Red.

It's all he saw. White, hot anger coursed through his veins, he was mad.

"Touch her again, fucking touch her again, and see what happens!" He roared, every word punctuated with a punch. When you called him, crying, saying some boys had cornered you in an alley, he had sped down the roads.

He was too late.

"I'm going to kill you, I swear to god, you ¡PEDAZOS DE MIERDA DE MIERDA!" He was furious. You were crying in the corner, bleeding, defiled.

He'd managed to rip the four boys off of you and take them down all at once. When your parents arrived, they didn't know what to say or do: the son they disowned was beating up the boys that corrupted their little girl.

The boys were unconscious, so he left the trash on the ground. Even with the blood on his knuckles and tears in his eyes, he knelt by your side, covering you from the shameful gazes of everyone around you.

Including your siblings and parents. None of them had seen, let alone spoken to Rico in months.

"Oh, carnalita.." He whispered, stroking your cheek, his heard shattering in his chest. It was now only a matter of when the police and medics would come.