Suddenly, I understood the look in Damian’s eyes, the reason why the man had seemed so familiar. My father had hired Victor Madera, his ex-bodyguard, to track us down, and there, in the shack, after so many years, the two men were together again—the men who had taken MaMaLu away from Damian. And now they were taking me away too. Damian had put away his vengeance, but I could feel it rising now, like a crimson tide ready to crash around us.
“No. Stop!” I wrenched my hand away from my father and stood between the men and Damian. “No one touches him.”
“Skye?” My father looked bewildered. “What are you doing? Get away from him.”
“Back off,” I said to Victor, who had stepped forward, his gun aimed at Damian.
“It’s okay.” Victor inched forward. His hair was gray at the temples, but he was still in good shape. “You’re suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. It happens. Just step away from him and listen to your father.”
“Skye, honey.” My father beckoned. “You’re safe now. He has no hold over you. Come. Take my hand. I promise it’s going to be all right.”
“I am all right! Can’t you see? I’m fine. I just need you to listen to me. Please, just listen.”
“Okay, okay. You’re fine.” My father’s eyes settled on the splint around my finger. He exchanged a look with Victor. “Let’s talk about this outside.”
“No! Right here. Right now. I’m not leaving him.” I could see the torment in my father’s eyes, the incomprehension, but I knew he’d understand once I told him the truth about who Damian was, about why he’d done this. He had to.
“Remember Esteb—” I didn’t get any further.
Victor yanked me towards him, grasping me by the waist. “Take her,” he said to my father. “Go!”
That split second of taking his eyes off Damian cost him. Damian struck with lightning precision, tackling Victor’s ankles. Victor fell back on the workbench. Rusty pliers and hammers and nails cluttered to the floor as it tipped over. The two men wrestled on the ground, each trying to reach for the gun that lay a few inches from their grasp.
“Don’t!” I stopped my father from grabbing the gun, clenching on to his arm.
“What’s wrong with you? Snap out of it, Skye!”
Damian and Victor were still struggling. Victor on top, then Damian, then Victor again. Damian kicked the gun out of the way. Then Victor was up and he was kicking Damian. He drove his thick, heavy boots into Damian’s ribs, his stomach, the wound on his leg. Again and again.
History was repeating itself. I knew Damian was back outside the gates of Casa Paloma, broken and battered, as Victor pummeled him. I knew the rage, the hurt, the sense of injustice that was flooding through his veins. But Damian wasn’t twelve years old anymore, and Victor was past his prime. Most of all, Damian had years and years of bottled-up wrath, clamoring to be set free.
Damian’s fingers closed around the hacksaw that was lying on the ground, and all of his fury exploded in a single move, a gash so deep that when it was done, the teeth of the saw remained lodged deep in Victor’s bone.
Victor staggered back, watching the blood spurt from his arm like he was in some kind of horrific trance. Damian had cleaved the flesh right under his elbow. The rest of his arm hung from the joint, dead and limp. Blood pooled at Victor’s feet, splattering on his rough, tan boots. Then Victor fell to his knees, swaying for a few beats, before his face hit the floor.
What happened next was over in a few seconds, but it unfolded before my eyes in excruciatingly slow, clear detail, like I was stuck in some parallel universe, unable to save the two men that I loved. They both lunged for the gun, but Damian got to it first.
“No!” I shielded my father from him.
“We can still get out of here, Skye.” Damian limped as he took a step towards me. “We walk out. I take you as hostage. No one will shoot.”
“You step out of this shack and you die,” said my father.
“Stop it.” I whirled around, from one to the other. “Both of you. Just stop it!”
“Skye.” Damian held his hand out, the other still pointing the gun at my dad.