Chapter 13 Selene
Chapter thirteen
Selene
I crouch down, tucking my hair behind my ears as another shot rings out. Luca grunts, his arm straining as Father yells at him to fire another round.
“Another one!”
Luca reloads, aims at the painted silhouette far away, and fires again. The bullet hits the shoulder with a loud bang, and my father growls.
“You have a terrible aim! Incapable men don’t lead mafias.”
“Father, my arms hu—”
The words are slapped back into his mouth when Father smacks him upside his head. “Excuses are for weak people—useless bastards, and you are not. You’re a Vasquez, boy!”
I could feel my twin’s heart racing. I could see how his hand shivered as he clasped the pistol tightly in his hand. They’d been here before the sun appeared in the sky, and now it was setting.
Fisting the toy gun in my hand, I lean closer to a tree stem, watching the practice continue in the training yard until I finally summon the courage to make myself known.
Everything in me screams against my actions. My legs wobble, my heart doubles in pace, and my saliva even runs for dear life, but I press on.
“Pa-Papa?” I call out tentatively. He doesn’t hear me, and it takes immense bravery for me to tug at his shirt. He turns; Luca turns, too, his eyes wide in horror. He knows I shouldn’t be here. I should be in the kitchen with my mother, learning to cook. Or doing something a girl should do.
“What?” His voice drips with venom, eyes instantly ablaze with fury. “What are you doing here?”
“I-I w-want to try,” I stutter, shrinking from the heat of his stare.
His head tips back to release a long, dry cackle. When he looks at me, he yanks my hair back, fisting at my ponytail. Leaning closer, he spits with the most hateful voice I’ve ever heard him use.
“You want to fight?”
I wince from the headache that overwhelms me as he continues to pull harshly on my hair.
“The only battlefield you’ll ever know is in the bedroom. You’ll get married off to some bastard just to seal an alliance, and there you’ll be nothing but the worthless baby-making machine you’re meant to be.”
He shoves me to the ground and rises to his full height.
“Where’s your mother, and why the hell did she let you out of the house?”
Tears run down my cheeks, but I don’t make a sound as I stand up and run back into the mansion.
He hit Mom each time I disobeyed. That night was no different. I heard her screams, and they taunted me in my sleep. Because of that, my hatred for him doubled, but what could I do? What could Luca do but have that same pitiful look in his eyes?
Sometimes he’d sneak into my room to console me and tell me things, but he was limited in what he could tell me.
He couldn’t tell me anything about our mafia family or anything even remotely related.
Otherwise, I’d serve punishment—cleaning the whole house, mowing the lawn, or whatever hard labor. Or worse, he would hit Mom again.
Still, I didn’t stop snooping around, poking, eavesdropping on mafia conversations. I couldn’t help it, it was in my blood. Seeing the action, the challenge gave me chills—a good type of chills. I wanted to help, support…fight. I wanted to be part of the mafia.
But when Mom died, I just…relented. It felt like her life was my life force, and when she died, everything just dimmed.
Father said it was a car crash, but something inside me tells me that Mom purposely rammed into the fire truck, or at least stood in the way.
She was tired of living like that and decided to just end it.
I blamed myself for the longest time. Perhaps my constant disobedience led to her resolve, but it wasn’t me. It was Dad. At least that’s what I tell myself to sleep better at night.
I feel wetness on my cheeks and quickly wipe it away. My childhood will forever be a trauma locked up in the deepest part of my mind.
Drumming my fingers on the vanity, I release a heavy sigh. Today is the second day since Cortez gave me the 7-day deadline.
I dart my eyes to the burner phone beside me and release a groan. This thing is basically useless. I can’t browse the internet or even find old contacts on it, although I’ll be honest, there aren’t that many contacts on my own phone either—the one Cortez confiscated.
When I faked my death, I changed my identity. I got rid of my old SIM card and anything tying me to my past life. I didn’t think a time like this would come, where I’d desperately fish for the remains of my father’s mafia, at least not so soon.
A thick breath leaves my lips as my mind winds down memory lane. I don’t smoke, but I feel like I could really use some right now. Rising from the stool, I begin to pace the length of the room.
I should at least remember something. A number or anything that could lead me to somebody important. Who could still be alive? Who seemed to be a tough nut and probably didn’t die that night?
Maybe I should think outside the box. Perhaps a business partner or someone who’s still on good terms with the Vasquezes. Maybe even an ex-cleaner or—
My eyes widen when something hits me. Diary! I had a diary when I was fifteen where I wrote the names of relevant people in case I decided to escape. Why didn’t I remember this before?
My heart races with hope as I sprint to the closet. God, I hope I managed to pack it while escaping. I’m met with a pile of neatly folded clothes and feel a little sorry for Maria as I yank them to the ground, digging, tossing, and throwing until I come across something. A book.
A smile stretches my lips as I hold it, lightly running my hands across the surface. It’s a small pink book that Nana gifted me on my fourteenth birthday. As I walk back to the room, I turn the first page.
Selene Vasquez is written in cursive in the center, with the words “To my sweet, not-so-little granddaughter” above it. I shake my head…Nana.
When I turned fourteen, she began calling me not so little. Then she started giving me tips on how to live with a man like my father.
Do whatever he says.
Don’t anger him.
Being a girl doesn’t make you any less. You’re your own person. But for the sake of peace, listen to him.
Don’t blame your mother. She’s only a victim of circumstance, just like you.
Mother was forced into the life. It was an arranged marriage, and she hated every bit of it until she died. I open another page and see drawings of butterflies—black butterflies.
Looks like I was really going through it.
I continue to flip the pages, glancing through the contents, when I stop at one. My heart leaps when I see numbers with James boldly written in front of them. There’s Josephine, the cleaner; Rodriguez, the gardener; Madam Estelle; and Hector.
Without hesitation, I grab the burner phone, tapping the number on it. I don’t really know what Hector’s relationship with Dad was, but I know he used to appear at the house a few times a week to tell Dad things. Maybe an informant?
God, I hope he’s alive. The attack on my father happened at a crucial time when all of his important people were around, but I don’t think Hector was around. Or was he?
The line rings, but no one picks up. Fisting my hair, I mutter a silent prayer, trying it again. No one picks up again, and so I try a third time.
The fact that it’s ringing is hope in itself. Suddenly, the ringing stops, and someone picks up. Exhaling a breath of relief, I mutter into the phone.
“Hello?”
Anticipation builds in me at the silence that stretches for eternity until someone responds.
“H-hello.”
It’s a woman’s voice.
“Good day, this is Selene. Please, may I speak w—”
“Selene? Selene Vasquez?” I hear realization in her voice as she calls out my name.
“Yes, ple—”
“You bitch! My husband died because of you and your family. How are you still alive? I swear I’ll hand you over to the cops myself.”
“Ma’am, please, if you’d just let me talk to Ro—”
“Rodriguez is dead!” She sobs, her voice shaking. “I told Rodriguez. I told him to stop hanging out with the Vasquezes, but he was too greedy. I hope you rot in hell like your fath—”
I quickly end the call, shaking my head as I stare at the phone, perplexed. Well, that was something.