I haven’t slept in two days. Fuckin’ insomnia. It’s why I’m sitting on the roof of the clubhouse at 3:00am smokin’ mota weed. I can’t remember the last time I slept a solid six hours. Shit, that’s a lie. I remember, I just don’t want to. If I do, I’ll start thinking about her. The roof is my spot. Everyone knows if I’m up here, leave me the fuck alone. Being up here, staring up at the star covered sky takes me back. Back to home. When I close my eyes, I can almost see it. The orange and purple sky transforms into darkness allowing a canopy of stars to light up the streets where my sister and I played. When night falls in Cuba, parents don’t send their children to bed. No, children play in the streets as the neighbors play music and catch up on town gossip. Such an innocent time.

Now when the sun goes down and the moon takes over, there is nothing but darkness. I like the dark, it hides all my imperfections. Nighttime is when my demons come out to play. The voices have been quiet lately. The demons are never gone, only hiding in the shadows allowing me peace for a few brief moments. Now that she’s gone, they’ll be back. Reminding me of who I am and of my past.

I still remember the day my father and I left Cuba. I was ten years old. My father came into the room I shared with my sister, waking me up. It wasn’t unusual for him to wake me up early and take me with him to go fishing. Only this time was different. There were no fishing poles, only a small suitcase. Arriving at a secluded part of the beach, we met up with five other men. As soon as I saw the makeshift raft, I knew what was happening. This is a Cuban’s way of finding a better life. It’s scary and dangerous, but being desperate will lead a person to do the unthinkable. Now my father and I were about to become those desperate people. At the time I didn’t understand why. I pleaded with him to take me home. Why were we doing this, leaving the country we love, leaving my mother and my sister? Along with those five men, my father and I spent seven days in The Gulf with the sun on our backs. The nights were so dark you could sometimes see the glow of the creatures living beneath the sea. To say I was scared out of my fuckin’ mind would be an understatement. Miles on top of miles of nothing but the sea.

I’ll never forget the first time I stepped foot on U.S. soil. It was the start of a new life. Not a life I wanted, but one my father chose for me. While the other men were celebrating freedom, all I could think about was how much I wanted to go home. As a young boy, I didn’t understand why my father would do this. Why would he take me and leave our home? What were my mother and sister going to do without my father to take care of them? My sister Leyna is four years younger than me. It was my job to always look out for her. Who was going to do that now?

It wasn’t till several weeks later he told me the reason for leaving. He got himself into some trouble. He was caught skimming money from his job. My father was facing fifty years in prison. Cuban laws are much harsher than U.S. laws. He explained to me that coming to the U.S. was his only option. At least this way he could find work and then send money home to my mother and sister.

I was so angry with him. I asked him why he had to steal. If not for him taking from his job, we wouldn’t have had to leave. Once I got older, I realized my father did what he had to do to take care of his family. He didn’t want to steal. He only wanted to give us a good life and keep food on the table. I knew we were poor, I just didn’t realize the struggles my parents faced at the time. What kid does?

We settled in Miami with a cousin of my father’s. After about a year of working two jobs, things started to change. In the beginning, we were pinching pennies just to buy bread and milk and our lights were frequently being cut off. Then one day we were eating endless amounts of takeout and my father was buying a new car. Soon after that, he up and quit both jobs. Money began flowing freely. He was sending plenty of money to my mother and sister in Cuba. With the amount he was providing, they no doubt didn’t want for anything.

We moved into our own house in a better neighborhood. I started a new school, a better school, and I was making friends. Overall, I adjusted well. The only part that worried me was how my father was making his money. I may have been a kid, but I wasn’t stupid. Whatever my father was involved in, definitely wasn’t legal. We had to leave our family and home in Cuba because of his illegal activity, only for him to come to the U.S. and do the same. I guess he didn’t learn his lesson. For the most part, he kept his business away from me...until I was sixteen. That’s when my father’s sins caught up to him—to us.

One night my father came home in an unusual mood. He seemed somber, almost defeated. When I asked him what was up, I never expected what he was about to tell me.

"I fucked up, hijo son," he told me. Some men were going to come for him, and that they would be here soon. I told him we could run, leave town. He explained it wasn’t that easy.

"You can’t run from these people. They have eyes everywhere," he barely got the words out of his mouth before three men walked into our house. My father hadn’t even bothered to lock the door. Like he knew there was no use. One of the men was wearing a suit. He was lean and tall, I’d put him at a little over six feet with black hair. This man carried himself with confidence. The other two men were in normal looking street clothes, both tall and stocky.

"Martinez," suit regarded my father using his last name as he sat across from him at our kitchen table, "You know why I’m here." It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

That was the night I watch my father die. The guy in the suit, who I later learned his name was Santino, gave a signal allowing one of his men to shoot my father in the chest. I rushed over to him, catching his limp body as we both fell to the floor of our kitchen.

"Lo siento I’m sorry," were the last words my father spoke to me before taking his last breath.

I’m not sure how long I sat on the floor holding my father. Minutes? Hours? All I know is by the time I snapped out of my daze, Santino and his men were gone. The motherfucker just left. As if taking a life was all in a day’s work. Like he hadn’t just destroyed the life of a young man. Part of me understood why he did it. My father stole from him. You get yourself mixed up with the wrong kinds of people, only to double cross them, and you’re bound to end up with a bullet in your head. But at the end of the day, I loved my father—faults and all.

Picking myself up off the floor, that was covered in my father’s blood, I went straight to my room to pack a bag. After packing only what I needed, I then went into my father’s room and headed straight to his closet where I knew he kept a stash of money. I was sixteen and now on my own. No way was I becoming a ward of the state. I’d wait till I was out of there before calling the police. So with my bag slung over my shoulder, and roughly two thousand dollars in my pocket, I walk out of the house.

I spent three years living on the streets, bouncing around from one shitty motel to the next. Many nights were spent sleeping in the park and on the beach. I had to learn how to fight, otherwise I wouldn’t last. The first time I slept in the park I got stabbed. All for the three lousy dollars I had in my pocket at the time. Thank fuck the asshole used a small pocket knife, so it didn’t cause much damage. Not enough to go to the hospital anyway.

People had no qualms about taking what they wanted from you. If you didn’t want to play victim, you had to be ruthless right along with the worst of them. Turns out I had a knack for fighting. I was quick on my feet. It also helped, I was bitter and angry at the world for the hand I’d been dealt. By the time I was eighteen, I was already six-foot-four and loved the rush I got from making somebody bleed. It became my addiction. That’s how I found myself in the underground fight scene. It was decent money, but that wasn’t my reason for doing it.

It was at one of my fights, I learned Santino’s name. I remember standing outside the makeshift ring, bull shittin’ with another guy. A man in the front row caught my attention and I instantly recognized him.

"That’s Santino, he’s a high bidder. His guy, the one getting ready to fight is also undefeated," he informs me.

When I cut my eyes to the man in the ring—who was currently beating the shit out of someone—it was none other than the guy who killed my father. It may have been Santino’s orders, but this was the man who pulled the trigger. It was right then and there a plan was set into motion. The more fights I won, the higher in rank I climbed. The money didn’t mean shit to me. I sank every dime into partying, drinking, and women.

After three months of fighting, my time had come. I was to go up against the piece of shit who took my father’s life. The man had ten years and at least twenty pounds of muscle on me, whereas I had a good five inches in height on him. When the bell rang, the only thing I saw was my father’s blood-soaked body lying on the kitchen floor. It was as if time had stopped and everything was moving in slow motion. The roar of the crowd was fueling my rage. I threw punch after punch, until my arms felt like lead. I soon realized how deathly quiet everything was around me. The only thing I heard was the ringing in my ears as I lifted myself up off the bloody, battered, unrecognizable mess under me. All eyes were trained on me as my chest heaved and I struggled to catch my breath.

I turned my head in the direction of Santino. My cold dead eyes met his, looking for him to show any sign of recognition. Did he know who I was? The slight lift of his chin told me he did. Why he never came after me I’ll never know. Maybe in some way he figured an eye for an eye and all that shit. All I knew was that night would become the third most significant night of my life. Number one was when I left my home. The country I loved. Number two was the night my father was murdered. Number three was that night, the first time I killed someone. It was also my last fight, but not my last kill.

Six months after that fight was when I meet Jake. He came knocking on my hotel room door minutes after I robbed a gas station. After leaving the fight scene, money was scarce, and I was desperate. I never worried about cops being called after my last fight. That’s not how things work on the streets, but robbing a store was different. With my gun drawn I cracked the door open.

"No need for that, son." The stranger told me. The stranger was Jake, and he changed my life.

Seven years later, I am now the Enforcer for The Kings of Retribution. This club and these men are my life. They are my family. I still miss my little sister terribly. I send her money every month to keep her in a comfortable lifestyle. Since the passing of my mother four years ago, she has decided she wants to come to the U.S. I’m currently in the process of making that happen.

The ringing of a cell phone grabs me from my past. Cutting my eyes across the yard of the compound, I see the club’s new prospect Daniel answering his phone. The little shit is supposed to be watching the front gate, not chattin’ on his fuckin’ phone. Prez brought in the new guy a few weeks ago. He’s been doin’ okay. Although something’s not quite right with him. I can’t put my finger on it. Call it intuition. I’ll be keeping a close watch on him until he can prove his ass worthy. I watch as the prospect glances up in my direction, then quickly hangs up his phone.

"Estupido Stupid," I mutter to myself. As for our other prospects, Blake and Austin, Prez has decided to patch them in. After the way they helped handle shit when Logan’s woman, Bella, was kidnapped, they more than earned their patch. The brothers will celebrate this weekend with a party.

Feeling relaxed enough to maybe get a couple hours sleep, I climb down from the roof and head inside. Walking through the main room of the clubhouse and down the hall, I catch Liz walking out of her room. She puts on her best what I assume is a seductive face.

"Hey, Gabriel."

"Fuck off," I snap, not giving her a second glance. She’s another one I don’t trust. Myself along with Logan, Quinn, and Reid voted against her ass staying after what went down with Cassie, but most of the older members of the club voted to keep her ass here, and as you know—majority rules. I don’t want the bitch talkin’ to me, and I sure as hell don’t want her pussy. Liz is the only club girl we have at the moment. Some of the brothers have been bitchin’ about getting some new pussy. I for one could care less, preferring to get mine elsewhere. Besides, after Cassie’s ass betrayed us, Prez hasn’t been too keen on bringing too many new people in.

Stripping off my clothes, I climb into bed and I’m instantly hit with the sweet smell of jasmine. Fuck, definitely no sleep for me tonight.

Sitting up in my bed, I run my hand down my face and through my beard. I’ll never forget the first time I saw Alba. When Prez ordered me to pick up Bella’s little sister from their house, I didn’t give too much thought as to what to expect. I’ve heard Bella describe her sister as somewhat of a shy, sweet kid who always has her nose buried in a book. When I pulled into the driveway of their house, I was not expecting the blonde beauty that stepped out the front door.

"Fucking hell." I muttered to myself.

Tall, easily five-foot-seven, long, straight blonde hair brushing the top of the most luscious ass I’ve ever seen. I’d gotten a good eye full of her curves as she turned to lock her front door. She was about ten feet in front of me before looking up from the phone in her hands. I watched as her steps faltered before coming to a complete stop. I was met with the most beautiful blue eyes. They reminded me of the ocean at Cayo Levisa beach in Cuba. I watched as Alba raked her eyes up and down making her own assessment of me.

"Gabriel?" She questions in a soft voice knocking me out of my stupor, and suddenly I’m disgusted at myself for checking out an eighteen-year old. She may be legal, but she’s still in fuckin’ high school.

Thrusting my helmet at her, "Get on, I don’t have all day." I snap. Jumping at the sound of my voice, she quickly takes the helmet from my outreached hand. I immediately feel guilty for my harsh tone when I see her hands tremble as she tries to work the strap. With a softer approach, I offer my help. "Here, let me do it for ya."

The ten-minute ride back to the clubhouse with Alba on the back of my bike and her arms wrapped around my waist felt like the longest ten minutes of my life. I knew in that moment I was fucked.