A/N: It has been years since I uploaded on here but! I want A Lo Hecho, Pecho to be on all platforms so here we are. You can find this on Ao3 under the same thing if you're like me and prefer there. Also, I have four more chapters uploaded there.

Updates every Wednesday and Friday.

Ending on that note, please enjoy!


The midnight air still manages to feel quite humid as he makes his way through the crowded streets of Havana. It's the city's busiest time of day, where sinners and saints alike come together for a bit of harmless fun. People laughing, music echoing, and the general city noises all fill his ears in a pleasant manner. It's a nice contrast to the awful summer heat, and he's disappointed to have it fade into a mere background noise as he steps into a nearly deserted alleyway.

The lights glow a dangerous red on the porches of stingy looking doorways, and had he not been accustomed to it he would have been slightly intimidated. Not to say that he wouldn't rather be out in the streets, laughing and partying and acting like his age instead of making this horrid journey alone. Nobody has ever walked with him before though, and no one ever will. This job is a lonely one despite revolved around the basis of family.

"Hermanito?" A strained voice calls out, and he snaps his head to take in the form of his twin sister leaning out of a doorway at the very end of the alley. She looks far more disheveled than normal, with her hair thrown up in a sloppy bun and her face broken out. It's a divergence from the girl he's grown up with who always had neat hair and clear skin. She stands barefoot on a crumbling staircase that only has two steps. Right by her head a molded red orange flag stands completely still, the emblem long ago faded from the weather. He finds the scene to be absolutely miserable.

"Lookin sharp, Rae." The boy greets with a teasing smile. His tucks his hands away in the pockets of his slacks to emit some form of casualness, anything to block out the awful tension. It does nothing, because they both know this isn't a simple family reunion.

She rolls her eyes at him. "Why are you standing all the way over there? Come in, come in." She turns, her short, white skirt twirling with her as she steps into the building. His sister was never one for preamble or pussyfooting around.

"Right, well, hello to you too." He mutters to himself as he makes his way up the stairs and into his sister's establishment. Rachel ran a business that greatly helped in the long run. A nicer term to call it was Intel gathering, but the truth was far more..grotesque. He doesn't want to call his sister an escort, but it is what it is. She, and three of their cousins, bring in the richest of men and women for a night of pleasure and in return they not only get money, but information too.

He actually doesn't know much about the information gathering part, because it all makes him rather uncomfortable. He's profoundly glad that he doesn't normally deal with this side of the business, though none of them are exactly moral jobs. All of them are necessary to survive, especially in their poverty-stricken country.

His thoughts are interrupted as he takes in the site of the main room, which smells of freshly lit cigars and sweat. He's never liked the scent of the place, and neither has Rachel. He supposes she's lucky that she built up an immunity to such awful smells. Pressed up against the yellow walls are fluffy looking couches, each accompanying oak coffee tables in front of them. There are papers scrawled across one them, covered with both spanish and english writings. He can't decipher what they are, but it must be Intel on recent clients. He also notes that she got a new rug to cover up the concrete floor and it looks about as inviting as the couches. She may be a prostitute but she certainly doesn't live on a prostitute budget.

Noises echo from the narrow hallway that leads to the servicing rooms, and if he weren't trained to hide it he would have blushed furiously. "Maria is working with a client from Russia." Rae speaks up from where she's reclined on one of the couches. He moves to sit on the opposite end of the couch. "It's only going to benefit us financially because the fucker doesn't know any spanish and his english is limited." The older twin looks stressed. Abuela must be wanting more Intel for whatever reason.

"That sucks."

"Yeah, it does." Absentmindedly, Rachel picks up a sheet off of the table. It's wrinkled at the corners. "But not as much as this new Job is going to suck for you." Jobs that come from Rachel's side of the family always does.

"And why do you say that, sister dearest?" He hums, hiding away his nervousness in a false bravado as he leans back to throw his arms over the back of the couch.

"It's an American contract." He pauses. She sets the paper down and picks at her blue nails.

"What do you mean, American contract?"

"It means what it means, Alejandro."

The boy, Alejandro, makes an irritated noise. "My last contract in America ended disastrously. I ended up having to kill the whole fucking family."

"Yes, how could I forget the Massacre of the Reynolds family?" She says with unconcealed sarcasm.

"How could anyone?" Alejandro groans and rubs a hand over his face. "It was in the headlines for over a month. Papa was so pissed off at me." God, what a beating that was. He never wants to repeat it again.

"You'll be glad to know that it isn't just an assassination job then." He expected as much, since it was Rachel giving him the contract and not Mama or Luis.

"But I still have to kill people?"

"Well, just one this time around. No need to kill an entire family." Rachel leans over the side of the couch and shifts around in her purse, coming up to pull out an envelope. She hands it to him. "Here, don't open this until you're back at home."

Alejandro takes it with a look of distaste on his face. If he had the choice, he'd reject the job quicker than he could blink. Maybe if he were a cousin, or a nephew, instead of the son of the head of the family. God, he'd do anything to not do this. American jobs always made him so fucking nervous, because all of the big guns are in America and if they hear the Serrano family is dealing assassinations it could mean absolute ataxia. And who's fault would it be? His. Mama and Papa wouldn't be able to save his hide then.

"You're going to be posing as a student at the Garrison, a military school. It's going to be a tricky job, for sure, and will probably last more than a year." He sputters. A year from home? His sister gives him a knowing look.

"Alone?"

"Veronica will come along later, but don't expect her anytime soon." That thought is at least a tad bit comforting. "Your alias is Lance Charles McClain. You're a student that makes average grades and is training to be a fighter pilot. On top of that, you're from a family of immigrants who moved from Mexico to Texas, but you were born and raised in America and barely know any Spanish." He hates erasing his identity, but it's for the greater good of the family. "That's the basis, at least. There's more information on your identity in there." She gestures to the envelope now seated in Alejandro's lap.

"Lots of thought has been put into this one." He comments. "What makes them think I'm ready for a long term contract?" The only Serrano sibling to get a long term mission was Luis, and even then he was at the ripe age of 21. Lance has barely surpassed his preteen years, sitting at the delicate age of sixteen. His longest contract to date was the assassination of Ermond Krasniqi over in Albania, which lasted an entire two months. He felt like a fish outside of water the entire time.

Rachel shrugs. "They made me take over this whole thing when we were fourteen, and I certainly didn't feel ready at the time. I think that perhaps it's a test." He scoffs.

"A test for what? My loyalty? What do they think I'm going to do, snitch to the PNR?" It's Rachel's turn to scoff, but she adds a dramatic eye roll.

"Not like that, hermanito. Luis is going to be retiring soon. With Nadia and Sylvio getting older he wants to train them personally. He needs a replacement. It can't be me or Veronica, and Marco is still working with the drug cartel. So maybe they want you to take his place. By the time this mission is over you'll be eighteen or nineteen, a perfect age to take over Assassinations completely. You've already got the talent for it, but maybe the family needs more convincing?" The words hang heavy in his head, and he slumps into the couch even further. A pleasured scream comes from the hallway, telling them they need to hurry the conversation up.

"Nevermind all of that for now, tell me about the target before Maria is done."

"Right, of course. Your target is the Garrison headmaster, Oliver Iverson. But overall, Abuela wants you to gather as much intel regarding military strategies and personnel as possible. Your time limit is three years, but it shouldn't take that long. We've got an inside man who you'll report all of your findings to."

"That it?" He asks, standing up and grabbing the envelope. He slips it into a hidden pocket located at the front of his suit jacket.

"Yeah, that should be it. You're free to go back to Varadero and prepare. Abuela is giving you a week to get ready, more than enough time." She watches him with sharp eyes that at one point matched his own, but hers now are tired, with black circles marking her tanned skin.

"Understood. I'll just be on my way now. Adios, hermana."

As he steps out of the door, he feels like a part of himself is being lost. He's not sure why, but he feels awfully lonely.