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Just breathe, don't think too deep

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There's something seriously fucked up about watching your friends lie in an open casket. It wasn't the first, and that day it had finally dawned on him that it wouldn't be the last. Tommy's mom couldn't stop sobbing; the rest just stood there in silence, no one daring to console her. Jo sat alone at the back, the priest was performing his rites, whatever that meant, Jo wasn't paying attention anyway. Tommy's death was devastating, sure, but he was more concerned about the fuckers who drove by and smoked him right out in the open.

Another man slipped into the church and sat down on the back pew beside Jo. He was bald, wore sunglasses, dressed in black, covered in ink, with an ankh earring dangling from his left ear.

"My condolences about your friend," he said with a Hispanic accent.

"Yeah, thanks." Jo didn't mean it. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Going to deal with it. You do your thing, keep it low."

Jo didn't like it. He wasn't about to let it be and go on living constantly watching his back. The man beside him was Nacho, the hand of the shot caller who ran the Aztecas gang, with ties to the Tijuana cartel — the only reason Jo was so fucking laid back all the time. Nobody fucked with the Aztecas, Nacho, or the Reyes family. Jo was moving their product, paying a good cut from what he earned just to have that luxury of peace of mind while dealing on Azteca turf. Now it was gone.

"Word on the street is they were cholo." Jo kept his voice low. "Explain that, ese. You owe me that much. It's your turf."

Nacho took off his glasses and looked at Jo. He didn't like the way Jo talked to him, but he understood the grief, and the concern was valid. Jo wasn't in on what was really going down behind the scenes, how one of the main pillars of their operation was crumbling, and the whole thing might collapse.

All thanks to Blanco.

"Okay, we'll get them, promise. For now, you stay hidden."

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