Rectified (Salazar Brothers Book 1)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 2

  Just Ride: Legion of Guardians MC (Book 1)

  Let’s Ride: Legion of Guardians MC (Book 2)

  Just Right: Legion of Guardians MC (Book 3)

  Just Dream: Legion of Guardians MC (Book 4)

  Chapter 1

  Rectified: Salazar Brothers

  by

  Xyla Turner

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my family, friends, and readers! Without you, none of this is possible.

  Thank you Siera London, Heather Rae, LaQuette, Rena Miller and Jacqueline Quintyne for your help with the health, editing and gambling tips. I appreciate your willingness to assist me with these items.

  Thanks to the One who has already mapped it all out and waiting for us to catch up.

  Much Love,

  Xyla Turner

  Note To The Reader

  Hello, I’m so glad that you decided to read Diego: The Salazar Brothers. I just wanted to let you know that I used my creative license to design a disease for the purposes of this book. As you already know, there are many symptoms for various diseases that each of us may or may not ever display. So for the sake of this work, I have decided to create one and not focus on a real one, per se. There may be similar symptoms, but this one came from my head.

  Thank you for understanding and I hope you enjoy.

  Also, note that Sebastian’s story is coming soon.

  Chapter 1

  Destini

  "The man that has your kidney is on his deathbed and he’s in Cuba," Claire, my nurse, whispered in the phone. "He's a very bad man, but you'll live senorita. No one can know because as soon as people find out he’s there unprotected, let’s just say that he had enemies lining up around the corner."

  The heavy weight that had one day dropped on my shoulders lightly but slowly began to lift from my tired body. Cuba was far from New Jersey, and I had spent all of my money to secure a qualified donor. My blood type was AB negative, and it was nearly impossible to find a donor with the same type. The doctors had given me six months to live without a kidney transplant, but they said it could be shorter, which meant they did not know.

  Renalicious was a disorder that caused the kidneys to fail around the mid-twenties era of life. When I first went to the doctor, he began to tell me that there were a few diseases that would show signs around the same age. Multiple sclerosis, bipolar disorder, lupus, fibromyalgia and even acne. This wasn’t comforting, and I was often in the hospital because the issues with my kidney weren’t detected early enough. However, the doctors said that since they were so unfamiliar with what they called Renalicious, they surmised it could be an acute and chronic disease.

  To make matters worse, close to my thirtieth birthday, I had been more tired than usual. I felt like the strength was instantly zapped away from me. Therefore, that sent me back to the doctors to find out if my medication or treatments should change. Even if there were more cases of the disease that plagued my body. Instead of a different regime, the doctors tell me that my kidneys were shutting down, and I was at the end-stage. If I did not get a kidney within six months, I would die. Little did they know, I planned to fight until my last breath, and it might just come to that.

  "Are you one hundred percent positive?" I found myself whispering back as I stood in line at the Triumph Casino. "I'm about to get the money to secure my flight and the kidney now, so please be sure."

  "Senorita, I’m positive. One hundred percent positive." Claire assured me in hushed tones. “He’s a match for your blood type and histological. He’s alone, but you cannot go to Cuba. Not like you are. No plane would take you.”

  Claire worked at St. Justice, the hospital that I lived closest to and therefore frequented when I had an episode. Three times a week, she would administer the dialysis treatments, so we knew each other well. I have been admitted to this hospital more times than I can count due to my frequent need to be hospitalized. It was quite the ordeal when it happened, but it was often enough that the older Latino nurse took a liking to me. She said I was “a feisty Alocada,” which I assumed meant ‘I would never give up.’ She later informed me, that it translated to ‘crazy girl.’

  “Don’t worry, I have a private plane ready.” I laughed. “With all my connections and all.”

  “Your connections,” she scoffed. “It’s that friend of yours.”

  “Yeah, Keith,” I confessed. “I have to go, but I’ll let you know when I reach Cuba.”

  As I entered the casino, I was almost thankful for being sick because I was half the weight I should have been, and people would often underestimate my skills at the Poker table. They also assumed that I was on some sort of drugs, which meant they could or would try to take advantage of me. Or, assuming that I was some sickly woman that was not necessarily sharp in the mind. This was the furthest thing from the truth. I had been in some sticky situations where I had to prove that I was more than capable of taking care of myself. Even in my fragile state.

  Poker was my game because it is very much a mental game. Winning and losing is a mix of skill, being able to read your opponents, and keeping your opponents from reading you. Poker players talk a lot about "tells." Tells are things you do, subconsciously, that could give away the type of hand you have. One guy, his eye always twitched if he had a really good hand, and one lady I used to play in Maryland, she would scratch her ear if she had a bad hand. I loved the game because I was good at bluffing, betting higher amounts and raising, even if I didn’t have a good hand. My opponents knew no different, so I usually won and rarely folded. After everyone was eliminated, I went to gather my winnings.

  As I gathered my winnings, the last man who was eliminated from the game approached me and said, "Nice."

  I hope he didn’t want to go head-to-head. There was really no time for that. My winnings were enough money to add to my stash, so I could go to Cuba, pay the doctor, the sick guy, and whoever else I needed to get my transplant.

  The man had a long nose with a mole on his cheek, cleft chin, and thinning hair in the middle of his sandy head. My head nodded in his direction, but I didn't linger because I knew what was about to go down. They were all the same. Opportunistic bastards that would kill their own mother if they thought it'd get them ahead in life. I had no tolerance or sympathy for anyone like that. Whatever happened to them is what happened. My last chance at life was in Cuba and that was where I needed to get on the next flight out of Atlantic City.

  My home, or my cube of an apartment, was in New York. I sold my house to get all of the treatments and do the trials that might have contributed to ease my pain and now, prolong my life. As futile as it was, I had no children, no man to speak of, and most of my family had either died early deaths or I had cut them off. I had no legacy and that weighed the most on my heart at the end of the day.

  What would I be known for?

  The ability to school my facial features and not have a tell that always helped me win. My stints in the hospital, and as well-intentioned as they were, there was always a sad case to be seen. Always gaining friends as they prepared to die and go to the other place that was destined for them. I wanted that life all little girls dreamed of, but at the rate I was going, I would not even make it to Cuba.

  The prickling of my hair standing up on the back of my neck put me on full alert, and I knew without a doubt, I had a tail. My head slowly turned to see the same guy that just congratulated me following me along with one ugly guy on the other side of him. The new addition was bulkier than the first guy, and his nose was pudgy like a bulldog as if it had been smashed on several occasions. He was probably the muscle of whatever they were about to do.

  Shit!

  The lobby was crowded. I needed to make it to my car, and the parking lot was always deserted during the day. Most people came to Atlantic City and would stay until dawn if they could. It was only three o'clock in the afternoon, and even if the lot were filled with people, the guns the goons who were behind me carried, probably located in the waist bands of their pants, would deter anyone from getting involved in a mere squabble.

  With a quick thought, I decided to stay in the crowded lobby for ten minutes. When I finally made my move to exit, a rough hand grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me into a closed off hallway that led to the restrooms.

  "Not so fast," the ugly man growled. "You hustled my boss and now you're going to pay."

  He jerked me into the men's bathroom after putting a yellow cone that read Currently Cleaning in front of the door. Two seconds later, the long-nosed man joined us with his cell phone in hand. The ugly one had a jagged scar down his arm, like he was painfully tortured with a serrated knife. The other one that was at the table with me was clean shaven, in a suit with no jacket; probably in an attempt to look relaxed. Those rogue edges that outlined his face and shark eyes told a different story. He was a snake and would eat anything in his immediate surrounding without batting an eye. I knew it when I scouted out the Poker table. It was a dangerous thing, but I simply had nothing to lose. My life was hanging on by a thread, and I needed to get to Cuba, which needed to happen sooner rather than later.

  In both of my long-sleeved shirt cuffs were knives that I craftily stored for emergencies like this. One of the neighborhood guys I grew up with, Keith, taught me how to use blades at an early age. He said that I was pretty and that men would always try to take advantage of me, whether that was physically or emotionally.
He was in his thirties but had to serve his life sentence in a wheelchair. As a kid, I spent a lot of time at Keith's house along with many of the other teenagers. He taught us all types of shit, including how to shoot a gun if we ever found ourselves in a situation that warranted it. Apparently, he did, and since the bullet was too close to his spine, he was stuck in a chair all because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  We still kept in touch, and he was the one to secure the private plane when I needed it. Keith knew my situation, and I was in no position to ask questions on how he was able to afford a private plane.

  "Hand it over," the boss said. "And we'll let you go."

  The grip from the scarred man's hand grew tighter, which almost sent me buckling. Ending up on the floor would have been too vulnerable for me; even though I could be crafty, I was not strong. Therefore, I needed to use all the strength that I have to deliver my best possible blow because I needed to win.

  The crisp release of the blade sounded right before my thrust in the henchman's stomach caused blood to spurt out. Quickly pulling my hand out with the knife in hand, I saw the pudgy nosed man’s eyes grow wide as he looked from me to the wound that I just inflicted. As if on auto-pilot, his hands followed the pain as he released me and gripped his center.

  "The fuck?" He uttered before his body made a thud sound on the floor.

  My other hand quickly turned on the boss, when I said with a cough, "Don't want no trouble. Leave me be. Get your man a medic or he will bleed out."

  My feet carefully backed up towards the door as I kept one knife on the boss, who looked ready to spit fire.

  "You'll pay for this bitch," he grunted and held up his phone as if he were going to make a call. "You'll..."

  I did not wait to hear the rest as I ran, well more of hobbled, to my car and drove like a bat out of hell back to the Bronx. Before I caught the flight to Cuba, I needed to get my clothes, medicine, and pray that I did not have an episode while on the plane. Once I confirmed with Claire about the exact location of the donor, I connected with Keith, who put me in contact with the pilot. We planned to arrive in Varadero, Cuba the very next day.

  My research on this guy was extensive, and what I could not understand, Claire informed me. The man, Malvo Dominguez, was a ruthless thug, who led and maintained loyalty by force. His death did not mean much to people because his replacement had already started going against some of the things he had instituted. Cuba was a police state that could use their power arbitrarily; therefore, things were run slightly different than what I was used to in America. One thing that the two places had in common was that money, dollars or Pesos, talked louder than anything else.

  The winnings were enough extra money to bribe the people I would need to use and hopefully appeal to the man whose life was on the line and to the doctor who would perform the procedure. At this point in my life, I didn't give a shit who got the money, I was willing to do whatever, so I could live.

  I arrived at Hospital Punta de Mali the next day, and it was nothing to write home about. But, I guessed most hospitals weren't. This one looked run down, and the stains within the hallways said more about the management than it did the patients. Malvo Dominguez was in room four-zero-three, which was thankfully at the end of the hall. The only person I had to give money to in order to see my “long-lost cousin” was the head nurse, who happened to see me as I passed the registration station on the fourth floor.

  I claimed to speak little Spanish, which was true, and then I pulled out two twenty American dollars. Her eyes grew big, and she shooed me away towards my destination, mi primo. Walking into the room, the smell of death lingered in the air. It was an acute and putrid stench that I was quite familiar with because I'd been in the room with the odor many times. Sometimes, I felt it was my own life that I fought to save during those times in the hospital with my friends; but this time, I was ready to battle on my own behalf.

  The man looked like he was over a hundred years of age with his frail body and sunken face that made his eyes bulge. The pictures that I had seen of him were not remotely familiar to the ghost of a man that lay in bed. The images that I found were of a handsome man in his prime and some a little older with salt and pepper hair. All of the machines were on and pumping continuously, which made the room very noisy. My eyes slowly scanned the single room and noticed there was nobody else around before I entered. Moving closer to the bed, I saw that the man was awake.

  He coughed but it was only on the verge of saying something.

  "They sent a woman?" He coughed out again.

  "What?" I asked as I grew closer to him.

  His eyes moved back towards me, then he said, "Do it quickly."

  "Do what?" I asked as my eyes took another scan of the room just in case it was a setup. "I came here because I'm dying, and you have my blood type."

  "¿Que?" He asked weakly.

  "Tu, Mi Sangre," I pointed to myself. "Necesito riñón."

  My execution of the Spanish language was horrible. I tried to memorize some words, but I was nowhere near fluent. I promised if I had another chance at life, I'd learn the beautiful language and travel the world. I would make a point to live for good and not just survival. They were very different, and I wanted to be fulfilled.

  I wanted to leave a legacy.

  "Ah, mida. You don't want any organs of mine." He coughed again. "My life, mal."

  His untamed mustache that was matted to his face turned upside down as Malvo frowned. The man was drifting as his eyes closed, but it looked like he was reminiscing on his bad life.

  "I have no choice," I started to plead with him. "I've lost everything. Spent everything. I will die if you don't sign over your kidney to me. I will surely die."

  His low eyes suddenly opened, and he slightly sat up and said, "I've done some horrible things, but I tried to make them right. I did. That's why my family has turned their back on me. I tried to fix the wrongs and the Dominquez’s way is only to destroy. My own son thought me crazy and decided my time had come. This place is filthy, no visits, no nothing. Just filth and now you."

  Damn.

  Hard living was just that. No rest for the weary and no peace for the troubled. Just as I was about to plead with the man, he slowly held up his hand and said, "Whatever you need is yours. I have no more fight. At least, I can do something good, even if it’s on my dying bed."

  My eyes began to cloud as I thought of what that meant for me begin to form. The reality of such a gift made my heart heavy with joy. Then, I thought of all the horrible things that he had done and the power of forgiveness and amends. He was about to grant me everything I wanted and needed in order to live. Finally, I was able to get a break, and it required me to go to Cuba and meet a leader of a mob. A former leader, at that.

  Go figure. I was always fighting for something, and now, finally, I would get something in return. Well, I'd get to live.

  "Senor Dominguez, thank you so much. You have no idea how much I've done to get here and even to find you." I couldn't help being so emotional as the tears began to form in my eyes.

  "Niña, I can see you're very determined." He coughed a little and held out his hand for the paperwork that was tucked under my arm.

  Once, Malvo scrawled his signature on the papers, I text the doctor, who I'd hired by getting his gambling debt canceled and playing in his stead. The doctor would have to come here where he had to secure a facility, staff, and the necessary technology to perform the surgery. It all seemed too easy, too perfect, and I was afraid to become too giddy. Even when I thought I should be.

  My internal instincts were right on target because as I sat down next to Malvo’s bed facing the door, I saw that my boot was untied. I bent down to fasten it, and I heard the room door slowly opened. Everything in me knew I needed to stay down because if death was in the room, the reaper had come to claim what was his.

  Malvo.

  And me.

  Chapter 2

  Diego

  Some went to therapy sessions, but I cleaned my guns to relax. The methodical, quiet way of ensuring that each cylinder was crisp, ready, and smooth when it was needed. It was a release that I welcomed at any moment. It was not a weird thing to do in our household because we were Salazars. Known in Cuba as the Binura, which meant no mercy. We were categorized as the chameleon types who could adapt to any environment. This was always important in our line of business because we needed to be everyone and no one at the same time.