We spend the next few hours laying it all out. Every detail I know about the hit. The target. The timeline. The payout. Diego listens, asks sharp questions, offers options I hadn't even considered. He's in. No arm-twisting needed. The money hooked him.
Guilt gnaws at my gut as we map the target's life. His routines, weak spots, escape routes. Could he actually do this? Pull it off clean, give us all a real cut? He'd take the majority share, obviously. But even the idea of Dad and me skimming off his risk makes my stomach turn.
My legs bounce restless under the table. I bite my thumb hard, tearing at the cuticle until it stings.
Diego notices.
"I've got this, dude."
"I know you do." Voice comes out rough. Heart aches saying it. Always protected me, and now I'm handing him a gun wrapped in dollar signs.
"Now that we're solid on this," he says, glancing around, tension easing, "where's your bong?"
We both crack up. The sharp, sudden laughter cutting the room's weight in half.
I head to my room, grab the bong and my fresh bag of weed. He immediately starts grinding it.
I head to the kitchen while he's setting it up.
"What are you doing?"
"Grabbing our favorites."
I pull out a box of brownie mix and a box of yellow cake mix. It's been our unbeatable combo for baking while baked since we were young.
Diego packs the bong tight while I preheat the oven and dump both mixes into a bowl. No measuring. No precision. Just muscle memory from a hundred stoned afternoons like this one. Back when life was simpler, before the weight of "jobs" and family debts pressed down.
He hands me the lighter first. I take a deep rip, hold it, pass it over. Flame dances in his eyes as he inhales, then blows a cloud that hangs lazy in the morning light.
It feels like we're still kids sneaking smokes behind the garage, plotting dumb shit instead of hits that could end lives.
"Remember that time we tried to bake cookies with no flour?" he asks, coughing through a grin.
I snort, stirring the batter. "It was so nasty. Why did we still try to eat it?!"
He laughs. A real, belly-deep laugh. For a second, the guilt loosens its grip.
We rotate hits, conversation drifting easy. School bullshit we skipped. Girls we chased. The summer we went skinny dipping at the beach just to say we did.
I swirl the concoction once more and slide the pan in the oven. The chocolate-yellow mess will taste like nostalgia no matter how weird it looks.
Diego leans back, eyes red-rimmed but sharp. "So. Walk me through the hit's daily routine again."
Reality snaps back. Tension coils tight.
We spread the notes across the table, marking routes in pen, timing every move.
He nods at each detail, committing it to memory like scripture. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
"You sure?" I ask, hating how my voice wavers.
"Got it locked." He claps my shoulder firm, reassuring. "We'll be good after this. Ma gets her meds. We'll get to breathe."
Guilt surges back, hot and ugly. I'm sending him to kill for us.
But the math doesn't lie. Money's real. Our freedom is closer.
The oven dings. I pull out the tray and cut out the bars. The bars are gooey, uneven, perfect.