Chapter Text
He stood at his window, looking down from the 30th story, watching but not really paying all that much attention to the city that was laid out below him. It was a city he loved, the only city he’s ever really known. As familiar as the back of his hand and one that he owned. He knew he did. Every corner, he knew. Every street, he knew. And everywhere he went, everyone knew his name.
I heard he likes to kick back and watch as his men do the dirty work.
That was true. Why should he get his hands bloody when he had three giant brutes to help him out? He gave the orders, and then he made sure the task was carried through correctly.
I heard he carries different guns for different jobs, each with their own name.
That was partially true. He did have a name for his gun, but there was only one. It was a little black pistol and he called it Fontana, after the artist Lucio Fontana, a man who had a habit of carving slits into canvases and calling it art.
I heard he has people mix crack into his marijuana to assure regular customers.
That wasn’t true. He even made sure his drugs weren’t laced with anything else. There was no need for someone to want to take some weed to relax and end up jumping off a building because they thought they could fly. He liked his inventory to be completely authentic and trustworthy. Well, as trustworthy as drugs can get.
The things he heard didn’t get to him and they didn’t upset him. They never had. He used to enjoy the banter, the rumours. They made him laugh. He loved watching the colour drain from people’s faces when his car pulled up in front of a building. He loved hearing their change in tone of voice when they realized that they were talking to him and not some random stranger. It was a constant reminder of his power, and it made him feel so in control that he didn’t even have to take any drugs to feel the high.
But Nevada Ramirez no longer felt like he owned the city, no matter how many people were afraid of him. He stopped listening to the rumours that used to entertain him. It didn’t matter that he was still getting special treatment everywhere he went because he barely even felt like he owned the apartment he was standing in. Everything felt distant and alien and strange. It made him sick.
He sighed and stretched his arms over his head, arching his spine and rolling his head back. The action resulted in sounds of some cracks from his tired bones. It was late and he was exhausted, not having slept in days. Reluctantly and unenthusiastically, he turned from the window, looking across the dark room, which was illuminated only slightly by the full moon in the otherwise pitch-black sky and the lights from other buildings outside. They left a cool, white light that shone on the smooth surface of the tables and along the edges of the leather couches.
Leather couches were a really good idea. Not only did they look amazing but they also never got dirty because they were basically stain-proof. It was her idea, of course, just like most of the great ideas they had were her ideas. He never used to admit that; he liked to pretend that they both came up with the idea and she just happened to voice it before he did. Now, he wasn’t afraid of saying it. He wasn’t afraid of giving her all the credit she needed. He had absolutely no problem saying that she was a genius, a master, indescribable, unattainable, intelligent, irresistible, hilarious, amazing… He didn’t care what other people thought and he didn’t care if he sounded like a complete moron. She was phenomenal and anyone would have been lucky to have even the knowledge of her existence.
God, he missed her.
Everything in the apartment reminded him of her. Every single fucking thing. They had argued over the carpet. He had loved it when they first saw it, only to have her scrunch her nose at him. He said that the golden colour looked regal but she called it tacky. They fought about it right then and there inside the store and she wasn’t shy about raising her voice to him. Usually, she didn’t lose arguments like this, even with the salesperson siding against her, but she had suddenly felt sick and had to find a bathroom. In the meantime, Nevada had quickly paid the price and gotten the carpet packed up for him. Needless to say, she had been furious with him. She called him a very unladylike name and then stopped speaking to him for two and a half days.
The look on her face made him smile even now. The anger and frustration obvious, but if he looked close enough, he could find her love for him. Beneath the tight line of her lips, behind the narrowed eyes, behind the jutted out jaw, it was there. The way she still let him have the last one of the doditos de novia. The way she sat with him in silence instead of avoiding him altogether. The way she looked at him worriedly before he went off to a meeting with a rival gang. It was there. She loved him. He could see it.
She had the blackest eyes he had ever seen, with natural dark circles that didn’t go away no matter how much she slept. She kept her hair long, down to her waist, and often had it in a messy bun on the top of her head. She was thin, but she was strong. Her smile was the most amazing thing he’d ever had the pleasure of beholding. The two of them argued all the time and she never let him win. It had taken him months to learn that the way to earn her forgiveness was to listen to what she had to say. It was so new to him, having been accustomed to buying flowers and sweets for the girls he upset, and doing so only so they would let him in their pants one more time.
She had stolen his heart. Yanked it away from him, even though he had his guards up, and refused to give it back no matter how much he fought her. It took ages for the shock to wear off, but she found her place in the length of his neck. She curled her body against his and made a home out of his ribs, and Nevada had been so sure that she would turn that home into a cage where she could keep him forever. But she never did. She invited him in with her light-heartedness and blind optimism and kept coming back no matter how much he fucked up or let her down. She showed him a brand new world that existed in the nest of her arms and he fell in love with her without even knowing the meaning of the word.
Good god, he missed her.
Nevada was so lost in thought that it took a moment before he realized that the sound of crying was coming from the next room.
Shit, he thought, quickly making his way through the dark room and trying not to trip. He opened the bedroom door quietly as he could and made his way over to the crib. He could hear the rustling fabric from underneath the tiny, squirming body. He’d thought that all babies were supposed to be loud and annoying, but this one barely made a sound. Nevada was constantly worried that he wouldn’t hear when he cried, or heard him too late. Sighing, he picked up the infant slowly, carefully, and cradled him in his arms.
“It’s okay, mi sol, it’s okay,” he whispered, hugging the baby against his chest and rocking him slowly back and forth, but the baby wasn’t comforted in his arms. His cries didn’t die down and he didn’t stop writhing. “Please, mi sol.”
Taking a handful of deep breaths, Nevada set him down and raced to the kitchen. Maybe he just needed some milk! He mixed the formula and popped it into the microwave, but then it was too hot so he had to try again. Meanwhile, the baby’s soft cries only seemed to get louder and louder. They rang in Nevada’s ears like his mother’s screams still did. Would it be like this forever?
Fuck, he couldn’t think of that right now. Right now, he needed to feed his son (mierda, it still felt so damn weird to say that). After getting a bottle made at the right temperature, he rushed back to the nursery, stubbing his toe against the counter on the way there. He scooped the baby into his arms, sat at the rocking chair in the corner, and pressed the nipple against his mouth. The baby immediately started drinking and Nevada sighed in relief. How the hell was he supposed to do this by himself? How was he supposed to take care of an entire human being? Sure, he was in charge of hundreds of men, but not like this. Not like this…
His name was Hugo. He was only six pounds when he was born. Nevada was worried that something was wrong. Babies were small but not that small, right? The soft spot on his head nearly gave him a heart attack but the nurse assured him that it was completely fine, that it was supposed to be there. She then helped Nevada to sit at the chair, adjusted his arms to a more comfortable position, and smiled at him (women had been doing that a lot since they found out that he was a father). “He looks like his mother, doesn’t he?” she remarked.
Nevada smiled in spite of himself. “Si. He does.”
He had the same pitch-black eyes, the same wide, pouty lips, and the same round nose. He got Nevada’s chin and cheeks.
“Do you think he’s going to be a heartbreaker like his papá?”
Nevada looked at the woman lying in the hospital bed. She was exhausted and had trouble moving, and yet she still smiled at him.
“You’re awake,” said Nevada, getting up to sit on the bed next to her. “How’re you feeling?”
She reached up with her hand, the one not hooked to the IV, and stroked his arm. “I’m wonderful, preciosa.”
“Are you sure? Because I can get the nurse if you need anything at all—”
“I’m sure. Thank you, Nevada.”
He smiled at her, then looked back at Hugo. They had argued over the name for eight months and it was only the week before she went into labour that they had picked one. Hugo, like the composer Hugo Wolf, like the poet Hugo Ball, like the philosopher Hugo Grotius. Plus, it was easy to pronounce.
“He is so small,” Nevada murmured, unable to look away from the sleeping pink bundle in his arms.
“You were that small once.”
He looked at her. “Wrong,” he said. “I was always this tall.”
Hugo started crying then and Nevada handed him to his mother, who lifted her shirt in order to feed him. Nevada shifted in his spot on the bed, a bit uncomfortable but knowing he had to get used to it, as well as all the other uncomfortable tasks that accompanied being a parent. He stared at his hands for a while before asking hesitantly, “I didn’t ever break your heart, did I?” he looked at her carefully and she smiled at him.
“Not recently,” she said.
When he glared at her, she scrunched her nose at him. “You aren’t allowed to be mad at me, Nevada,” she said. “I just gave birth to your baby. Being angry is forbidden today.”
He chuckled and kissed her, careful not to squish Hugo as he leaned in. “Te amo, Alma,” he said.
“Te amo también, Nevada,” she said.
The change in pressure brought his mind back to the present. Nevada looked down to see that Hugo had finished with the bottle and was now dozing off again. He held the baby up against his shoulder like Alma had showed him and when the burp came, Nevada lowered him down to his crib again.
It was four in the morning and his sister Maria would be over in five hours to babysit while Nevada looked for a nanny. He needed someone perfect, but he knew he wouldn’t find it. Alma had been perfect, more than perfect. She was what he needed but she was gone so why bother even looking?
He dragged his feet back out of the nursery and into the living room. He left the door open, even though the baby monitor was on. Couldn’t be too careful.
He sank into the couch, pulling the blanket over himself and trying to find a comfortable position. He tossed and turned for over an hour before finally collapsing into a sleep fuelled only by utter and complete exhaustion. One leg was off the couch completely and his arm was thrown over the back. The couch itself gave him a bad back and the leather took forever to warm up under his body, leaving him shivering for most of the night. The spaces in between the cushions caused his body to mould to it in awkward positions and the length of his body was longer than the length of the couch. It was uncomfortable and it caused aching muscles but the only other option he had was to sleep in his bedroom.
In the king-sized bed with a cold space where Alma used to be.