Birdy (Upper Echelon Duet Book 1)

them stuff her in the back of one of their cars, her screams for me still rattling the glass of my windshield. My jaw tenses, teeth grinding as the trembling sound echoes through my eardrums.
It may ebb away once they drive off, but I already know it’s a sound I’ll never be able to erase from my mind.
What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck out of here, man, my instincts scream.
A shake of my head and I keep driving, rounding the next block like I were any other person and not the one she was just manically yelling for.
Or the one who should really be in those cuffs.

♫ Locked Up (Remix) Akon & Styles P
One month later…
They gave me seven years. Seven. Fucking. Years.
Originally, it was supposed to be ten to fifteen. Twenty was thrown around at one point, too, because of the amounts and varieties they found at the warehouse. They knew this operation exceeded anything I could do alone. They knew about the Upper Echelon and that it was somehow tied to me, and they wanted names. I gave them none. I refused every single time. I’m not a rat—never have been, never will be—regardless of the time and possible deportation hanging over my head. Because yes, they threatened to deport my ass back to Cuba, too.
Thankfully, Alex was able to talk them into dropping it down to seven years since I wasn’t running the show alone. I’ll be thirty-five when they finally set me free unless I manage to accumulate good behavior and get out before then. Good behavior will depend on how these bitches at Max act, though. My mama didn’t raise no pendeja, and if they think I’m going to be an easy target as fresh meat, they’re in for one hell of a rude awakening. I’ll run that fucking block like I ran those goddamn streets.
La Jefa bows to no one.
That obnoxious buzzer sound bounces off the walls, signaling the cell block’s main gate. Through it comes one of the two female guards, her expression as emotionless as the day they booked me in.
“Ladies! Visiting hours are about to get started. When you hear your name, you know what to do.” She starts sounding off names after that, prompting me to return my attention to my game of dominoes.
I won’t have visitors. Ma has been a wreck since my sentencing, and both Tommy and Noely are still too hot with me. Next time I see them will be when I’m at Max, and not within my first few days, either.
“And lastly, Villanueva.”
My heart stops at the sound of my name. They’re...here? I cut my eyes to the guard, and sure enough, she’s staring right at me, waiting for me to follow her every single command.
I hate it, but I do as I’m told. I couldn’t stop myself even if I tried. I’m too shocked...happy.
They’re finally here to see me.
Falling in line at the very end, I start straightening out my appearance. It’s just family, I know, but I don’t want to look like how I feel being in here. They don’t need to see that. Pulling my hair tie free, I comb my fingers through the messy strands as we tread into the hallway to the front of the jail. My stomach is in knots the whole way, heart slamming against my chest. I know disappointment and sadness will overshadow the good in seconds, but I needed this. I need to see them, need to know that although I’ve fucked up royally, they still love me.
When we make it to the visitation room, the CO stops the line just outside the doorway, allowing the guard within the room to call out last names and direct us to the appropriate booth. I’m not last, but I swear, it feels like I am. By the time I’m finally called, there are only a few girls left.
Raking an anxious hand through my hair again, I make my way inside.
The guard stops me, his bronze, pudgy arm pointing slightly to the left. “You’re in window five, Villanueva.”
Here we go.
Offering a docile nod, I take off toward the booth, readying myself to smile at just the right moment.
But I end up not smiling at all.
My eyes bug out instead, lungs filling with more air than they can hold as those thunderous eyes stare me down from the other side of the bulletproof glass. The very corner of his lips curl in that familiar, dark smirk, his hand flying up to the old school telephone attached to the booth’s partition.
Seeing him in place of my family is shocking enough. What’s more startling? All of his tattoos are gone—every single last one. I’ve never in our entire relationship seen Ángel so...bare.
In my disturbed and highly confused state, I still manage to move my feet and sink into the dingy white plastic chair. I can’t lift the phone, though. My hands are weighed down in my lap as I just gape at him, tracking every plane of visible skin.
Ángel seizes his end and holds it up to his ear, silently urging me to do the same with a cut of his eyes.
But I can’t. I’m afraid that if I move, that if I so much as blink, he’ll be gone. How is this possible? How is he here right now? What is happening?
“Recógelo,” he mouths. Pick it up.
Heart hammering, I swallow down the knot in my throat and force myself to reach for the phone. The moment it touches my ear, that smooth, husky voice of his vibrates through the line.
“Benita…”
“Ángel,” I whisper. That’s literally all I can manage.
Oh, and the bullshit tears quickly blurring my vision.
I refuse to set them free, but they’re there, waiting for me to let my guard down before they spill of their own will. I’ve been so worried about him, and now he’s here, almost unrecognizable while he’s at it.
And given the way his expression falls, eyebrows cinching