Chapter Twenty

Angelo took a deep breath as he stepped through the prison gates. He stretched his arms high above his head, savoring the feeling of open space around him. No more bars, no more cramped cells or raucous cacophony of the yard.

He’d been lucky to get out after shanking that hijueputa Sinclair. When the white supremacist leader’s body was discovered, eyes turned towards Angelo, but there was no proof. Just whispers from those cabrones that he’d taken revenge for things Sinclair had said about Milo.

Milo.

The thought of him made Angelo’s chest tighten. He shook his head, pushing the memories away. That was prison shit, just two bodies using each other for comfort and release in that harsh environment. Whatever feelings had blossomed were born of circumstance, not anything real.

Still, he couldn’t deny the tenderness that had overtaken him that final night before Milo left, when he’d made love to the boy with a care he didn’t know he possessed. Stripping Milo bare, mapping hi skin, burying himself deep to the breathless gasps that spilled from those plump lips. Holding him close after, though he knew it was goodbye.

Angelo grimaced. That had been over a month ago. He’d been a fool to let himself get tangled up like that. This was his chance to start over, away from the intrigues of the prison yard. To reconnect with his Los Lagos brothers out here and make some serious money to set himself up proper.

As he made his way across the parking lot, squinting against the bright sun, he noticed a figure leaning against a nondescript silver sedan. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, he thought it might be Milo, waiting for him just as he’d promised. But as he drew closer, the silhouette resolved into the opposite of Milo’s soft, youthful form.

It was Carlos Hernandez, second in command of the Los Lagos cartel. The man pushed off the car and strode towards him, a grin splitting his scarred face.

“?Oye, hermano!” Carlos called out, opening his arms wide. “Welcome back to the land of the living!”

Angelo felt a surge of gratitude as he allowed himself to be engulfed in a rough embrace, Carlos thumping his back enthusiastically. “Gracias, amigo,” he said, his voice muffled against the other man’s shoulder. “Damn good to see you.”

And it was. Carlos was his jefe, the one who had stayed in contact with him during his sentence, who had got him that hot fancy lawyer and worked tirelessly to secure his release. Angelo owed him a debt of gratitude.

Still, as they pulled apart and Carlos began to steer him towards the car, Angelo felt a pang of disappointment. For that brief instant, he’d allowed himself to hope…

But no. It had been foolish to think Milo would be here. The boy was likely tucked away safely in his family’s mansion, his time in Vanguard nothing more than an unpleasant memory to be forgotten.

“You hungry?” Carlos asked. “Lunch is on Bautista.”

Angelo snorted. “Fucking ravenous.”

“I’m not surprised,” Carlos said, giving him an appraising look. “You’re bigger than when you went in! ?Monstruoso!”

Angelo shook his head and slid into the passenger seat of Carlos’s car. As they pulled away from Vanguard, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of motion, of going somewhere that wasn’t just another part of the prison complex.

Before long, they pulled up in front of a modest, unassuming restaurant outside a strip mall. The sign above the door read “Sabor de Casa” in curling script. Angelo raised an eyebrow at Carlos, who grinned.

“Best damn Colombian food in the city, hermano,” Carlos said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thought you might need it after all that prison garbage.”

Angelo felt his face crease into a smile as they entered. The interior was cozy, with brightly painted walls and Colombian folk art scattered about. The air was redolent with familiar scents—cumin, garlic, chicken. His stomach rumbled in anticipation.

An older woman with a kind face greeted them, kissing Carlos on both cheeks before turning to Angelo with a warm smile. “Any of Carlito’s friends are welcome here,” she said in Spanish, ushering them to a table.

Carlos ordered for them both in rapid Spanish, and soon the table was groaning under heaping plates of food. Bandeja paisa of course, with patacones and arepas, the dense cornmeal cakes split and stuffed with cheese. The scent of the food made Angelo’s head swim, his mouth watering. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a meal like this. In prison the food had been a punishment. But this was a feast, a reminder of the world he’d returned to.

As he dug in, savoring each bite, Carlos leaned back and fixed him with a serious look. “Listen, hermano,” he said, his voice low. “Bautista, he hasn’t forgotten what you did for the cartel. Doing the time, keeping your mouth shut…that kind of loyalty, it doesn’t go unnoticed, you know?”

Angelo nodded, swallowing a mouthful of succulent steak. “So what happens now?”

“Got you a flight back home. Then we can talk about if you want to come back to Casa del Rey or take over one of the satellite operations. Bautista can set you up with an apartment and a fat bank account, let you run your own show.”

“Gracias. That’s a hell of an offer.”

Carlos waved a hand. “Don’t thank me. I’m just the taxi service.”

It should have felt like a just reward. But a part of him felt…off. Incomplete, somehow. Like there was still something left unfinished, some loose end dangling out there.

He tried to push the thought away, to focus on the food, on Carlos, on his newfound freedom. But the feeling lingered, a knot of unease in his gut. It took him a moment to realize what it was.

Milo.

For that brief instant when he’d first stepped out of Vanguard, he’d half-expected the boy to be there, just like he’d promised. Foolish, of course—what did he expect from some rich kid slumming it in the pen?

I think I’m in love with you.

Angelo shook his head, scowling. Bullshit. The kid had been delusional, swept up in the intensity of the situation. It hadn’t meant anything.

Across the table, Carlos was eyeing him curiously. “Everything okay? You look preoccupied.”

Angelo opened his mouth to dismiss it, but something stopped him. If there was one person he could be honest with. “Just got some unfinished business, I guess,” he said slowly. “With someone from Vanguard.”

Carlos’s expression hardened instantly. “What, one of the Aryans?” His hand drifted towards the knife sheathed at his hip. “Just say the word. We can take care of it.”

“No, no.” Angelo held up a hand, shaking his head. “Not them. This is different.” When Carlos continued to look skeptical, Angelo sighed. “It’s about this kid. I was protecting him.” He didn’t miss the slight widening of Carlos’s eyes. Angelo forged on. “They let him out already. I just want to make sure he’s okay, you know? That he made it home in one piece.”

There was a long silence. Carlos regarded him intently. Of anyone, Angelo was glad it was Carlos hearing this. If he suspected, well. Carlos wasn’t in a position to judge Angelo for fucking a man, given his personal life choices.

Slowly, Carlos nodded. “I get it,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “Sometimes, in a place like that, you do what you gotta do to feel human.”

Angelo felt a flicker of relief, a loosening of the knot in his gut. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t give voice to the tangled mess of emotions that Milo had stirred in him. But Carlos’s understanding, his lack of judgment, was a balm to his raw nerves.

Carlos leaned forward, his expression serious. “Listen, Angelo. You need to take care of yourself now, you hear? You’re out, you’re free. Don’t go getting tangled up in anything that could jeopardize that.”

Angelo nodded, accepting the wisdom in Carlos’s words. His loyalty to Milo, his need to ensure the kid’s safety…it was a liability, a weakness he couldn’t afford.

Carlos slid an envelope and a piece of paper across the table. “Our plane’s leaving for Colombia tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Make sure you’re on it.”

The envelope had a wad of cash and a burner phone in it. Angelo lifted the paper, staring at the block letters that spelled out a location, a time. An escape. He folded it carefully, slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll do my best.”

Outside the restaurant, the bright sunlight was a shock after the cozy dimness inside. Carlos pulled Angelo into a rough embrace, thumping his back. “Take care of yourself, hermano,” he said gruffly. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Angelo nodded, returning the embrace fiercely. “I’ll be there.”

As Carlos drove away, Angelo stood on the sidewalk, feeling suddenly adrift. The weight of his freedom, of the choices that lay before him, settled heavily on his shoulders.

Almost absently, he pulled out the burner phone Carlos had given him. He stared at it for a long moment, turning it over in his hands. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he dialed a number from memory.

“Joe,” he said when the line connected, his voice terse. “It’s Angelo. I need you to find an address for me.”

There was a pause, then Joe said, “Angelo, hermano! Heard you were out. What do you need?”

Angelo took a deep breath, steeling himself. “Milo Mueller,” he said, the name feeling strange on his tongue. “I want to know where he lives.”

Another pause, longer this time. “Your cellmate?”

Angelo didn’t ask how Joe knew, he was an information dealer after all. “That’s the one,” he confirmed, his jaw tight. “Can you find him?”

Joe exhaled slowly. “I’ll see what I can do. Give me a few hours, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Joe.” Angelo hung up, slipping the phone into his pocket.

He told himself it was just to make sure the kid was okay. To put his mind at ease. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. Milo had gotten under his skin, made him feel something he’d never felt.

He needed to see him, one last time. To say goodbye properly, without the specter of Vanguard hanging over them. Then, perhaps, he could move on.

***

One thing Angelo hadn’t missed was city traffic. He tailed the sleek black limousine through the busy city streets, his knuckles white on the steering wheel of the beat-up sedan he’d borrowed. The vast difference between his clunker and the Muellers’ luxury vehicle was not lost on him. As he watched Milo emerge from the family mansion earlier, looking polished and put-together in a way Angelo had never seen before, a bitter taste had filled his mouth.

Milo was back in his world of wealth and privilege, a world Angelo could never enter or provide. No wonder the kid wanted nothing to do with him. And yet, something about Milo’s demeanor, the slump of his shoulders and the downcast eyes, had piqued Angelo’s suspicion.

Now the limousine pulled up to the grand entrance of a five-star hotel. Angelo parked and picked up the binoculars he’d got from a pawn store. He watched, transfixed, as Milo stepped out, followed closely by his father. Milo was dressed to the nines in a perfectly tailored tuxedo that likely cost more than Angelo had spent on clothes in his life. His ash-blond hair had been cut and styled into an artful tousle, his skin glowing in the soft light of the hotel’s entrance.

But despite the finery, despite the rich surroundings, Milo looked miserable. His face was drawn, his eyes dull and lifeless. He moved mechanically, like a puppet on a string, as his father guided him into the hotel.

Angelo frowned, his gaze sharpening. Something was off. What was going on behind the gilded fa?ade of the Mueller family? What had happened to Milo in the weeks since his release?

Determined, Angelo got out of the car. He wasn’t dressed for a fucking gala, but there was always another way in.

Angelo slipped through the back entrance of the hotel, snagging an apron from a pile in the staff area. He tied it around his waist and walked into the crowd of kitchen staff bustling about. The kitchen was a hive of activity, with chefs barking orders and waiters loading up trays with fancy hors d’oeuvres and champagne flutes. On a night like tonight, no one was going to question an extra member of staff.

As he made his way through the throng, Angelo caught snippets of conversation in Spanish. He joined in, bantering with the other Latino workers about the extravagance of the gala.

“These rich people need a fancy party to give their money to charity,” he said in Spanish, which earned him rolled eyes and nodding agreement.

He noticed the white manager eyeing him suspiciously, but the man’s gaze quickly slid away, apparently assuming Angelo was just another faceless worker in a sea of brown faces.

Tray in hand, Angelo made his way into the glittering ballroom. The space was awash in golden light, with elaborate floral arrangements and sparkling chandeliers. The wealthy guests were decked out in glittering outfits, their laughter tinkling like the champagne glasses they held.

Angelo’s scanned the room, searching for a glimpse of ash-blond hair. When he finally spotted Milo, his heart clenched. Milo was standing stiffly beside his father, his smile forced and his eyes dull. As Angelo watched, Milo’s sister leaned in to say something, her hand gripping Milo’s arm in a way that seemed more controlling than affectionate.

The more Angelo observed, the more convinced he became that something was deeply wrong. Milo’s family hovered around him like jailers, never letting him out of their sight.

Angelo ached to go to him, to pull Milo away from them and whisk him away. But he forced himself to be patient, biding his time as he circulated through the room picking up empty glasses, always keeping Milo in his peripheral vision.

Finally, he saw Milo slip away from his family’s clutches and head towards the bathroom. This was his chance. He shelved the tray and followed, his steps measured and casual, even as his pulse raced.

As he stepped into the bathroom, Milo caught his reflection in the mirror. The younger man’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open in shock. “Torres!” Milo exclaimed, spinning around.

A tangle of emotions surged through Angelo at the sight of him. Betrayal, sharp and bitter, that Milo had never come to see him as he’d promised. A deep and aching concern at the haunted look in Milo’s eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks. And relief, so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees, at seeing Milo again, at being close to him once more.

He pushed Milo into a cubicle, crowding in after him and locking the door. He tried to summon his usual bravado, to shield himself from the tempest of feelings threatening to overwhelm him.

“So much for meeting me at the prison, eh putita?” he said, his tone sharp and mocking.

But to Angelo’s utter shock, Milo crumpled. He fell into Angelo’s arms, clutching at him desperately, his body shaking with sobs. Angelo stood frozen for a moment, stunned. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around Milo, holding him close.

He didn’t understand what was happening, why Milo was falling apart in his arms. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Milo was here, that Angelo could hold him, could offer him the comfort and safety that he so clearly needed.

Angelo held Milo tighter, his bewilderment giving way to a fierce protectiveness. Whatever had happened, whatever was going on, he would figure it out. He would keep Milo safe, no matter what it took.