Under His Skin

The room feels like it’s closing in, heavy with the stench of stale smoke and the sharp tang of tension. Six men sit around the long, scarred table, each one a coiled spring ready to snap. Three from the Crimson Circle, three from Los Sangrientos— one of the gangs that’s had a stranglehold on the south side of Alderstone for as long as I can remember.

And me, caught in the middle, the only thing standing between two ticking bombs.

The leader of Los Sangrientos, Raul Martinez, leans forward, his voice a low, venomous growl as he spits out a string of words I know all too well. He wants Crimson Circle blood in exchange for his hostage, a captured Crimson soldier. But he wants more than just an even trade. He wants revenge, payment, power. His hand twitches toward his gun as he speaks, a barely contained threat.

Across from him sits my father, his face calm, expression as hard as stone. He doesn’t bend. He never does. That’s why we’re here, in this dim, suffocating backroom on Alderstone’s south side, trying to find a “civilized” solution before someone ends up dead. But every word out of Raul’s mouth chips away at that thin thread of restraint holding them all in place.

I feel my pulse hammering in my throat as the shouting escalates, their voices filling the room with promises of violence. Both sides are armed, fingers twitching, muscles tense. I know this moment well—the sharp edge right before all hell breaks loose. And I know what happens if I don’t act.

I take a breath, locking my mask of indifference into place as I step forward, my voice cutting through the noise. “Raul,” I say, my Spanish clear and calm, despite the way my stomach knots with fear. “You know what will happen if you pull a gun in this room. No one leaves here alive. Is that what you really want?”

His dark eyes flick to me, his expression hardening. He doesn’t like me speaking out of turn, much less challenging him. But he listens. He has to.

“Tell your father that respect has to be earned,” he snaps, voice laced with contempt.

I turn to my father, translating every word, each syllable carefully neutral. “Raul wants assurance,” I say, even though I know my father has no intention of giving him any. “If we return his man, he expects there to be no further… consequences.”

My father’s eyes meet mine, and in his gaze, I see his trust—and his expectations. It’s on me to keep this from erupting into bloodshed. And I know the weight of failure here; if things go wrong, I’ll be the one they blame. Just like always.

I take a deep breath and continue, mediating each threat, every demand, back and forth, smoothing out the jagged edges with calm diplomacy. I find a narrow path through the anger, crafting a compromise that gives them both something, just enough to calm the rage simmering under their words.

The room goes silent, thick with the weight of my proposal. Raul glares at my father; my father glares back. But slowly, begrudgingly, they both nod, each one glancing at me with something close to respect—and maybe just a hint of resentment.

The Sangrientos men rise, casting one last dark look at the Crimson Circle before they disappear out the door, footsteps echoing down the hall. I don’t let myself relax. Not yet. I still feel their eyes on me, my father’s and the others, watching, waiting. I nod back, expression carefully controlled, the mask still perfectly in place.

Only when I’m alone in the bathroom down the hall do I let myself breathe. My legs feel weak as I lean over the sink, hands trembling, my breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. My stomach twists, clenches, and before I can stop it, I’m throwing up, the stress finally spilling out of me in waves of nausea.

When it’s over, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, taking in my pale face, the hollow look in my eyes. I don’t recognize the girl staring back—the girl who keeps putting on this show, pretending to be strong, pretending she’s cut out for this life.

I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles white, and force myself to breathe. There’s no way out of this. No escape for the Crimson Circle’s translator, the girl who speaks every language but has nowhere left to run.

I wipe my mouth, steady my breathing, and fix the mask back in place.

When I step outside, the sharp night air hits my face, cold and bracing after the suffocating heat of the meeting room. I walk toward the waiting black car, its tinted windows hiding the figure inside. As I open the door and slide into the backseat, I feel my father’s gaze settle on me, heavy and assessing.

He sits beside me, his face unreadable, dark eyes reflecting the faint glow of streetlights flashing past the window. “You did well,” he says, voice measured. But I know better than to relax at his praise; there’s always a “but” with him. “But next time, don’t let them drag it out. You cost us time, Paige. Precious time. They should have been agreeing to terms within ten minutes.”

The reprimand slices into me, cold and cutting, but I swallow down the urge to argue. “I’m sorry,” I say softly, my tone obedient, just the way he expects it. But the truth sticks bitter in my throat—I’m not sorry at all. I hate these meetings, these power games that I’m forced to play. It’s all my father’s doing, shaping me into the tool he needs, a pawn to smooth over his brutal business with charm and soft words.

I turn to look out the window, watching Alderstone pass by in a blur of neon lights and shadowed alleys. The people on the sidewalks are wrapped up in their own lives, oblivious to the darkness simmering under the surface of this city. They’re lucky, I think. So blissfully unaware.

As the car slows at a red light, I force myself to ask, “Can you drop me off here?” I don’t add that I need space to breathe, that every second in this car with him is suffocating me.

My father nods, a flicker of impatience on his face. “Fine. Take Jacob with you.” He jerks his chin toward the front seat, where one of his guards is already watching me in the rearview mirror, waiting for orders. There’s no escaping his protection—not in this life.

The car pulls over, and I step out, Jacob trailing behind me at a respectful distance as I walk down the street. My feet carry me to a small coffee shop tucked between buildings, warm light spilling from its windows. I push open the door, the smell of coffee and pastries flooding my senses, grounding me. This place feels safe, insulated, miles away from the dark world I’m forced to live in.

I order a coffee and take it to a seat by the window, settling in as I watch the people of Alderstone go about their lives. Couples holding hands, parents tugging along kids, friends laughing as they pass by. They’re all so normal. So oblivious. They don’t know what it’s like to carry the weight of their family’s sins, to be chained to a life they never chose.

I sip my coffee, feeling the warmth spread through me, and let myself dream—just for a moment—that I could be one of them. That I could live a life free from shadows, free from secrets, free from this mask that’s become part of me.

But even in my fantasies, where I let myself pretend—just for a fleeting, stolen moment—that I am someone else, someone free, unburdened, untouched by the past that clings to me like a shadow, I can still feel the weight of Jacob’s gaze pressing into me from across the café. It’s heavy, unrelenting, like an anchor tethering me to a reality I can’t escape, a silent reminder that no matter how far I let my mind wander, how much I dream of a life that is not mine, I will always be bound to this one. And in that suffocating certainty, I realize the harshest truth of all—there will never be a version of me that exists without him, without this, without the chains of expectation and the walls of a world I never chose.