Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“What’s the matter, Diego?” Tepic asked, getting another cigarette and his lighter from his fanny pack. “You look like you’ve never seen a man’s head blown off. Or blown it off yourself.”
Diego rubbed the inside corners of his eyes. “Not in front of Natalia.”
In front of me, my father had once dragged a drunk out of a restaurant by his hair for waving a gun near my family. My mom had told me to stop crying; that was how Papá handled his business. Dad had returned ten minutes later and ordered a towel and ice for his bloody knuckles followed by a slice of tres leches cake. Over the years here and there, I’d witnessed him knock his men around or order to have people “taken care of” and “made an example of.” I was no stranger to the stories about him, either—like the one where Papá had supposedly addressed a package with an army general’s fingers in it to the mayor and dropped it in a public mailbox.
I had always known my father to be feared, but to me, he was just Papi. Now, because of him, I’d seen a man’s brains. I breathed through another urge to vomit.
Careful to avoid where I’d gotten sick, Diego stooped to pick up some of the butterflies that’d fallen out of my hair. “I’m sorry you saw that,” he said to me.
“Sorry?” Tepic asked. “She just watched her father take the sweetest kind of revenge. Anyone who’s lost a mother should be so lucky to witness what Talia just did.”
“It should’ve been Cristiano,” I heard myself say. It had been a long time since I’d wished death on him.
“Not if he didn't do it,” Tepic pointed out.
I quelled my shaking and tried to piece together my thoughts. “There’s no way he didn’t,” I said to Diego as he stood. “You were there. You saw. There has to be an explanation.”
“I know. Come on out of the dirt,” he said, extending a hand to me.
I took it, wiping my bare feet in the grass before I stepped over a row of tiny lanterns. Diego led me to the glowing fountain, set my delicate hair clips on the ledge with my mask, and helped me out of my wings.
“How is Cristiano back?” I asked. “And why does Father believe he didn’t do this?”
“I don’t know.” Diego crouched to strap my shoes back on. “But I’m going to find out.”
I stood. “I want to hear it from my father.”
Diego pulled me into a hug, shushing me. “Just take a minute to calm down,” he said, rubbing my back. “Breathe.”
I buried my face in his chest, where it was familiar, where his shirt smelled like soap, suede, and cigars—where it was safe. Warm. I wanted to stay in his arms and pretend I hadn’t just watched my own father brutally murder a person. That Cristiano hadn’t just reentered our world. That everything I knew about my mother’s death hadn’t just been called into question.
How had Cristiano pulled this off?
How could my father shame my mother’s memory this way?
“I need to see my dad,” I said, disconnecting from Diego.
He held my elbow. “Not tonight, my love. You’re not even supposed to be here.”
“I don’t care.” I frowned up at him. “I want answers. I demand them.”
“Cool off. Let Costa do the same. Can you even look him in the eye right now?”
That hadn’t occurred to me, but Diego was right—even though I wanted answers, the thought of facing my dad made my stomach roil again. It would be too hard. Diego knew my mind better than I did in that moment, so I surrendered to the safety of his arms, deciding to wait until the morning to approach my father.
But I wouldn’t let him off the hook. Not for this.
I shifted my focus to the other side of the equation—Cristiano. Why was he back? Where had he gone? What had given him the confidence to return with a million-dollar bounty on his head?
“I didn’t even know Cristiano was still in the country,” I said.
Tepic tapped ash from his cigarette. “Me neither.”
“Who are the Calaveras?” I asked.
Diego and Tepic exchanged looks. “You mind if I smoke?” Diego asked me. “I could use one.”
“I don’t care,” I said, drawing back. “Are they a cartel?”
“Stay,” Diego murmured, one arm around my shoulders while Tepic passed him a cigarette. As he stuck it in his mouth and lit it, he nodded. “Calavera is a cartel that came to power while you were away,” he said, exhaling smoke, “and has been growing at an exponential rate. They move narcotics too, but they’re mainly in arms trafficking, like my father was, and extremely private—”
“As they are violent,” Tepic added.
“They’re like a gang of misfits from all over,” Diego said. “Tightly knit. Supposedly make big decisions as a whole. But also a little cultish over their leader.”