⊰ 20.5 | 2 ⊱ Blood Debt: Part 2

**Content Advisory: Graphic descriptions of injury and death. Reader discretion is advised.**

⊰ **Marcel** ⊱

Six hours.

It’s been six hours since the ambush, six hours since the love of my life was in harm's way and I lost one of my most loyal men. I feel like I’ve aged a decade in the span of a few hours, and even as Mercy lays upstairs, safely tucked in our bed, I can’t get past this sickening feeling in my gut that something else is going on. That the attack on Mercy is only a fraction of the worst to come.

I make my way through the quiet halls of the house, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The silence is eerie—unsettling. It’s as if the very walls are holding their breath, waiting for the next blow to fall.

I pause outside of the guest room where Ben is recovering, my hand resting on the doorknob. With a deep breath, I steel myself for the conversation I know needs to happen. These men, these CIA agents… I don’t trust them. I don’t *like* them. But they saved Mercy’s life today. That’s a debt that can’t be ignored.

Especially not after the conversation I had with Mercy a couple of hours ago. After I dealt with the aftermath of my men’s deaths, I went up to check on her.

When I entered our bedroom, my heart clenched at the sight of her lying on the bed, her damp hair fanned out across the pillow. She looked so small, so fragile, and it took everything in me not to rush to her side and gather her in my arms.

I’ve known it for a while now, but today…today I realized just how quickly I’m running out of time. I see what this is doing to her. I see what *I* am doing to her, and these measures I’m taking—getting her sober, doing what I can to keep her mind active, making her sit with a therapist—it’s only delaying the inevitable if I don’t get us out of this soon.

“Hey,” I murmured, sitting down on the edge of the bed, right beside Mercy. “How are you feeling?”

She shifted, turning to face me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale and drawn. “I’m okay,” she said softly. “Just… processing, I guess.”

I nodded, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “I know, baby. It’s a lot.”

She catches my hand, holding it against her cheek. “Marcel, I know you don’t want to talk about them, and I’ll let it go if you really want me to. But Ben and Pablo…”

I stiffened, my jaw clenching. “What about them?”

It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to her about them. It’s that I was already on edge. I *am* on edge.

“They risked their lives for me today,” she said, her voice unwavering. “They protected me from the worst of it. Ben got shot putting me in the car, and Pablo…he tried to keep me from seeing…” She trailed off, her eyes filling with tears.

I swallowed hard, an uncomfortable realization settling in my gut. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. They protected her. They put themselves in harm’s way to keep her safe.

And it’s knowing that they would’ve given their lives to save her that’s unsettling. Not because they’d be protecting her in the name of civic duty or to save themselves from me if something did happen to her, but because I know it’s *more than* that.

They like her. They care about her.

And as much as I trust her, as much as I know she would never betray me that way…the thought of her being more than friendly with them gnaws at my insides in a very different way.

When it comes to her world of numbers and science, they have much more in common with her than I ever will. I’m not an idiot. I know what I have. She is a prize. She’s the girl next door no one looked at twice until she grew into this beautiful, brilliant woman. I see the way they look at her, especially Ben.

And it’s the way her eyes light up, the way she smiles and glows when she’s talking mathematics and physics that makes me wonder… would she be better off with someone who shares that same passion? Would she be happier?

*At the very least…she’d be safer.*

Pulling out of my thoughts, I try to send the memory and the feelings that came with it to the back of my mind. With the doorknob still in hand, I push open the door, stepping into the guest room. Ben is propped up in bed, his leg heavily bandaged. Pablo sits in a chair beside him, his face drawn and tired.

They both look up as I enter, wariness flickering in their eyes. I can’t blame them. I’ve treated them as close to enemies as I can since the revelation of what and who they really are.

“How’s the leg?” I ask, nodding towards Ben’s injury.

He shrugs, wincing slightly at the movement. “I’ll live. Your doctors are top-notch.”

I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets. There’s an awkward pause, the air thick with tension.

“I wanted to thank you,” I finally say, the words feeling strange on my tongue. “Mercy told me what you did for her. You saved her life.”

Pablo meets my gaze, something like understanding passing between us. “It was the least we could do,” he says quietly. “After everything we put her through… we owe her that much.”

It’s his response that resurfaces that gnawing feeling in my chest. They feel guilty. They feel like they owe her. And all of that comes from one place and one place alone: empathy.

For her sake, I swallow it and my pride with it. “Still,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m grateful.”

In the next moment, a hint of a smile plays at the corner of Pablo’s mouth. “You know,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “you’ve got quite the operation here. The resources, the manpower… you’ve practically got the world at your fingertips.”

I shrug, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “It has its perks.”

“I have to admit, I’m surprised you’re using those resources to help us,” Ben chimes in, his brow furrowed. “Especially give our…history.”

I meet his gaze, my features hardening. “My people are always taken care of,” I say firmly. “Like it or not, you’re a part of that now. And I couldn’t risk your cover being blown. That would create a mess I don’t need.”

*I don’t need the world knowing Marcello Saldívar is working with the CIA like a traitor.*

But that’s not the only reason. It’s not the whole truth.

The truth that I can’t bring myself to acknowledge, even to myself, is Mercy. She believes in them, trusts them. And I trust her.

A sudden knock at the door commands our attention, and I turn to see Rick, his face grim, his eyes filled with a urgency that sends a chill down my spine.

“Boss,” he says, his voice tight. “You need to come see this. Now.”

I follow him out of the room, a dreadful feeling settling in my gut. He leads me to the parlor, where a plain brown box sits on the coffee table, a tablet taped to the top. A few of my men stand near it, a cautious look painting their faces.

“This was dumped outside the gate,” Rick says, his jaw clenched. “No note, no message. Just this.”

*Reyes?*

He pulls the tablet free, then reaches for the box. But before he can open it, he hesitates, a look of pure revulsion crossing his face.

“Boss…” he starts, his voice strained. “You don’t want to see this.”

But I’m already moving forward, my heart pounding, my blood running cold. I reach for the box, my hands shaking as I lift the lid.

Then I see them.

My mother’s head, my father’s… their lifeless eyes staring up at me, their faces frozen in a rictus terror and agony.

A scream pierces the air, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from the tablet in Rick’s hands. He fumbles with it, his fingers slipping on the screen, but I already know what it is. What it has to be.

*Luciano.*

*He did this.*

He murdered my parents, tortured them, and recorded every horrific second. He sent me their heads, a sick, twisted “*gift*” to taunt me, to break me.

The world tilts and spins around me, a roaring in my ears drowning out everything else. I stumble back, my legs giving out beneath me as I collapse onto the sofa.

*This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.*

But it is. The proof is right in front of me, the blood, the death, the unimaginable cruelty.

My parents are gone. Murdered. Butchered like animals.

*And it’s all because of me.*

I feel a hand on my shoulder, hear Rick’s voice as if from a great distance, telling me that we’ll make this right.

But how? How do I make this right? How do I come back from this?

Grief and rage war inside me, a storm of emotions so intense I fear it will tear me apart. I want to scream, to cry, to put my fists through the wall. I want to find Luciano and rip him limb from limb, to make him suffer a thousand times over for what he’s done.

But I can’t think. In this moment, I can barely process.

Without a word, I stand up, my jaw clenched, a black hue painting the edges of my sight as I step between the parting wave of my men and out of the parlor. I tuck my hands into my pockets, a numbness taking over my body as my feet carry me up the stairs and towards the bedroom.

There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to run. There’s no way to escape except one: *her*.