Chapter 34
Efren
Hey,” Alma says softly when I step into the kitchen.
“Did you hear something?” I ask Don Cheetos, crouching down to scratch behind his ears.
“Really, Efren?”
It’s been over a week since the fight. A full week of us passing by each other in silence.
Since then, I’ve replayed every word she said, and everything she didn’t say.
I cross the kitchen before she can stop me and grab the pitcher of horchata from the fridge.
I drink from it, looking straight at her as I finish the remainder.
Her mouth tightens. “You’re being so petty.”
“Me? Petty?” I let out a short laugh. “You washed my whites with your red towel.”
Her eyes roll. “I told you that was an accident.”
“Oh right,” I say lightly. “And I’m supposed to believe that.”
“Efren, this is so dumb.” She turns to dump her untouched coffee into the sink.
She grabs her work tennis shoes and heads into the living room.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To get coffee,” she says, already crouching to lace them. “Since you ruined mine.”
“Wow,” I mutter. “Don Cheetos hasn’t eaten anything, and there you go—thinking about yourself.”
That gets her to stop. Her brows pinch together as she stands, facing me fully now.
“Why don’t you just say what you actually mean?” she asks quietly. “You’ve never had a problem being rude to me before.”
The words hit because she’s right.
It was easier when she was with Esteban.
When I didn’t feel like I was putting my fucking heart on the line to be annihilated.
Or this soul crushing feeling that she would never really be mine.
All I wanted was her to say that she would come with me—that nothing else mattered but us.
But I don’t hold my breath. I swallow hard, watching her gather her bag for work.
“I let Olivia know I’m leaving after the wedding,” I say.
Her eyes flick to the door.
Not to me.
Something inside my chest caves in.
“I gotta go,” she says, already reaching for her jacket. “I’m going to be late.”
The door shuts behind her with a soft click. I stand there longer than I should, staring at the empty space she left behind.
_______
“VIDA, DEVUéLVAME MI FANTASíA!” I scream along to the Gabito Ballesteros song I’ve had on repeat since I left the hotel. I close my eyes and pound my chest in time with the beat.
A puro dolor.
Yeah. That tracks.
Pure fucking pain.
“Oh shit.” I open my eyes in time to see the red light ahead and slam on the brakes.
“Shit, fool—are you okay?” I glance back at Don Cheetos who’s meowing hysterically after getting launched forward by the sudden stop.
A car honks behind me. I stick my arm out the window and send them my middle finger.
“Fucking asshole,” I mutter. “This motherfucker does not want to start with me today.”
Don Cheetos yowls again.
“Fuck,” I say, rubbing my face. “I’m talking to a fucking cat.”
I light another cigarette.
I’m talking to a fucking cat, and I’m talking to myself.
Great.
When I finally get to the diner, I slam the truck door harder than necessary. Not because I’m mad. Okay, I’m mad—but mostly because the door doesn’t deserve peace right now. Don Cheetos watches me from the window like I’ve personally betrayed him. I point at him through the glass.
“Listen,” I say, lowering my voice like he’s capable of reason. “I’ll be right back. Be chill.”
Pulling my hoodie over my head, I walk into the diner where Jasper said to meet him.
“What’s up?” I ask, sliding into the booth across from him. “What’d you find?”
“Keep your voice down,” Jasper says.
I glance around. The diner’s empty except for a waitress wiping the counter.
“Okay,” I say. “Why the secrecy?”
“Someone could be watching us.”
I sigh.
“Okay. So what did you find out?” I lower my voice, just to humor him.
“I started digging into Missy’s past,” he says. “Everything you gave me. I tracked down an old business associate.”
“Business associate?”
“Another stripper,” Jasper murmurs. “Most of them never used real names. She did.”
He pauses. “She remembered Missy.”
My jaw tightens
“She also remembered Missy’s closest friend from the club.” Jasper stops.
“Okay,” I prompt. “And?”
Jasper pulls out a business card and slides it across the table.
Salma Verduzco.
“That’s Alma’s therapist.” I stare at it. “What the fuck?”
“According to my source, Salma and Missy were close. Real close,” he says. “Verduzco is her maiden name. Her married name is Biondini.”
I wait for the meaning to hit. When it doesn’t, I look up at Jasper, and he slides something else across the table. A newspaper clipping.
“Grand opening of La Verdis Italian Ristorante was a success…” I skim until my finger freezes. I jab at the photo. “Wait. I know this asshole.”
“That’s Savino Biondini—”
“Head of the Italian mob,” I finish. My stomach tightens. “What the fuck does this have to do with Alma?”
“This”—Jasper taps the man standing front and center—“is Cesidio Biondini. I had a friend dig into his finances.”
He slides over another sheet.
“That’s a lot of fucking zeros.” My eyes snag on the numbers. I flip the page. Dates stretch across nearly ten years. Every deposit is made out to Melissa Gutierrez.
“Shit. You think they’re Alma’s real family?” I ask.
I’m not sure how happy I’d be having holidays with the Italian mob, much less the asshole who tortured me for days, but I guess I’d make it work.
“No,” Jasper says. “I ran the DNA you gave me against all three brothers. No match.”
I lean back, slightly relieved, until another question emerges.
“Then why help Missy?”
Jasper doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at the papers, jaw tight.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But Salma is married to Alfredo Biondini—their cousin.”
He finally looks up at me. “If you want answers, I’d start there.”
_______
“And Alma doesn’t know about the Biondini brothers?” Adrian asks as I explain everything to him.
“Nope. Not a clue.”
“Man. That’s fucking wild though. Like Alma’s mom kidnapping her and shit,” Ricky says from behind us.
“And the cat? You don’t think she’s gonna be upset about you bringing Don Cheetos with us?” Adrian’s eyes narrow through the rear-view mirror at Lurch sitting in the far back of the van petting Don Cheetos.
“I’ll apologize later,” I reply.
So maybe I’ve been bringing Don Cheetos along with us without Alma’s approval, but I doubt she’d care.
They secretly only tolerate each other, and Don Cheetos was not born to be a house cat.
He was made for ruthless missions and the love of someone who secretly wants to take over the world.
Also, Lurch eats less nut rolls when Don Cheetos is around.
“I fucking hate cats,” Adrian grumbles.
“He’s our mascot!” Ricky blurts.
“We’re not a fucking football team, why would we need a mascot?” Adrian retorts.
“Wow. Okay, Frankenstein. Lemme guess, next you’re gonna say there’s no I in team,” Ricky mocks.
I bust up laughing at the nickname Frankenstein. Thalia would call Adrian that behind his back, and well, usually to his face too. Her newest insult, though, the one she’s been using since the whole family dinner turned violent—“Hijo de Patti.”
“There’s no I in ‘get the fuck out the van’ either, but your big back is still here,” Adrian fires back.
“Big back?” Ricky gasps. “How fucking dare you body shame me!”
“Ninos. Tranquilo.” I check my gun as Adrian slows. “There.”
“Masks on,” Adrian orders.
The fabric scratches my cheek as I pull it down. Lurch and Ricky switch seats and peel off as Adrian, and I step out. Black pants. Hoodies. Ski masks. I tuck my pistol into my waistband.
“Open up!” Adrian says, pounding on the door.
The door swings wide. A large man in a brown robe scowls at us.
“What the fuck—” His eyes drop to the masks.
“We’re here for Dr. Verduzco,” I say, lifting my gun.
His jaw tightens. “For fuck’s sake.” He turns. “Salma—get down here.”
Within minutes, a petite woman with glasses appears. Her eyes widen as she takes us in.
“What’s going on?” she asks softly, her eyes bouncing between Alfredo and us.
“That’s what I want to know!” Alfredo shouts. “Is this another one of your psych ward escapees? I’m calling the cops.”
“The fuck you are,” Adrian says before his fist connects with Alfredo’s jaw.
Alfredo roars and barrels forward, all weight and rage, slamming Adrian into the wall.
The frame rattles at the impact. Adrian grunts but doesn’t go down.
He drives his elbow back, then again, until Alfredo staggers.
Adrian swings once more and knocks Alfredo to the floor.
He doesn’t hesitate and pulls his pistol, pressing it to Alfredo’s temple.
“No… please,” Salma says, her hands flying up. Her breath comes quick and shallow. “Whatever you want. Take it.”
Alfredo spits blood onto the floor but doesn’t move. I move into Salma’s view, tucking my weapon back in my waistband, and pull off the ski mask. Her gaze sharpens.
“You.” Her eyes narrow on me, taking me in fully before she speaks again. “I had a feeling you would come for me eventually.”
“You know him?” Alfredo gripes. “This is outrageous! Let me go! We have a baby sleeping upstairs.”
Salma ignores her husband and leads me to an office set up where the living room should be. There’s a large couch, a filing cabinet, and a desk, as well as various fidget toys and magazines set out on the coffee table.
Her bare feet slide across the floor as she moves to take a seat behind the desk. There’s a tired expression on her face, but there’s an unsettling calmness to her reaction towards me. It’s a drastic comparison to her husband, whose rage burns at my back.
“Now, what can I help you with, Mr. Nevarez?” she asks.
I drop the bank statement onto her desk. Her fingers twitch as she reaches for it. Her eyes flick down for half a second before she looks up at me.
“And what do you propose I do with this?” she asks, voice steady.
“I want answers,” I demand. “Now.”
“Don’t you say a fucking word, Salma!” Alfredo yells. Adrian backhands him with the pistol.
Salma looks at her husband then back at me and nods. She lets out a small yawn, accompanied with a “Padre Santo” before she leans back in her chair.
“Where do I begin? Let’s see, you know Missy is the reason I became a therapist?” she asks, a smile curving on her face. “I loved her, but she was broken. I started studying grief and trauma after—”
“Skip the origin story,” I snap. “What are you doing with Alma?”
“Salma!” Alfredo growls the warning, and Adrian cocks the gun back.
Salma’s smile thins. “Fine. I met Missy while I was working at La Cuevita. She told me about Curtis Anderson—how obsessed he was. He moved her into some hiding place on his family’s property. From what I remember, everything was fine until she got pregnant.”
Alfredo lunges. “You fucking bitch—”
“Oh fuck you, Alfredo,” Salma snaps, her eyes going hard as she stares at him. “You don’t think I don’t know about you fucking the nanny these last three months. Go to hell!”
Alfredo charges toward Salma, but he doesn’t get far before gunshots sound, and his body falls to the ground. Salma flinches, but she doesn’t panic. Calmly, she lifts herself from the desk and grabs a bottle of tequila from a cabinet on the side.
“Where was I?” she asks out loud.
Alfredo makes a few gurgling sounds from behind me as Salma pours brown liquor into three glasses and offers one to me. I take it, and she hands Adrian another. She doesn’t even pause to look down when she steps over the blood oozing from Alfredo’s body.
“Oh that’s right. Missy was pregnant and very excited. Curtis, on the other hand, was not. I’m almost positive he was giving her something that led to their child’s death. Missy was heartbroken as any mother would be. I think that’s why she did what she did.”
“Kidnapped someone else’s child?” Adrian asks dryly.
“Yes. She did do that, but I think it all stemmed from something deeper inside her. You know she never experienced true love from her own mother and—”
“Skip the bullshit,” I interrupt.
“Anyways.” Salma crosses back over to where she left the bottle of tequila on the desk. “Missy had nowhere to go, and she came to me. I was young and didn’t know what to do, so I called my boyfriend at the time.”
She points the glass at the body on the floor before she tips it back, finishing it.
“Alfredo Biondini,” she says with a sour expression.
“Does he have ties to the mob?” Adrian asks as an afterthought.
“Currently, no. But at the time, he was very close to the current head, Don Rosario Messina, Savino Biondini’s grandfather,” she remarks.
I stiffen at the name.
“For what it’s worth, I had no idea about Alfredo’s ties to the mob, but Don Rosario did help us,” Salma continues. “He gave Missy money to help her take the child and start a new life away from Houston.”
“Why would he do that?” I ask.
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure of his motives at the time. Then years passed, and Cesidio got word that Alma was in Houston. They threatened to hurt her if I didn’t find out what she knew.”
Salma stops embracing herself and lets out a long sigh.
“Alfredo owed a large debt to the Don.” Her eyes flick to the corpse. “He offered my notes. Updates. Warnings.”
“Motherfucker,” I exhale.
“I never gave them anything relevant,” she says quietly. “For my friend. But you need to leave. Take her. It’s only a matter of time before they come for her.”
A baby cries upstairs. Salma walks past us to the end of the staircase and pauses.
“If you don’t mind disposing of that… I’d appreciate it.”