Chapter 33

Eris climbs into the back of one of the 4x4s. Unlike the last display of affection with her family, Eris greets the masked, armed, military-style uniformed men with a simple nod of the head.

One of them gives her a black AR-15, placing the sling over her chest like the winning sash for a beauty pageant. This is nothing like her golden pistol—this is a killing machine, one she holds firmly as the sun beats down on us.

I suddenly miss the bodyguards. Their simple attire and respectful smiles, because even through these new men’s masks, all I feel is their judgment. Their confident authority that whatever territory we’re in is in their exclusive control.

With no introductions and names exchanged, my life depends on whatever trust Eris has built with these strangers.

Trust is good. Control is better.

The quote from some distant autobiography flashes in my head. But trust and control have become sickeningly intertwined in this world of blood ties and crime factions. The way Eris so nonchalantly stepped into that truck tells me she’s either stupid or protected by layers upon layers of her family’s control.

“We need to work fast,” she says to me. “There’s no going back now.”

“Are you going to kill someone?” I ask, my voice hushed and strained, and I don’t even care whether any of these friends of hers speak English. There needs to be someone, anyone, expressing—verbally or not—the sheer insanity of this assemblage, guns ready for a war.

She shakes her head. “Nah. They’re just giving us a ride to where we need to be.”

I raise my chin, forcing dignity, because if I show that I’m scared, that makes me disposable. If I show that I can’t perform the most drastic trust fall of all time into their hands, nothing is stopping them from dumping my body into one of these back roads nowhere to be found.

Eris always promised to protect me.

Trust is good. Control is better.

But I have no control over her. No money, power, or death threats that could guarantee my safety—only trust the affection that she’s carved out of me.

Trust is everything.

“What’s with all the theatrics, then?” I ask.

But I don’t need to ask. She already told me weeks ago.

She’ll be the new face of the operation. The girl who’ll get blamed for both victories and atrocities while the more discreet players run the show.

This is nothing but her artistic debut on the streets.

“It’s just part of the job,” she says. “Just PR. Marketing. Brand recognition. You know what I mean?”

“You’re asking me to come with you?”

Spending the night in the trunk with her was bad enough. This is a whole new level of absolutely the fuck no.

For once, she towers above me. Gun against her chest and no mask.

“Forget the competition,” she says. “Once the whole world sees us on the news, you’re gonna be famous, Persephone.”

For all the wrong reasons. For parading across the pacific coast with an armed narco convoy, holding hands with their princess after our Mexico City failure.

“This is how we win,” she continues. “This is how we tell all those fresas that we’re the best artists of this generation. Think of all the bids on our paintings. We could make history.”

I want to melt into the dirt. The long, tangled line of my fate breaks into two, split by the same deal with the devil my father was offered.

I think of Fitz, his song going viral after his friend’s murder. There’s no promoting art nowadays without shock value. Without tragedy. Without a hell of a story to tell.

Fitz would do it in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t care about being perceived as a stereotype—Black and tattooed in the mouth of organized crime. He would say his music would speak for itself, revealing the philosophical depth no one expects from him upon first glance.

The Olympiad was meant to be my redemption. My checkpoint on my path to glory. And it wasn’t easy. Opportunities like that are hard to find, especially for girls like me.

Eris takes a step forward. She extends her hand, inviting me once-and-for-all into her world.

She claimed not to care about winning the competition. But her and me, we’re built of nothing but pride. She’s after just as much glory as I crave. And for once, she’s willing to share hers.

▴ ▴ ▴

I sit on the beach, wearing one of the dresses Eris bought for me. One that, when I shyly showed it off in our Mexico City hotel room, made her eyes go alight.

The waves are violent here. They crash over one another and then onto the rocky shore, swallowing up the sand before retreating.

Aquí no pasa nada. That’s the one phrase everyone, from Eris’ narco friends to her family to the bodyguards to the waitstaff at the restaurant we had vegan tacos at an hour ago, uses to refer to this town.

Nothing happens here.

It might be true. Bejeweled tourists crowd the resort houses and private beaches, chattering about yoga retreats and organic food and how much they love Mexico. I haven’t seen a single barbed-wire fence, barred window, or padlocked door. All the locals know each other. And at this point, they definitely know about me.

I talked to my father after lunch. With our safety guaranteed, Eris let me call him. Apparently, he was already aware of things having gone awry, as Iker contacted him and filled him in on the emergency plan. What Marcus was not aware of, however, was Eris’ little armed show through the mountains on the way over here.

And the fact she invited me to take part in the joy ride.

After the last few weeks, which in a chapter of my biography would be titled The Long-Awaited Humbling of Persephone’s Ego, it’s the only thing that makes me feel even remotely proud of myself.

I told Eris no.

For a girl with more guns than paintbrushes, she took it well. It presented quite a problem in terms of logistics, wherein she had to call her family, already half-way down the mountain with the bodyguards, and ask them to come back for me.

“It’s going to be more dangerous this way,” she warned while the armed fleet remained unfazed. I wanted to tell her that it would be safer for both of us to hide in a trunk again until we got to our destination, but it would’ve been useless.

And here I am. I arrived with all my organs intact and a few more words of Spanish in my vocabulary.

Trust is everything.

I watch her now. She’s in a plain black bikini hopping around in the waves, getting pummeled by the force of the sea. Every so often, her head disappears underwater and re-emerges for the next round with Chalchiuhtlicue.

As expected, her little show caused quite a splash. News articles are popping up with images of her unmasked, 5’1″ self leading the convoy. The San Diego girl reigning in the belly of the beast, untouchable.

Her presence is an omen of the war to come. Sinaloa wants to claim the tumultuous state of Guerrero, making it their new base of control so they can attack Jalisco from north and south. Depending on how much manpower and money Sinaloa events, the local capos will have no choice but to defect or die.

Although Eris has taken all the steps to make sure I make it out of Mexico discreetly tomorrow, with minimal association with her, my name is still in the papers. Our paintings. Our partnership in the Olympiad we lost.

Her days are numbered. Maybe mine are, too. Her saints have been replaced by a far more tangible power. There’s something different in the way she moves.

But for now, we’re here. Shielded in this illusion of safety, where no press or police are permitted to enter.

She emerges from the sea and sits next to me on the sand, huffing slightly from exertion, her black eyeliner smudged in that signature, nostalgic way.

“I just know when I die I’m not going to hell,” she mutters, suddenly existential. “I’m not going to heaven. But I’ll be at the pyramids or some shit. And the old gods will come. And they’ll tell me the stories we no longer now.”

▴ ▴ ▴

It’s official. I am officially on the verge of graduating high school. The dry, unbearable California summer makes me even more anxious to go through with my plans.

I’ve sold more paintings in the last few weeks than I ever have in my life. More than enough to move out once and for all and rent a Toronto apartment.

Dad is coming with me, at least. As for Fitz, he’s staying with William. He’s got music to work on, he claims, even though I’m sure the Toronto music scene isn’t bad, either.

There was so much demand for my paintings I’m running out of stock. At least it makes the moving out process easier—all my artworks save one or two have found new homes. Some in galleries, some with collectors, and I’m hoping to secure a deal with a contemporary art museum in Toronto.

As for the Olympiad paintings… they’ve also found homes. After lengthy phone call with Eris, I let her send them to be displayed in a free traveling art exhibition across all the major art museums in Mexico. Such exhibition lasted all but two days in Guadalajara, where the military had to guard the museum and its managers at all hours of the day. Eris’ rival cartel was not happy about her paintings being showed off in their home state of Jalisco, but the exhibition supposedly was a hit in Culiacán, Sinaloa. And not with the art snobs.

It’s the last day of school. I’m wearing one of the dresses Eris bought me, though we’ve barely spoken in-person, mutually deciding to keep our distance to limit her bad press spreading to me. I do my best to avoid all questions relating to her. Our official story is that I flew out of Mexico City before she went to Guerrero, and that’s good enough for most. Mrs. Montoya has not said a word.

Because Eris isn’t legally accused of any crimes (yet), it’s not as if the police can apprehend her on school grounds, and she’s strutting about as cocky as ever.

God, I miss her.

For once, she’s ignoring me not because of our fights and pettiness, but because she’s respecting my decision to keep my name clean. If we were simply distant friends, it would be perfect. But we’re codependent enemies with many lines crossed—now in an awkward, gay conundrum.

It’s the last day of school. Probably the last chance to see her before my flight to Toronto next week. She could be murdered by fall at the rate she’s going, and my 24/7 obsessive worrying, contemplating, and ruminating about her needs some type of release. I’ll go crazy otherwise.

I find her in the library during lunch in the same spot I used to sit. Without thinking, I grab her arm and drag her toward the bathroom, locking it before shoving her against the wall.

She’s quiet as I glare at her, staring up at me with a look some would interpret as innocent, her chest rising and falling fast with each breath.

“Wanted to get one last fight in before the day’s over?” she asks softly.

“I can’t believe you were going to let me leave without saying bye.”

And then I hug her. In the way I didn’t allow myself to when we were in Mexico, not even when were were finally safe. I wrap my arms around her waist as tight as a cobra and press her against me, hating myself for not having done it earlier. All these weeks limited to sporadic phone calls and texts—at least I can commend ourselves on our self-control, because she’s hugging me with equal urgency, her face in my neck as she mutters, “Sorry, Ef. Fuck. I was just tryna give you your space.”

“I’m moving to Toronto.”

She holds me tighter, and we both stumble backward until it’s me who’s against the wall.

“I figured,” she says.

And then, in a blur of movement, we’re kissing. Her on the tips of her toes, my hands holding her jaw, and it’s not enough. Our limbs tangle, our positions shifting as we press closer, an invisible timer ticking above our heads to the moment I’m gone and she’s in Mexico and I have to grieve losing something I have no idea how to handle.

“Did you wear this for me?” she asks between kisses, a handful of my dress in her fist.

I nod weakly, but I don’t think she sees it, and it appears she’s distracted with the shape of my thigh in the same way I’m drawn to her bones.

“Come with me,” I say, nearly breathless.

She doesn’t want to stop, but the comment makes her pause, the hem of my dress fluttering down as she lets go.

“To Toronto, I mean,” I clarify, heat swarming my face.

She laughs a little, her hands circling my thighs again. “Don’t play with me, Ef.”

I grab her chin, forcing her gaze up. “You might die tomorrow. We might never see each other again.” My voice is stilted, my head scrambled with the memories her touch brings back. “So stay. Just one summer. With me.”

The tension drains from her shoulders. She has to be considering it.

“When it’s over,” I continue. “You can come back here. You can continue whatever you need to do, whatever war you need to be the figurehead for. I won’t be part of it. You know that. But I…” I trail off, embarrassed and disgustingly vulnerable.

She looks at me with so much raw need it scares me. Like she can’t keep holding it back. She, as I do, logically accepts our circumstances and the fact there’s no future for whatever we are—really, there’s no purpose in even indulging it—but it won’t bring either of us peace.

“You still want me?” she asks. “After all the shit you saw?”

“You’ve always been very honest with me about what you’re involved with. I can’t say I’m particularly shocked. You’re still… you.”

She takes a step back, running her hand through her hair as she looks me up and down, analyzing the situation with whatever twisted moral code she has.

“You know guns are illegal in Canada, Ef.”

I laugh. “Since when have you cared about breaking the law? And also, you still owe me that tattoo.”

She fights to hide her smile, but it spreads across her lips, now red and vibrant from our haste.

“What’s next for you otherwise?” I ask. “Are you moving to Mexico?”

She shrugs. “Not for now. Might just make a few more trips to to provide moral support or whatever the fuck, you know, maybe try to negotiate some deals with the locals. There’s no way in hell Iker’s sending me to fight.”

Slowly, I reach to embrace her again. This time it’s less desperate and a lot more sad—head head under my chin, her fingers curling around one of my braids.

The question has been eating at me, and now’s my only chance to voice it: “Would you give it all up? If I was yours?”

She groans a little, holding me closer. “Persephone. You can’t just ask that. I don’t even think you know what it means.”

Hearing my name from her lips again makes me shudder. “I’m speaking hypothetically here.”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “You’re thinking way too far ahead.”

“Noted. So how about next week? Can you get a flight to Toronto?”

She pulls away to look at me. “You got an apartment?”

“Yes, Eris. And, um, my dad will be there, but there’s two rooms.”

She laughs. “Bro, I’m really gonna have to play nice with the father-in-law now? God damn. How about we get a house instead?”

“As long as you’re the one paying.”

“Oh, I see how it is. You want me to be your live-in sugar mommy, huh? I see me buying you those dresses really got you spoiled, princesita.”

I roll my eyes, shoving her. “Is this a yes, then? You’ll come?”

“Yeah,” she says. “One summer. But answer me one thing—”

Is she going to ask me whether I’ll let her buy a gun? Whether she’ll be able to travel to Mexico during that time? Or the possible danger of being so far from her father’s control?

“—does this mean we can go on dates?!”

Well… this is far more concerning than all the other possibilities.

“Um, I’m not really sure how that works,” I say.

She laughs. “To be honest, me either. Fuck it. Let’s go.”

Canada. Eris and me. I’m sure there are plenty of fights to come. Plenty of other things as well.

And only the goddesses know the rest. 

▴ ▴ ▴

a/n: !!!!!!!!!!!!! and 94k words later, it’s finally done. please let me know what you think! of the plot, of the somewhat bittersweet ending, and the characters’ growth. it’s been two years since i started taking this project seriously, and tbh i expected to finish it much sooner, but here we are. i finished the first draft of this book in 2016, before my last year of high school, and the story has evolved so much since then. i sincerely thank everyone who’s been patiently waiting for updates, having readers invested in these characters like i am has been motivating. 

so, what’s next? well, i may end up writing a few chapters in eris’ pov for fun. let me know what you’d like to see. i am also going to start working on the “sequel” for this book, which will take place right after this with the main characters being eris’ brother nico and persephone’s brother fitz this time. it’s going to be a lot more comedy/coming of age vibes. i started writing that one in 2018 but took a break to work on other books, and i am so excited to get back into it. my first book with a male pov haha. 

here’s the blurb:

16-year-old Nico Lugo’s dad is a professional money launderer. But, just like talking to girls, overcoming stage fright, and discovering the meaning of life, crime is something this violinist knows nothing about. After witnessing the violence that comes with the drug trade, Nico needs to work harder than ever at the only thing that’ll help him escape his dad’s secret cartel ties—music.

Then he meets Fitzgerald “Fitz” Baines. Fitz, a military brat turned amateur rapper, wants to live in freedom instead of fear. For that, he comes up with the “liberation game”, a 21st century take on enlightenment where the only way to win is to reject not only society’s limits, but your own. Lonely, bored, and too reckless for his own good, Nico joins Fitz in the adventure of their lives, but summer break turns deadly once the game forces the boys to face the corruption behind organized crime—and this time, it’ll take a lot more than mastering violin sonatas to survive.

Coming of age has never gone so wrong.