His legs took him to the spot.
Pretty much his only choice, without risking an uber.
The Honda was a no-go at this point, as much as he missed the car. The old thing just couldn’t fit him right anymore, seat bent back in a way he couldn’t really fix at this point. He wasn’t gonna complain, his own fault for folding himself into it every damn morning. Besides, walking wasn’t bad; it made it plenty clear on its own about how far his territory had shrunk without nobody having to say it to his face.
The streets cleared as he made his way through, some of the crowd pressed flat against the storefronts. It was nothing like the old weaker espect he’d known for the longest, no quick nods or the hurried qué lo que. Nah, this was more the kind you gave a downed power line sparking bright in the gutter, people keeping wide in case a wire jumped.
It was a short walk through the Bronx that took him where he needed to go, the heavy door of the warehouse already propped open. The boys at the door were quick to open it the rest of the way for him, their eyes turned away from his as he made his way in.Black fingertips pulled open the second door inside, a faint smudge of ash left behind on painted metal as he stepped into a packed floor. Huh… Orange eyes narrowed as Tito looked around the space. Bigger crowd.Definitely bigger than he expected for a random Tuesday afternoon; soldiers, suppliers, and runners all packing the spot with a couple lieutenants scattered around. A couple of twitchy lab types were huddled off in the far corner not touching a damn thing, while some younger supes showed off half-stable powers just to kill time.
One kid in the back shivered on a folding chair, skin pale white and flaking off him exactly like old drywall. Nobody bothered to check if he was still breathing right, another Rojo failure by the looks of him. Bad blood. Honestly, he was one of the luckier ones, considering some of the rest came to a quicker and messier end. Manny was there too, his own cousin running around with a clipboard for the old man like Tito hadn't tried to put him on himself two years back.
The boss worked the room, the whole of the warehouse getting his attention as that cane tapped around. El Martillo was the sort of leader that was as patient as a priest and as attentive as a doctor — a hand on a shoulder here, a warning dressed up as small talk there, it was the same as always.
“There he is.”When he finally made his way over to TIto, his voice came warm. Genuine, even.“El Diablo himself.”
Close enough that Tito could even believe it.
"My man…" Martillo's voice rolled out as slow and unhurried as it always did, the man raising a hand full of gold rings as he kept on waving Tito forward. "My man who don't die."
Laughter rippled through the floor below as Tito stepped toward the boss with a smile cracking his face, the first real one he'd let himself have in weeks."Listen to me." A hand full of gold settled on his shoulder, heat off Tito's skin not even getting a raised eyebrow from the gold man. Made sense, especially with a palm that leather-thick from years of this shit. "Been doing good work, mijo. Better than good."
That hand stayed on his shoulder as the old man walked him up onto the raised stage in the back, velvet rope for a VIP of one. With a grunt, the boss lowered himself into a high-backed leather chair that made him look smaller than Tito remembered. He sat there in a beige linen suit, panama hat resting on the little table, both hands folded over the polished gold head of his cane.
Tito stayed on his feet, knowing good and well the folded chair set up for him would start to give the second his overcooked ass touched it. He didn’t do well with metal anymore, not when it came to long contact. He was pretty sure the old man knew that too. Either way, he didn’t take the seat and Martillo didn’t seem to notice or care.
"Like, I was saying, boss…" Tito crossed his arms. "The rate we’re moving, Brooklyn is ours in no time at all. We can push the Russians clean out Queens by Christmas even. Vought's bleeding right now, with all that shit yesterday…” The pyro shook his head as a rough laugh escaped him. “They distracted as hell right now. No better time to take what’s ours."
"This is not wisdom." Martillo let a breath out slow through his nose, the old man’s patience only spiking the fire in Tito’s chest. "You need to take your eyes off the street and look towards the board, mijo. Vought is having the black suit sweep Staten Island right now, as we speak. Heat is too high here."
"I am the heat.” A thumb jabbed into Tito’s chest as he rasped out the words. “Point me at the black suit, I turn him to slag."
"You are strong, mijo." Martillo's voice went quieter, forcing Tito to lean in over the noise noise still bleeding up off the floor. "But you are a loud one. Very loud. Good for clearing the rabble, but bad — very bad when you trying to hide the house."
Hide the house. Something cold cut through the furnace sitting behind Tito's ribs, like ice dropped down his collar. “What… what are you saying?”
"I am saying you earned something." Martillo kept on rolling, one hand opened toward Tito in something like a handshake even as the man didn’t reach out yet. "Miami needs a heavy like you, Tito. Ports are a mess down there, and the Colombians… they’re getting bold again. I need my best man handling that pipeline south. Besides…” Gold teeth flashed at the pyro. “Sun, beaches. A kingdom all your own, my sonb."
Miami.
Fuckin’ Florida?
The word bounced around inside Tito's skull, louder and uglier every time it hit bone. Lke he’d have anything without me. His own blood was the whole foundation of this operation, the whole first batch was all him; at least a hundred some junkies out there right now running around with a little piece of Tito swimming inside 'em. All he did for him, and now the old man wanted to ship him off to play with boats down south while somebody else ran his territory.
"Tito?" Martillo was still smiling in his face, the old man still easy. "You with me, mijo?"
"You trying to move me." It didn’t come out a question, chest heaving and temperature spiking a good ten degrees. “To Miami.”
"I am trying to elevate you, Tito." Martillo's tone held steady even as his eyes went hard underneath the calm. "This is a war, Tito. Something you’re good at. I need a general down there."
"Don't play me like a puto!" The words came out loud enough the music down on the floor cut dead all at once, every head down below swinging back their way."You lower your voice, boy.” Martillo's grip went white on his cane, knuckles tight on the gold handle. “You forget who you speaking to. "
"I ain’t…” Tito pulled in a breath, fog steaming out of his mouth. “I ain’t forget shit! I remember who bled for this!" A step forward had the wood beneath his feet blacken, curling up with smoke already lifting off the old boards. "You think I’m a weapon or something? You see a dog you send off to whatever fuckin’ yard you want?"
"Right now, I see a man losing control. A man who clearly is not seeing the opportunity in front of him. You go to Miami, Tito. Or you go nowhere at all." Two guards stepped up around the old man as he snapped his fingers quick, skin thick and grey like poured concrete as they stared down at the smoking man.
"You think…" Tito’s own voice came out harder, a demon's rasp riding under his own. "You think you can put out the sun, viejo?"
"Enough of this. Take him down.” The order left Martillo, hard as iron, as both guards lunged.
Tito didn't even lift his hands, a wave of raw heat rolling out the man as he roared out, “Take who down?”The one on the left caught the most of it from Tito’s mouth, skin heating cherry-red as fire hit him dead in the face. The second managed to land a whole punch clean on Tito’s jaw, the man’s fist lighting up before pain even had time to reach him.He went down screaming, arm burning like a torch.Tito didn’t look at either of them rolling around on the ground, bright-orange eyes locked on the old man as he scrambled back in that leather chair, screaming for all he was worth. "Tito! Listen! Listen to me!” Martillo raised the cane high, plastic tip aimed at him like it could do a single goddamn thing against El Diablo. “Mijo! Stop!"
"I ain't your fuckin’ mijo."
He reached out with one hand, a claw of orange fire closing around Martillo's face.
No time left for a scream, flesh flashed and bone turned brittle in less than a second as El Martillo simply stopped being a person at all, expensive chair behind him burning up along with the old man.
Panic tore through the warehouse, a hundred bodies screaming and fighting to fit through one door at once. A handful of Rojo recruits tried something stupid — thrown furniture, a couple cheap pistols firing wild into the smoke.
Bullets melted before they ever reached him, furniture turning to kindling mid-air.
The blood was screaming in his veins now, wanting more. Burn it. Burn all of it.
He threw his head back, a roar tearing loose from somewhere past his throat, flame striking the metal roof hard enough steel beams groaned and warped right over his head.
Heat wafted off him, muscle tearing itself apart and rebuilding bigger, denser; his body running off rage.
Clothes went first, vaporized clean off him. Skin blackened, cracked open along rivers of raw magma underneath.
Manny's clipboard was still in his hand when Tito's foot came down where he used to be standing. The sick kid in back never even got a chance to run.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, whatever thought had still been organizing itself behind Tito's eyes went to static. And underneath all of it, buried but steady, the one grudge that never stopped burning for the last few months.
A-Train.
A falling I-beam caught him across the shoulder, metal going to glowing taffy under his fingers before he hurled the whole thing clean through the front wall, tearing a hole wide enough to drive a truck through.
Diablo stepped out into the wet Bronx afternoon, towering and coal-black; his body shot through with veins of raw orange. Smoke poured off him thick enough to darken the sky, the street outside dead still as cars slammed to a stop. People froze mid-step, all of them staring at the fire — at El Diablo — as he burned brighter.
But through the roar of it, one thought stayed lit; a single building lit up brighter and taller than anything else around it, glass throwing back every scrap of city light there was as Diablo stood tall in the wreck of everything else.
Vought.
A burning head turned east, past the rooftops, past the elevated train tracks, out toward the river — and the skyline answered him back.
He had a target, something like a compass needle inside him pointing him where he needed to go.
El Diablo started walking.
Asphalt liquefied instantly under each footstep, black tar bubbling up behind him.
He took another step.