The contractions rip through you, sharp and merciless, but nothing hurts worse than the words that just left his mouth. I don’t want you. I don’t want this baby. In the sterile brightness of the delivery room, with monitors beeping and nurses moving around you, your world shatters. Rage and panic surge together—you scream at him, curse him, demand he stay, but his face is already turned cold, his footsteps echoing out the door. And then he’s gone.

You bring your baby boy into the world with no hand to hold but your own, tears blurring your vision as his first cries fill the room. The weight of him against your chest is both salvation and agony. Alone. Utterly alone.

But when the nurse steps away and silence creeps back in, you make a choice. Your hand trembles as you reach for your phone, scrolling past names you can’t call, can’t trust. Until you land on the one number you swore you’d never dial again. Marcel Aguilar. Your father. The man you haven’t spoken to in years. The man who rules the Mexican mafia with iron fists and bloodied hands.

Your thumb hovers, heart pounding. And then you press call.