sunlight, tires so oversized they look like they could climb the side of a mountain. The thing even has a damn cupholder — everything a young nerdy engineer could possibly want.
Noah stares at her, completely still. “You got me a truck?”
“Yup,” she chirps, tossing her hair back with a shrug that can’t possibly hide how smug she is. “Alejandro helped pick it. It’s a graduation-slash-job-searcing-slash-being-my-brother gift.”
“How the hell did you manage to afford a truck?” Noah asks, keys dangling from his fingers, eyes wide as he stares at his sister. “What — did you start smuggling organs?”
“I sold a kidney,” she says sweetly, then cracks up at his startled look, laughter spilling out of her like champagne. “With money, genius.”
He just stares at her, still not computing. “You don’t have money. Did you rob your toyboy?”
“Hey,” I cut in, leaning against the hood with the best offended face I can summon. “It’s brother-in-law for you. Upgrade the title.”
“And no … I had nothing to do with this.” Directly, at least. Because indirectly? Yeah. Maybe I did.
I’m the one paying her salary — a truth tucked so deep inside me it’s never seeing daylight. One secret I plan to carry straight to the grave.
The thought makes my chest tighten.
Does that make me like my brother? A keeper of shadows. Of half-truths. Of silence dressed up as protection.
I swallow hard.
Hell, I hate that comparison. But I’m doing it because I want her to achieve her dreams … and because I peach her.
That has to count for something. Doesn’t it?
“No, seriously,” Aria insists, brushing a strand of hair back, eyes fierce with pride. “It’s all mine. That job pays insanely.”
Tell me about it.
“I think I might have chosen the wrong profession.” Noah shakes his head, lets out a startled laugh, then hauls her into a hug so tight she squeaks. “You’re crazy,” he mutters into her hair before shoving her back to arm’s length, eyes gleaming.
He circles the truck, slowly, whistling low under his breath like he’s afraid the damn thing will bolt if he moves too fast, his hand hovering over the hood before finally pressing flat against it, reverent.
He brushes the glossy green paint with a sense of awe. “Aria, you can’t just —” His eyes shine — not the casual kind, but the kind that makes your throat tighten for no damn reason.
“I can, and I did. And you deserve it. For surviving mechanical engineering and … well, life.”
He opens the driver’s door carefully, like it’s some kind of portal to another world. His throat works, his eyes glassy. “This is too much.” He rubs a hand over his face, trying to hide it.
It’s just a truck. It’s paperwork and spare change, something I can replace without noticing the money leave my account.
But for him, it’s different. His first car. Freedom. Stability. That super feeling — that impossible mix of disbelief and pride — of taking ownership of something expensive.
A feeling I’ve never had.
And it hits me then — how different our worlds are.
For me, this truck is small change. A line item. A swipe of a card I wouldn’t remember tomorrow.
I’m so used to wanting something and simply … having it. No waiting. No wishing. No wondering if I deserve it.
Watching Noah stand there, emotional over something I barely think about, cracks something open in my chest. Maybe wealth isn’t just what you have — maybe it’s how rarely you stop to feel grateful for it.
I’ve lost people, made mistakes, survived more hell than I like to admit — but I’ve also been ridiculously lucky. I’ve never had to pray for a win this small to feel this big.
Guilt curls in my gut, sharp and undeserved, because when was the last time I looked at anything in my life with that kind of awe?
I snort quietly at myself. Maybe I should start — before the universe decides to remind me how much I already have.
“Don’t get emotional,” I say to get this over and done with, “We have a strict no-crying-before-the-wedding policy.”
“Says the man who cried when Snape died,” Aria fires from the side, wicked gleam in her eye.
“I did not cry,” I snap, indignant. I peek sheepishly-embarrassed at Noah.
“You did that weird hiccup thing,” she counters, and she’s laughing so hard her whole body shakes. I look at her in awe and realize … she’s my new shiny truck. The best things in life money can’t buy.
“Those were emotion-suppressed hiccups. Totally different,” I murmur, voice rough and ragged with emotion. “And everyone cries when Snape dies. Except maybe Jackson. That bastard’s heart is bulletproof.”
Noah blinks rapidly, still swallowing it all down. “Aria … seriously. You didn’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I did.” Her voice gentles, eyes soft as dusk. “Because you’re you.”
He doesn’t argue. He just drags her into another hug, fierce and wordless, and she folds into it as if she belongs there.
Watching it feels like standing too close to a fire. I look away, trying not to get hit in the feelings.
Noah’s voice carries lightly through the air. “I have a surprise for you, too.”
Aria tips her head back, brows arched.
He grins, boyish and almost shaky. “Both Honda and Reapers offered me a job.”
Aria squeals, jumping on him, practically strangling his neck. “Are you serious?! Noah!”
He laughs, big and unrestrained, grinning like a fool. “Dead serious. I’ll be a junior mechanical engineer, starting the new season.”
“Hell,” she breathes, clutching him like he’s gold she’s afraid to drop. “Which team are you going to choose?”
“Damion’s … of course.”
“You better,” she chuckles.
For a beat, joy is everything. Then it shifts. Quiet creeps in.
“Dad would’ve been so proud,” she says softly, her cheek pressed against his chest.
Noah’s smile trembles, like a cracked glass still holding water. “He would’ve come to every race.”
“With confetti cannons,” she adds, half-laughing through the ache. “And one of those giant foam fingers that says ‘That’s My Kid!’ on it.”
They laugh, but it trails off. As if something’s missing, it falters, threads fraying into silence. The kind that hollows the air, heavy with loss.
Aria runs her hand along the hood of the truck, fingers trembling. “I wish he could see this. See you joining Monster Reaper, see Leyla getting better, see me … getting married.”
Her voice flickers, softer now, almost breaking. “I wish he could walk me down the aisle.”
She blinks hard, then tips her head against Noah’s chest again. “But I’m glad it’s you.”
He goes rigid for a second. Then melts. His chin drops onto her head, his arms anchoring her. “You’re stuck with me, sis.”
“He would have probably lectured Enrique for a good half-hour before handing you over,” he chuckles. “Maybe threw in a few threats.”
“That’s your job now.”
“Well,” he smiles faintly. “Then I’m super thankful you’re marrying the not-so-scary, poetic twin.”
They both laugh, but the sound’s frayed. Splintered with ache.
I step forward, arms folded, leaning into the moment, trying not to intrude.
Aria wipes under her eyes and turns toward me, her smile fragile but real. “You’d have liked him,” she says, almost shy. “My dad.”
I meet her gaze. My throat feels tight, but I keep it simple. Soft. “I like him already. He made YOU.”
But then something shifts in her face, like a thought turning over.
“Wait …” Her brows pull together. Aria glances over at me, expression shifting. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to make this awkward. I know your dad —”
“— wasn’t around?” I finish for her, amused. But she sees it — like always. That shadow I hide in humor. The part that watches this warm, intact sibling moment and remembers something else.
A hole. A pit. An absence.
“I mean —” she tries, but I quickly interrupt her.
“It’s okay,” I say, stepping closer. “You don’t have to tiptoe around me — your happiness doesn’t break me, it saves me.”
“But you’re wrong. He was there.”
Aria’s brows knit. Noah tilts his head, waiting.
“My dad,” I clarify. My throat feels tight, like it’s been holding this truth too long. “He was there. Just … not in a way you’d notice.”
The air shifts, heavy, like the room itself pauses to listen.
“Hiding in the wings,” I add. “Back of the crowd. Dark corners. Watching us.”
Aria’s eyes glisten, surprise cutting through her face. Her lips part like she’s trying to breathe it in. “You never told me that.”
“I try not to trauma-dump before sex.” My voice comes out cracked, half a laugh, half a defense. Noah rolls his eyes.
She lets out a wet chuckle, brushing my arm, her touch soft but weighted with understanding.
“He was in the shadows,” I murmur, softer now, like saying it too loud would shatter the memory. “Boosting us. Even when we didn’t know it.” I think about the producer he threatened — about learning how far he went, how fiercely he intervened — and my chest tightens with the realization that it probably wasn’t the only time. “Maybe especially then.”
Noah swipes his thumb across his eye, pretending it’s dust.
“Even if we didn’t know it then … we know now that although if he wasn’t loud, at least he gave a damn.”
“Hell,” she says, smiling. “You really are the poetic twin.”
“I write vows and set up contracts,” I shrug, but the words are jagged in my chest.
“Talking about fathers and things you don’t know,” she bumps my arm, “You should talk to Jackson. You’ve both been brooding like it’s a full-time job.”
She tries to smile when she adds, “And I’m not walking down that aisle until you sort it out.”
It’s meant to sound light. Teasing. Almost funny.
But the look in her eyes tells me she’s not joking — not even a little.
“Oh, good,” I mutter, forcing levity, though the air still tastes like ghosts. “A moody twin summit. Just what I need.”
“Maybe share some feelings.”
I scoff, shaking it off like armor. “No. Gross. He’s like … a wet Rottweiler with a bad hair day.”
“He’s your twin, Enrique,” she says, her tone shifting — less teasing, more honest. “I think he reminds you of yourself.”
I reject that theory on principle and personal dignity. And it’s a little offensive — to me and to Rottweilers everywhere.
“What … caffeinated? Horny? Slightly unstable?”
“Thanks,” she deadpans. “Really paints a touching picture I didn’t need in my head.”
“Go,” she chuckles and pushes me off. “You spend time with your brother, I spend time with mine.”
“Can we switch?” I ask, half-hopeful, half-dreading. Hers is clearly the less haunted choice.
“Fuck, no,” she sneers, wicked and warm all at once. “That one is all yours.”
Noah just shakes his head, lips twitching, like he knows exactly how doomed I am.
The walls feel closer now, every shadow in the room whispering about the ones missing. The weight of it presses against my ribs until I huff, throwing my hands up.
“Fine, I’m going,” I mutter. “But only because I’m in the mood to fight someone. And he owes me answers.”
Noah chuckles, low and knowing. “Good luck with both of that.”
“You better not have a black eye at the wedding,” Aria threatens.
I snort. Then sigh. Then I walk into the club, heading for the office, before either of them can stop me — or before the dread swallows me whole — to find the one person who can knock the sudden ache loose.
The corridor reeks faintly of smoke, bourbon, and leather, like the fallouts of bad decisions soaked into the walls. Inferno’s bass thumps through the floorboards, low and relentless, like a heartbeat you can’t shut off.
I push into the office.
Jackson is there, exactly as I expect him — hunched over a tumbler of something dark and bitter, legs kicked up on the velvet ottoman like he owns grief itself. He is focused on the tablet balanced on his lap. He looks carved out of stone — shoulders tight, jaw harder.
“Hey,” I say, slapping the doorframe. “Wanna be useful or just haunt this room until someone mistakes you for wedding decor?”
He doesn’t look up. “Someone has to make sure the perimeter’s secure.”
“For what? Rogue florists?”
“For anyone who might want to ruin your wedding.”
I snort. “They’re dead.” The hope in that word feels too thin.
“Exactly.”
Inferno’s bass rumbles beneath our feet. His shirt is rolled to the elbows, collar loose, and he looks like he’s been arguing with reality all night, drinking that black coffee like it’s blood.
I step in and close the door.
He doesn’t look up. “I’m busy.”
“Cool. I’m nosy.”
“Do it somewhere else.”
“Can’t. You’re the only person alive who answers questions by emotionally waterboarding people, and I’m ready to drown.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smirk. “Tempting.” He’s such an ass.
I drop onto the sofa beside him, snagging his coffee. It tastes like him — dark, broody, meaner than it has any right to be.
That gets his attention. He glances at me, annoyed. “What now?”
“You didn’t tell me,” I say, slow, casual, like tossing a grenade. “That Xander wasn’t our real dad.”
Jackson doesn’t flinch. Just sighs and rubs the back of his neck.
I wait. The silence stretches until I want to throttle him.
“That’s old news now,” he mutters.
“Still.” I sip again. Scalding, bitter.
“Never found the right time.”
“Try now.” I take another sip of his caffeinated drink. I just can’t call this brew coffee. At least it’s hot.
“What do you want me to say? Congrats, you figured it out. Want a cookie?” His tone is a blade, but the guilt is there. Buried.
“When did you find out?” I ask, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
“Long time ago.” He can be such a closed-off prick.
“Define long.”
His face gives nothing. “Third grade Biology.” He’s known for years.
“That narrows it down.” I want to slam his head into the wall.
“Didn’t think it mattered.” I feel like strangling him. Or hitting him with a fist. “Because knowing didn’t change anything.”
I snap, voice cracking sharply — “It means he hated us for something.”
Jackson leans back, like grief is his throne. “You think knowing that would’ve made it easier?”
“I think it would’ve made it honest.”
He’s quiet. The kind of silence that bites.
“I overheard Rosa,” I press, my pulse hammering.
“Yeah, I heard.” Sky must have told him. Or Rosa. Everyone always tells him everything; no one tells me.
“You know who our real father is.”
Too long a pause. His shrug is a mask.
“You really want to unpack that right before your wedding?”
“Why not? If I’m signing my soul away, might as well know the full family curse.”
“Our curse is Alexander.”
“Give me a name.” My voice is low. Grim. Laid with emotion.
“No.”
“Give me a reason.”
His gaze locks on mine. Steel. “Because you would do something emotional, like go looking for acceptance and shit.” I bite my teeth. What an ass!
My teeth grit. I really want to hit him.
Hard.
“I just want to know,” I spit. “Rosa says it was part of a plan.”
“It was.” His tone is ice. “Alexander’s plan. We were created to better his future. Just like Uncle Ash.” His words don’t even make sense, but the weight of them does.
“And I found the name not that long ago.”
My frustration builds fast, like a match to oil. “You always do this. You hoard secrets like it makes you a better martyr. You think being the one who knows protects the rest of us?”
“Sometimes it does.”
“Bullshit!” I slam my palm on the coffee table between us. It rattles, the coffee sloshes, but Jackson doesn’t move. He just stares at the damn tablet.
“Did you fake it?” I ask, suddenly.
“Fake what?”
I tilt my head. “Sometimes I wonder if you cried on purpose. So he’d stop hurting the rest of us.”
The air freezes. He stares at me, unreadable. Then he rises, crossing to the window. The bay sprawls beyond, black and endless, like it might swallow him whole.
“Jackson.”
His jaw flexes. His exhale sounds like something tearing loose. “Would it matter if I did?”
“Yes.”
He blinks. “Then no.” Liar. Fuck. When did he learn to lie?
I move beside him, my chest heavy and burning. “You selfish, twisted bastard. You can’t keep doing this. Bearing it all and pretending it’s some kind of heroic silence. I need to know things.”
The quiet between us crackles, acidic, like the air’s too sharp to breathe.
Finally, he exhales, voice raw. “I faked it. But it wasn’t a big deal.” His tone drops. “He hated me most. I just leaned into it.”
Deep down, I’ve always known. But hearing him confess … the words gut me. My fists clench. I don’t know if I want to hug him or break his ribs.
“Goddammit,” I muttered.
“It was coming to me, whether I faked it or not,” he added flatly. “If a few crocodile tears bought my brothers a time out from torture, fine. Worth it.”
My throat burns. Something splits inside — old, ugly, grateful — all at once.
“Are there more secrets you’re keeping from me?”
A beat. Two.
He finally looks up. “Yes.” His eyes glitter like steel.
I glare at him as if he just sprouted a horn.
“Yes,” he repeats, heavier this time. “There are more. And you don’t want them.”
“How the hell do you know what I want?” I feel angry.
“I’ve known you since before you had a dick.”
“And you’ve been a pain in my ass since.”
He cracks a rare grin, sharp and tired. “Exactly. So trust me. Some things are better off buried.”