***Big Danni's POV***
I walk around the house towards the garage, her words still ringing in my ears. He was protecting her before I got here! Her revelation pounding through my skull.... saved her from being raped. The stench of gasoline morphed into blood—Marie's blood—and suddenly I was back in 2008.
**FLASHBACK—New Orleans, 2008**
The warehouse reeks of fish guts and betrayal. I'd tracked Marie's scream to a rusted shipping container, its sides spray-painted with a grinning calavera—the cartel's calling card. Shadows pooled at my feet, thick as the Creole curses I spat into the dark. My boots slip on blood-slick concrete as I kick open the shipping container door. Inside, a single bare bulb swung like a hanged man.
"Marie?!"
Her name echoed back, drowned by a man's laugh—slick as oil. "Too late, frè." The voice slithered from the shadows, Spanish accent sharpening the Creole words. "Your sister fought hard. Made it… personal."
I lunged, machete glinting, but the light caught her first.
Marie lay slumped against a crate. Her sundress—yellow as Haitian sunflowers, same one she wore dancing at the Zydeco festival—was shredded, stained crimson from collarbone to waist. They'd slit her throat ear-to-ear, a second smile silencing her. Her fingers still clutched the locket I'd given her for her 16th birthday, the Haitian Brotherhood emblem snapped in half.
"Non. NON!" My roar shook the container.
I cradled Marie's body, her blood seeping into my kutte. She'd bitten one bastard's finger to the bone—a gold pinky ring glinted in her fist. The cartel's mark.
"*Mwen p'ap janm bliye sa.* (I'll never forget this)," I choke, lifting her in my arms. Her braids stick to my leather, matted with blood and bayou mud. The same mud caking my kutte after I'd raced through storm drains, machete in hand, too late.
The calavera men melted into the night, their taunts trailing behind: "Tell your gang this is what happens when you steal our merchandise."
"Mwen swè ou vejasyon (I swear vengeance)," I whispered, closing her eyes with my thumb. But the lwa—spirits even the cartel feared—stayed silent that night. Just the buzz of flies and the distant wail of a blues trumpet from Jackson Square, mourning what the city would never admit was lost.
**PRESENT DAY**
"*Mwen pa ka… pa ka respire* (I can't… can't breathe)," I mutter, slamming the wrench onto the workbench. Dragon's bike looms like that damned shipping container, the "Fix It" list blurring—*"Tires… Lights… Seat…"*—but all I see is Marie's list: *Breathe. Scream. Survive.*
The clang of the wrench rang as loud as Dru's words—'Dragon saved me…'—echoing like Marie's ghost in the garage.
My jaw clenches. *He did what I couldn't.*
I kick a rusted oil can across the garage, the clatter echoing my turmoil. The smell of engine grease mixes with the ghost of clairin rum on my breath. My fists tighten—Dru's trembling voice replaying: "Dragon— saved me from being raped."
"Seventeen years ago, it was me racing through New Orleans alleys, machete in hand, too late to stop those *kòkòch* (bastards) from dragging Marie into shadows. Now this piti gason (kid) does what I couldn't? I slam a wrench onto the workbench, the clang sharp as my sister's screams that night.
Dragon's calm face flickers in my mind—no swagger, no lies. Just steady, like the old fig tree in Léogâne that outlasted the storm.
All this time, I cursed him for laying hands on Dru… but when the wolves came? He didn't run. Just stood, fè fas (faced it). Like the lwa (spirits) say: "Pye pye w, tèt tèt ou. (Your feet, your head—you fight your own battles). Maybe I been wrong.
I stare at the Haitian Brotherhood patch on my kutte. My thumb traces the embroidered "Kenbe La"(Hold On). How many times did I stitch those words into Dru's jackets, her bags from the moment she was born? And yet… Dragon held her tighter when it mattered.
Dragon… kid's got a spine. Didn't interrupt when I raised my voice. Didn't puff his chest when she teared up. Just stood by the door watching, waiting— ready but not pushin'. Hmph. Maybe that's the difference—he knows she don't need a hero. Just… someone to watch her back.
I spit, bitter. Remembering Dragon's scarred knuckles—not from brawling, but busting carburetors for extra cash. A worker. A protector. Like Papa back in Jacmel, silent and stubborn.
She doesn't need a chief… she's got Dragon! All my life, I thought love meant building walls. But Dru? She's Creole! Untameable like the Bayou herself—wild, unbreakable. Walls just make her climb higher. Maybe Dragon's not a wall. Just… a bridge.
My calloused hand grips the flask of clairin rum. I don't take a swig. Instead, I pour a drop onto the garage floor—a silent mèsi (thanks) to the ancestors. For Dragon's courage. For Dru's fire. For sparing me from another funeral.
I picked back up the wrench I slammed down and walked around Dragon's heap of scrap metal. Taking note of its condition. Ti gason, got work to do if he's serious about her. But if he makes her cry…
…I'll bury him where even the lwa (spirits) can't weep.
An hour later I'm leaning against his Harley in the driveway, arms crossed. Dragon nervously tinkers with his beat-up '98 Road King. Dru lingers on the porch, pretending not to eavesdrop. The air, smelling of motor oil, is so thick with enough tension I could use it to sharpen my blade.
Grinding my teeth, I grunt, "Brake pads squealin' like a gutted hog. You even check these?" I chuck a wrench at Dragon's feet. Dragon catches it, unfazed.
He smirks, "Sí, jefe (boss). Replaced 'em last week. They're just… enthusiastic. Like you."
I snort, circling the bike, "Enthusiastic. Right. And this chain—" yanking on it, the bike shudders,"—looser than your abuela's tamale ties after midnight mass. Gonna snap mid-ride, leave Dru stranded."
Dragon starts rolling up his sleeves, revealing faded Calavera tattoos, "Chain's fine. Got a tension tool in my box. I'll fix it antes de que (before) sundown."
Poking at the rusted exhaust, "Pfft. Tool ain't magic, kid. And this exhaust? Sounds like a dying chupacabra." Dru stifles a laugh. I shoot her a glare, but I'm trying to hide my own smirk with my beard.
Dragon shakes his head, then glances up towards Dru on the porch, "¿En serio (Seriously) You think I'd let her hurt? I seen what happens when you don't guard your crew." Dragon rolls up his sleeve further, revealing a tattooed date—"2003–2019"—inked beneath the Calavera's hollow eyes. The numbers curl like smoke from a prayer candle, the "2019" still raw at the edges.
The Calavera's jaw gaped wide, swallowing the death date. I'd seen those skeletal grins before—on cartel men, on altars, on the sugar skulls Marisol left for her dead. But this one's different. Tiny cempasúchil flowers frame the skull, their orange petals chipped from sun and grease.
He tended this tattoo. Honored it.
"Alejandro," Dragon mutters, thumb brushing the numbers. "Mi primo (my cousin). Some rich cabrón ran a red light in the Quarter, smashed his bike to scrap. He was supposed to teach me to ride that day. Mamá made me fix Tío's carburetor instead. I was ten."
My throat tightens. 2019. Alejandro was 16—man enough to ride, kid enough to laugh. Now he's just bones and a tattoo. Kid was ten when death stole his cousin. Same age I was when I first held a blade.
The garage air hung heavy—burnt oil and the ghost of marigolds from Dragon's tattoo. I nod, sharp. *Guilt's a familiar wrench.*
I glared at it, but grudgingly respected this new revelation. "...Sa bon (That's good.). Guard her like it's your last ride 'cause I don't lose nothing. Not twice," I grunt, forcing my gaze away from the dates.
I pulled the flask from my vest, taking a swig of clairin rum, the burn like the truth I won't say: She's all I got left.
*Guard her like you couldn't guard him.*
I side-eyed Dragon, tossing him the flask. Dragon hesitates, then drinks—coughs at the fire.
Dragon grinning, voice hoarse,"¡Coño! (Damn!) That's… fuerte (strong)!"
Smirking, I replied, "It's not for kids. Remember that."
Dragon leans in, lowering his voice, "You gonna list every scratch, tío (uncle)? Or you got a point?"
I pulled a crumpled napkin from my vest—scrawled with Creole and bike parts, "Point is, ti gason (little boy), you don't ride with my niece 'til this list's done. ¿Comprendes? (You understand)" I slapped the napkin on the tank.
Dragon scans it: "Tires—NOT bald," "Lights—BRIGHTER," "Seat—NO SPRINGS IN HER ASS. He snorts,"Seat springs? Really? Qué dramático (How dramatic)."
I step closer, voice gravelly and low, "Dru's been through enough drama for ten lifetimes. You wanna be her knight? Start with the damn steed." I pause, softening my tone, "And… replace that Santo Niño de Atocha medal on the handlebars. I don't want God distracted when you're driving."
Dragon raises an eyebrow, "The saint's kept me alive this long. Es un milagro (It's a miracle) I survived you," then grinning, "Entiendo (I understand). Fix the bike, keep the saints focused. You got it."
Grunting, I tossed him the vintage Haitian Brotherhood MC patch from my pocket, "Stick that under the seat. For… luck." Storming off, but I yell over my shoulder, "And polish the chrome! Looks like caca de poule (chicken shit)!"
Dru's voice sliced through the grease-thick air, fists white-knuckling the porch rail, "Chrome's fine, Uncle D!"
Without turning, I barked, "You don't get a say!"
Dragon still holding the patch, looks bemused, "Oye (Hey)… this patch's from '98. Vintage, ése (dude). You sentimental?"
"Twenty-seven years of dirt and blood, ése. Still holds." Mid-stride, I muttered, "Don't make me regret it!"
Dragon quiet, earnest, "I'll get the list done. Even the springs. Palabra de honor (Word of honor).
Already walking away, I huffed out, "Bon. (Good.)"
I stormed off, that Haitian Brotherhood patch burning a hole in Dragon's palm. My reflection glared back from the bike's chrome—scars, beard, eyes like cracked asphalt. Then the light shifted.
Her face flickered in the metal. Marie. Braids crowned with bayou lilies, lips parted mid-laugh. *"Kenbe La, frè. Li merite chans lan." (Hold on, brother. He deserves the chance.)*
I froze. The garage light buzzed like a hornet's nest in my skull.
*"Chans pa garanti anyen," (Chances don't guarantee shit.)* I growled, kicking the door shut so hard the hinges screamed. The clairin rum (Haitian moonshine) called from my vest, sweet and venomous. My fingers twitched toward it—*17 years of drowning, 17 years of failing her*—but I let my hand fall.
Marie's ghost faded, leaving only my face in the dark.
*Some vows taste better sober.*
I heard Marisol emerging from the house, wiping her hands on a mantel de cocina embroidered with cacti. She sidles up to Dragon, who's still clutching the vintage MC patch. Mischief in her voice, snatching the patch, eyeing it, "Ay, mijo… fix the bike, get his bendición (blessing)? Sounds like you got an invite to your own shotgun wedding." She tucks the patch into Dragon's back pocket, then nods at my retreating back as I gruffly inspect the tamale pot on the grill. "Welcome to his family. Dios mío, next he'll want grandkids."
Dragon almost chokes on his coffee, "¡Mamá! We're not even—"
Marisol cuts him off, waving a spatula, "Callate (Shut up). Creole bikers, Mexican mechanics—we're a mixed soup now." Yelling in my direction, "¡Oye (Hey), Daniel! Since you're familia, you get Sunday pozole (soup). But no boots on my table!"
Grumbling from the grill, "I don't need corn in my soup!"
Marisol mock-offended, hands on hips, "¿Escuchaste eso, mijo? (Did you hear that, son?) First he kidnaps my tools, now he insults my abuelita's (grandmother's) recipe!" Softening, she flicks Dragon's ear, "Go fix his list. And you—" points at me "—stop pretending you hate my cooking. I saw you stealing churros!"
I froze, caught red-handed taking a churro out of my vest pocket, "It's not mine!"
Dru leans over the porch railing, grinning, "Liar! You're both getting soft!"
Marisol laughs, linking arms with Dragon, "Sí (Yes). Our kind of soft."
******