Chapter Two
Rain
I don’t need to be told that they were lying–I knew they were from the very first sentence they uttered.
If they were truly ‘following procedures’ like they claimed, they wouldn’t have been fazed by my threats to call Daniel Fleischaker–the Chief of Staff of the USCIS and an old friend of my Dad. They even let her out of the office, which they normally wouldn’t have done unless I vouched for her or they got her to drop some information for further investigation. It’s more proof that they don’t see her as a real threat.
It’s also these same set of officers that mistreated my business partner’s cousin over a passport, and their apology for it was that they didn’t know he was his cousin. So what if he wasn’t? He would have been subjected to ridicule that might leave him traumatized.
Anger burns like the desert sun under my skin, and my fists clench at the patterns I’m starting to notice based on a few events. So far, I can tell that Emma Johannes is a power tester, but Frage Pertrov? His motive was certainly to scare her by accusing her of what she didn’t do, so he could take advantage of her.
If glares can burn holes into people, they’d be full of them.
I’ve seen this before–multiple times, even. The power testing, the differential ridicule. That woman isn’t just a victim today; she’s a reminder of the things I’ve had to see my brother go through for being the only different one in the family. The side comments he has had to stomach, the indirect slights no one is bold enough to come forward with because of the Dacosta power.
I can’t imagine him being confronted with this same situation again. I’d burn the office to the ground. Laws be damned.
“It’s not what you’re thinking, Mr Dacosta.”
A snicker escapes my throat. “You don’t know my thoughts, and I don’t want to share them with you either. Daniel Fleischaker seems like the right person for that.” Fear becomes evident in their eyes and blood visibly drains from their faces.
I sigh in satisfaction at their reactions.
Speaking with Daniel Fleischaker will ensure the transfer–or at best, termination–of these two as soon as possible. It depends on how the call goes.
“Do you remember what you did to Ranveer Walia’s cousin? I’ll be on the phone with him to collect more witness evidence. He might be nice and calm, but you know that’ll be a taint on my reputation.”
My brother returned to the country and I’m here to pick him up. If my Mom hadn’t forced me, I wouldn’t be in the airport. Coincidentally, I’d gotten an email from them last week regarding me needing to update personal information on my passport, and I figured I’d handle it while I was here. I didn’t even know updates weren’t done at this location. But thank God I thought they were. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen the scene and that woman would still be stuck with them, not knowing her fate.
They’re not the only ones who can use their influence. I won’t even need fifteen minutes to get Daniel Fleischaker to start working on their cases.
I ignore their fear-drenched faces alongside my own restless anger as I check my phone for the brother in question. The asshole’s plane should have landed by now. Either that or my timing is wrong, and my timing is never wrong.
Five more minutes is all I’ll give him, then I’m heading back to my office. I don’t know why I always have to pick him up or why he always refuses to use the family’s private jet. It was what I used for years before I got mine three years ago.
I always suspect he’s bringing home a girl and is trying to act noble, but he never brings anyone home.
The reason for his constant refusal is beyond me.
My phone beeps once, then twice. I check to see two messages from him.
RENZO: Please don’t tell me you’re not coming to pick me up.
RENZO: I swear, I’ll tell Mom. I can’t believe this. You should have told me so I can call someone else
I huff and furiously type a reply.
ME: You’re ten minutes and sixteen seconds late.
I throw one last dark glare at the officers before making my way out of the office. They can already tell what’s coming for them and they may as well start packing their things before I make the call.
At the sight of Renzo, I raise my hand up. He makes his way to me with a bright smile on his face. His olive skin is tanner and his black hair is longer than I remember. A small smile tugs on my lips at the sight of him.
He pulls me into an embrace, and I hold him for a minute before pushing him off.
“Ah, I missed home. Before you get jealous, I missed you too,” he chirps, looking around the airport.
“I can’t say the same about you.” He chuckles at my low grumble.
Unlike most people, Renzo–and our two best friends–are accustomed to my grumpy attitude. Not that I care if anyone else gets it. Staying around humans sucks the life out of me.
Only family and a few selected friends are allowed to be with me for more than two hours.
Joe, my driver, greets Renzo and arranges his bags in the booth. He unlocks my black Aston Martin for us, and drives to my parents house, where I was ordered to bring him.
“MOM!” Renzo shouts as we walk into our parents’ mansion. It’s June, yet it’s my first time stepping into it this year.
I’m never going to hear the end of it.
Studying the house for any changes, I can only note a few more ancient paintings added on the passage walls.
The mansion has always been aesthetically arranged, thanks to my Mom and her impeccable choice of designs. Only that unlike most people’s bright aesthetic choices, she prefers ancient exquisites, which is why the furniture is old-school, and the utensils are mostly made of polished mahogany rather than gold, silver or diamonds.
It’s safe to say it’s a museum, given how everything is historically arranged. My Mom is a culturally driven person and always wants things to continue as it has since the time of our ancestors.
At fifty nine years old, my Mom is still the most youthful woman I’ve ever seen. The beloved daughter of the late Mr and Mrs Eduardo, the wealthy German winemakers, she still has her copper-colored hair and gray eyes. She’ll never stop bragging about how she swept my Dad away the first time they met.
Arranged marriages are common in our world, which was why my great-grandparents were arranged, similarly as my grandparents and my parents. My marriage was formerly arranged as well, but it didn’t go as planned. Instead, it disrupted my life in the most upside-down way.
Rather than a marriage being love connections. It’s about sealing deals, connecting New Money with Old Money, settling feuds, and many more mutually beneficial reasons.
Much to my Mom’s chagrin–and due to my awful experience with my former betrothed–my Dad has allowed his children to find love on their own. She hasn’t stopped talking about how she hates the change.
Our younger sister, Reina, and our Mom run down the stairs, while Dad stands up from the couch with a smile on his face to welcome his sons.
My Dad; sixty nine, Italian, black hair and brown eyes, is an affluent web developer like his father and grandfather before him. He’s on Tea For You’s top twenty billionaires list and hasn’t dropped from the list since his father handed the company to him. Now he’s close to handing it to me.
Dominant, powerful and prepotent, he’s associated with mafia figures and underworld networks, he commands a mixture of respect and fear in the society, particularly from the elites. He always gets the job done whenever he wants, even if he has to take extreme measures for it. He has received various awards for his contributions to the web field.
He and my Mom were an arranged match, but they fell in love at first sight. Or better still, he fell in love with her at first sight and spent many years convincing her that he’s the one for her.
They never stop telling the story.
It’s why they weren’t surprised when I announced that I was in love with Sara, the woman my Mom had arranged me with. They were so excited about history repeating itself.
“Welcome back. How was Bora Bora?” Dad asks Renzo and pulls him into a hug.
“Great,” Renzo replies.
I relish in the delight of seeing them together. It took a while for Dad to accept him into the family.
Renzo is a fashion illustrator who works for several big brands. While he’s still unsure about fully committing to the design field and creating his own brand, he is highly paid as an illustrator.
Bora Bora one day, Paris the next–he never rests.
Dad pulls away from Renzo and embraces me briefly. “You should visit more.” He gives me a single pat on the back.
“Renzo!” Mom and Reina chorus as they run into his arms. Mom pulls him into an embrace first and Reina goes next, burying her face into his chest. In return, he chuckles and ruffles her hair.
“I missed you so much, my son,” Mom coos as she sniffs and wipes nothing off her eyes. She tilts her head sideways with a loving look on her face. Have I mentioned that she’s very dramatic?
“I called you this morning. Last night, too.” Renzo deadpans with a grin on his face, and Mom hits him softly.
“You look so thin. I knew they wouldn’t take care of you over there,” she mumbles in pure disapproval and I roll my eyes. He looks perfectly okay.
“You grew your hair,” Dad butts in, causing Reina and Mom to notice. Reina touches it with a smile, and Renzo nods. He’s typically a buzz-cut enthusiast, but seeing him with full hair now is evidence that he was too busy to maintain his signature look.
Fashion isn’t just Renzo’s profession, it’s a form of art for him as he always says. From his style of clothing to his walking steps, he’s a trendsetter who embodies fashion with passion as consuming as a drug.
“Yes, Dad. I’ll cut it now that I’m back home. You don’t like it, right?”
I shake my head.
Renzo grew up always trying to impress Dad, even when he didn’t need to. He thought I wouldn’t notice, but I did. He thinks Dad won’t love him if he isn’t perfect. I won’t fault him; the old man was pretty cold to him when he first came into the family.
“You can do whatever you want with your hair, son. I only noticed. We’re all happy you’re back,” Dad assures him and Renzo’s face relaxes as his signature gummy grin takes over his face.
I frown in worry. Does he still think he needs to be perfect to be loved in this family? Haven’t we shown him enough love in over twenty years?
“I’m happy to be back too.” Renzo beams, kissing Mom on her temple, before turning his attention to Reina. “Guess who’s looking like a snack.”
“Let me guess. Me?” Reina plays along and giggles when Renzo nods.
He’s the loving brother; I’m the protective one. He’s the sunshine; I’m the grumpy.
“I guess I’m not wanted here,” I mutter, even though I don’t mind being in the shadows. God forbid I try to indulge myself with them, and Mom starts talking about the daughter of one of her friends who reached puberty.
Reina wraps her hands around me. “Of course you are.”
“I’m leaving. I have work.” I shake her off me, and she huffs.
Spoilt brat.
“We’ll see tomorrow. I have a lot of things to tell you.” Renzo playfully salutes me.
After spending three consecutive months in Bora Bora and three months in Paris, of course he has more than enough to say about it.
“If it’s about how many girls you screwed, keep it.”
Mom covers her ears with her palms and Reina laughs. “Ew! I don’t think I want to know about my sons’ sex lives, so yes, keep it.”
“We’re over thirty, Mom. Well, Rain is,” Renzo teases with a shrug and she smacks his arm hard. He winces, and I mirror his expression, grateful to not be near her. Her smacks hurt like crazy.
“Which is why you should get married.”
I know it’s only a matter of time before she starts talking about marriage.
“Can we not talk about this, Mom? I just got back.” Renzo tuts. Mom clamps her lips in a thin line, clearly not satisfied, but nods nevertheless.
A housekeeper is ordered to take his bags into his old room. He protests, saying he’d rather go to his own house, but she isn’t having any of it. She insists that she has to take care of him until he’s well again.
Like I said, he isn’t sick.