Safehouse Whispers

***Big Danni's POV***

The hum of cicadas outside swelled like a fever, their drone syncopated with the creak of the porch boards under my boots—boards warped by years of Gulf humidity, their peeling paint the same faded blue as Dragon’s childhood backpack. The walls were pocked with bullet holes from a raid in ’08, patched haphazardly with license plates (Louisiana, Texas, one rusty Mississippi) and prayer cards for saints even I didn’t recognize.

But it was the garden that caught me off guard: Marisol’s herbs ran wild in the overgrown yard, rosemary and lemon balm tangling with spindly okra stalks. A handmade trellis of salvaged PVC pipes sagged under the weight of bitter melon vines, their yellow fruit bloated and splitting in the heat. She’d tried to pretty it up—cracked terracotta pots of aloe vera lined the steps, their serrated leaves dusted with pollen from the crape myrtle she’d planted. That tree hadn’t been a sapling when they’d fled New Orleans.

I leaned against the doorway, rolling a clove cigarette between my fingers. The air smelled like her now—dried lavender hung in bunches from the eaves, mingling with the humid southern air and scent of Alabama Pines. The match hissed to life, its sulfur bite cutting through the muggy air. Somewhere in the weeds, a wind chime made of shotgun shells clinked—Dragon’s old project, half-rusted. They’d put down roots here, deeper than I’d realized.

Marisol scraped plates in the kitchen, the clatter of porcelain sharp as gunfire. The safehouse smelled like her—cumin and burnt sugar, laced with the tang of bourbon. I studied Dru’s face as she slept curled on Dragon’s lap, her cheek pressed to his chest. She looked younger like this, the scars on her arms silvered in the lamplight. A jagged scar ran the length of her inner arm from elbow to wrist. Wasn’t just a scar—it was a crack in the armor she’d built to survive. Her scars weren’t just marks; they were a ledger of pain, each one a story Louise had carved into her. Thirteen years ago, I’d lost her in that burning house; now, she was a wildfire waiting to reignite.

Dragon pulled the quilt off the couch—a patchwork of faded bandanas and denim, stitched by Marisol during endless nights in safehouses—and draped it over Dru. His fingers lingered in her hair, knotty and a bit sun-bleached, so unlike the baby-soft dark curls I’d once brush. She murmured, “…don’t let her take me back…” and he bent close, whispering something that made her grip his hand like an anchor.

"I'm not sure how to feel about this vireman (twist) in events," I confess to Marisol, gesturing toward the scene on the couch. Dragon runs his fingers through her hair as she sleeps soundly against his chest. The kid had his mother’s eyes but his father’s hands—broad, scarred, too steady for a sixteen-year-old. “Dragon’s a good kid, but… bagay sa yo, yo konplike (these things, they’re complicated).”

"Marisol," I say, my voice low, "I don’t want Dru getting caught up in the same trouble with Dragon’s father. We know what kind of man he is, the danger he represents. We did so much to save you and Dragon, to give you both a chance at a normal life. But now, with Dragon and Dru…”

Marisol handed me a bourbon, her knuckles whitening around the glass. I remembered those hands clutching a kitchen knife thirteen years ago, her son’s face buried in her skirt as Colombian fists hammered the door. “Mwen pa vreman konnen ki jan mwen santi m* (I don’t know how to feel about this),” I admitted.

I look at Marisol, searching her eyes to see if she understands my worry. I love Dru like she’s my own. She’s been through too much already with Louise, someone who couldn’t even be bothered enough to show her love. Now she’s got a chance at a better life, and I don’t want to see her tangled up in something that could turn dangerous.

The ice in my drink cracked, loud as a snapped bone. “I don’t want Dru tangled in your old messes, Marisol. Dragon’s father ain’t just a policía—he’s a bloodhound with a badge and a vendetta. You think he forgot you?”

When I heard she was still alive and what Louise was doing to her, the last thing I expected was for Marisol and Dragon to be involved in trying to free her. Hell, I thought they were still at the safehouse in New Orleans! I especially didn't expect that scrawny, little, bruised up kid, the kid I saved all those years ago, to be all grown up and pointing Kimbers in my face neither. Definitely didn't expect him to do it trying to protect my own blood from me.....

"Do you see what I see?" I ask Marisol. "Dru, she’s young, she’s fragile. I don’t want her to lose herself chasing Dragon straight into a warzone. Mwen pa vle pèdi (I don’t want to lose anyone else), Marisol."

I feel the weight of it all pressing down on me, my worries rising. But I know Marisol has her own fears too. We both know how life can change in a single day, how things can spiral out of control. I just want to make sure everyone I care about is safe. And right now, with Dragon and Dru, I am not so sure I can keep that promise.

Marisol sighs, her eyes softening as she looks at me and hands me a glass of bourbon. "Danni, entiendo (understand) your worry. I do. Dragon is my son, and I know the risks that come with his father’s world." She pauses, her gaze drifting to the couch where Dragon is cradling Dru in his arms as if she is made of glass. "I see what you see, Danni. I see the danger, pero (but), I also see the love. Dragon cares more about her than you realize, de verdad (truly). But you see the way he la mira (he looks at her). Eyes like un perro guardián (a guard dog). There's no keeping them apart ahora (now). He'd seguirla (follow her) to the ends of the earth, walk through el infierno (hell) for her if he had to. And Dru... she’s strong, stronger than you think. She’s been through hell and she’s still standing. Ella es una guerrera (She is a warrior)."

Dragon picks up Dru like he's afraid he'll break her. As he carefully walks towards the stairs Marisol holds out a steaming clay mug in his direction and he takes it. Without saying a word, he continues to climb the stairs. Marisol turns back towards me. I raise an eyebrow, curiously while taking a sip of my bourbon.

"Atole for the nightmares," she explains. I just nod in agreement, knowing there's probably something more in that damn cup than just some warm atole. But also knowing Marisol like I do, I didn't need any further explanation. It seems she knew more about Dru's situation than I had realized.

Remembering how Dragon held those .45s aimed at my head, I grudgingly admitted, "Kid’s got spine. I’ll give him that." Pausing mid sip, remembering Dru's little face the night of the house fire thirteen years ago, I tossed back the rest of my bourbon and lit another cigarette. "She’s tougher than she looks too. But toughness ain’t armor. Not against what’s coming."

The hum of cicadas outside thickened as Marisol scrubbed the pot, the metallic scrape of steel wool echoing her tension. Softly, she says, "Tienes que ser más cuidadoso (You have to be more careful), Danni. If the cartel suspects you’re involved…”

I exhale a cloud of smoke, stressed but trying to keep my voice down,"I know how they hunt people, Marisol. Lou Nwa isn’t a joke. But your boy’s father… he ain’t just some policía. He’s a bloodhound with a Colombian badge and a vendetta.”

Marisol slammed the pot down, then glances up towards the stairs, trying to keep her voice calm, "Sí, and bloodhounds track scent. You think helping me all those years ago didn’t leave one? If he finds out you’re still—"

Cutting her off, I step closer to the screen door, "—Still what? Still breathing? Still free? That’s the problem with you, chè. You run so quiet, you forget how to stand your ground."

Marisol leans back against the counter, her voice fraying, "Standing ground gets people buried, Danni. What do you want me to do? Hide again? Change our names, disappear? Dios, I spent thirteen years looking over my shoulder. I won’t let Dragon live like that. Not anymore."

I crush out my cigarette, stepping back inside, "Then stop hiding. Let me handle the cartel. Lou Nwa’s got eyes in ports, truck stops… anywhere that snake tries to slither. But you gotta cut ties with the past. All of it." I walk over to the counter to pour another glass.

Marisol laughs bitterly, trying to choke back a sob,"Cut ties? You think I didn’t try? That man is Dragon’s blood. His face is in every scar on my—" Her hand instinctively grazes the jagged scar on her collarbone—a mark shaped like a twisted moth. My gut clenches. I know that scar. He gave it to her.

**FLASHBACK — CARTAGENA, COLOMBIA — 13 YEARS AGO**

The alley reeked of fish guts and diesel, the cobblestones slick with rain and something darker—blood or oil, I couldn’t tell. Marisol crouched behind a fruit cart, three-year-old Dragon clutched to her chest, his face smothered against her neck to muffle his cries. Her left sleeve was torn, the collarbone beneath raw and bleeding where he had pressed a cigarette ember shaped like a butterfly—his signature.

“Mariposas negras (Black butterflies). para mi mariposa infiel (for my unfaithful butterfly),” Esteban’s voice crooned from the shadows. His men had pinned her down as he heated his custom brass lighter—a moth-wing design—and seared her skin. Now, the damn things fluttered everywhere, their wings dusted with a neurotoxin that made the air taste like burnt almonds.

I’d followed the rumors—a ghostly cartel boss who left no trace but poison butterflies and widows. Found Marisol half-dead in a Bogotá clinic, Dragon feverish in her arms. She’d begged me to disappear them. I’d refused… until Esteban’s men torched the clinic that night.

Now, here I was, ankle-deep in Cartagena’s filth, watching her tremble as Esteban’s boots echoed closer. “Sal a jugar (Come out to play), Mari…” he sang. A mariposa negra (black butterfly) landed on Dragon’s hair. The kid’s breath hitched—one cough, and we were dead.

I stepped into the open, flicking a match onto a pile of fish guts. The flames erupted, sending Esteban’s men scrambling. “Run!” I barked at Marisol. She bolted, Dragon’s tiny fists tangled in her shirt. I tackled Esteban as he lunged for them, the brass lighter clattering into the flames. His knife grazed my ribs, but I got the chokehold tight enough to feel his trachea bend. “You touch them again,” I hissed, *“and I’ll feed you to your own mariposas (butterflies).”

He laughed, blood bubbling on his lips. “You think you saved them? I’m in their veins. Siempre. (Always.)”

**BACK TO PRESENT**

Catching herself, she glances at me. The cicadas stalled, the silence sudden and suffocating. She glanced upstairs, where Dragon’s footsteps creaked faintly. A look of absolute horror creeps into her eyes, " but you forget. If he can track you, he can scent her too."

There it was.....the missing variable in my whole equation. I can't save everyone. I'm no hero. Someone was bound to get caught in the crossfire and I'd be damned if I let Dru be that someone!

The bourbon turned to acid in my throat. This ain’t a bar fight, I thought. Cartels didn’t throw punches—they threw money, Molotovs, bodies in dumpsters.

Suddenly Marisol looks me in the eyes with a fiery determination,"Then we become ghosts. But smart ones. You keep Lou Nwa away from the border. No raids, no noise. And I’ll… I’ll reach out to mi tía (my aunt) in Cali. She still has friends in Bogotá. They can spread lies, make his father think we’re in Peru, Chile—anywhere but here."

I raise an eyebrow, "Risking a lot on lies, Marisol."

Marisol's gaze turns to steel ,"I risked more staying silent."

Staying silent for a moment, I finally nod, "Alright. But if your tía’s friends flap their mouths too wide…" I pull a switchblade from my boot, twirling it between my fingers,”I clean up my own messes—silently.”

“Then we’ll need louder lies,” Marisol said, nodding at the knife, her smile grim. “Dios mío, you haven’t changed.”

I grin in her direction before turning to go back out the door, "Non. But your kid’s father has. And that’s what scares you." Truthfully, it should scare us all....

Looking back over my shoulder, I say quietly, "Get your lies ready. I’ll be the shadow they don’t see."

I stepped onto the porch, the cicadas’ scream rising again. The Alabama Pines stretched out, a black and endless forest, a living thing with teeth. Somewhere out there, Dragon’s father was hunting. But so were we.

Marisol’s voice followed me, softer now: “Be careful, Danni.”

I lit another clove cigarette, the ember glowing like a predator’s eye in the dark. A mariposa negra landed on the cracked wooden board by my foot, wings glistening with poison. I crushed it before Marisol could see. The butterfly’s wings left a faint iridescent powder on my boot—clinging like a curse, shimmering even in the dark.

Exhaling a cloud of fragrant smoke, “Always am, chère. Always am.”

******