8. A Drought In The Desert
8
A DROUGHT IN THE DESERT
Alejandro
The Past
Two Weeks Later
O f Barcelona’s Twelve Apostles, only six truly hold the city in the palm of their hand.
Don Enrique Villamizar, retired though he may be, still holds half the region’s politicians in his back pockets. Don Rubin Caceres fuels the city with his rare and expensive white powder, keeping the wheels turning in Europe’s cocaine capital. Then there’s the Torres family, among the city’s oldest, whose leader Don Alfonso is the closest the twelve families will ever get to old money. The youngest among us and the closest in age to me is the elusive Don Javier Sevilla, who rarely shows his face at meetings and when he does, hardly utters a word. The Sevillas’ real estate portfolio is impressive if not daunting, most of it a money laundering scheme to clean the income they receive selling precious art on the black market. And then there’s Don Mauricio Falcón who has half the SVA in his pocket and specializes in illegal gambling and prostitution.
In calling this meeting, I realize it could backfire and cause a massive schism between us and the other families. Instead of ending one war, contained to just myself and Sandro, I’ll be involving ten other organizations. Alliances will be forged and dismantled and the city will get the reckoning that’s been brewing since my father’s blood was spilled on the cold, stone ground.
“Thank you for meeting us here.” I take my seat and motion to Sergio standing on the other end of the room. He takes my cue and seals the proverbial vault, locking us inside the room. “And thank you to Don Rubin for hosting us.”
He takes a pull of his cigar and waves a dismissive hand. “My pleasure. I was sorry to hear about your father’s lounge…you did very well with it after his passing.”
A murmur of agreement passes through the room as the other men take their seats. Don Alfonso has been in poor health lately so his son, Luis Alberto, helps ease him into a seat. Don Javier casts his eyes across the room, feigning indifference, but there’s no mistaking the glint of curiosity that emerges when we lock gazes. He picks up his drink and pretends to be concerned with the ice in his tumbler.
“Seeing as it was serious enough for you to summon me here all the way from Madrid,” Don Enrique lifts his hands before folding them over his stomach and leaning back in his seat, “I’m all ears.”
“I’ll be brief and to the point then. There are six of us in this room today. I understand that many of you will be in a precarious position because of it. Your loyalties are varied, complicated, and sometimes personal,” I explain. “But this is about more than just disputes between individual families. It’s about the preservation of our organization as a whole.”
Don Javier surprises me by speaking. “You mean your feud with Sandro?”
“My feud with Sandro won’t remain self-contained for long.”
“That isn’t our problem,” he replies, without malice or impatience, merely a matter-of-factness that cuts through all the pageantry. “Your families have been at each other’s throats for nearly twenty years. I don’t see how that concerns any of us.”
“Because Sandro won’t be satisfied until he has control of the entire city. It’s been his plan all along. I know I’m not the only one who had enough common sense to figure that out.”
“Insulting our intelligence isn’t an effective way of garnering support,” Don Enrique remarks.
Don Rubin chuckles heartily as he smokes his cigar. “Some men get so easily offended.”
“My point is he won’t stop at the docks. He’ll keep going until he dismantles all the families around him, either by force or through extermination. Either way, it’ll be a very long, very bloody, and very public war. None of us can risk the attention a conflict like that would garner. Need I remind everyone of what happened the last time the Sandovals came for my family.”
The room falls silent. After my father’s assassination, the war that followed was swift but brutal. So many dead bodies littered the street that it made national news. Not even the Betancourts, whose family owns most of the news stations in the region, were able to keep it under wraps. Once the SVA got involved, eleven families agreed that the only way to end the war was to follow Biblical tradition: an eye for an eye.
My father was murdered in spring and Gregorio was dead by fall.
Luis Alberto speaks on his father’s behalf. “We still don’t understand. What do you want from us?”
“Your loyalty and discretion. I am going to take his house down, brick by brick, until there’s nothing left. But I can’t do that if I’m bound to the honor code,” I explain. “Once the Sandoval empire is completely dismantled, I’ll leave it to you; you can have whatever you want in exchange for your support. With what I have planned, Sandro’s bound to go running to the other apostles and claim foul play. When that happens?—”
“You want us to take your side,” Don Javier finishes. “A split vote is a null one. He can’t force an inquiry without the majority in his favor.”
The rules of the twelve families are simple. We operate autonomously and individual conflicts are often handled independently. It’s why so many families have intermarried over the years, to prevent bloodshed and consolidate businesses and assets. However, there are occasions in which all twelve are called to a vote.
To maintain balance and peace in the city, we have a code of honor. Families, partners, and civilians are untouchable, and it’s forbidden to orchestrate the murder of another apostle, a rule instilled by my grandfather during the drug epidemic of the eighties and nineties. Too many families were dipping their toes into the trade, killing each other off, and leaving precarious succession issues. Not to mention the influence of foreigners in the city threatening to dismantle the entire twelve family structure. Only the O’Neils, Maslovs, and Belovs came out of those decades mostly unscathed. Others like the Turkish, Greeks, and Italians were kicked out but have been trying to get back in ever since. Barcelona is simply too important of a city, especially with its ports and access to the rest of the Mediterranean.
When my father was murdered, my uncle and aunts completely bypassed the other families and plunged into a full-scale war. Though admittedly, I hardly remember much of it. I was too busy trying to keep the four of us afloat—Mom, Diego, Lettie, and me.
Sometimes I can’t believe how young I was. Ten years came and went in the blink of an eye.
“What exactly do you have planned for him?” Don Mauricio asks.
“Nothing you need to know.”
His eyes narrow a bit as he takes me in.
Don Rubin speaks next. “Essentially, our role is to turn a blind eye. And in the event the Sandovals call for a vote and petition for an inquiry into your family, we vote against it.” He motions with the hand holding his cigar. “Clearing the way for you to eliminate an entire family.”
“And allowing the rest of you to become richer for it.”
“The Narvaez family stands to inherit the Sandoval empire if Sandro and his next of kin fall.”
I shake my head. “I have no interest in it. We’ll take back the territory we lost and that’s it. I don’t want to go any further west of La Rambla.”
The men at the table exchange glances in silence. I’m perfectly capable of handling Sandro on my own but it’ll be much easier knowing I have five other families behind me if things go south. I’ve spent the last two weeks planning, without rest, Sandro’s eventual fall from grace. It’s a plan that demands execution with meticulousness, precision, and above all, patience.
Patience of which I am running dangerously low on.
To my surprise, Don Alfonso is the first to nod. A deep breath leaves his thinning lips, something like resignation and exhaustion mingling together when he speaks. “I cannot say I’m surprised. It never sat well with me the way Don Gregorio came after your father. Nor did I approve of him passing his grudge down to his son. That is not the way to do business.” He waves a finger. “It should never, ever be personal.”
Don Rubin lifts his brows in agreement before finishing his drink. “We’ve had our issues in the past but you’ve always known how to make amends. For my part, you have my support.”
I bow my head in thanks before turning my attention to the other three men in the room.
Don Enrique is on the fence, hesitant to choose a side. Don Javier surprises me for the second time today by speaking first.
“All right.” It’s a clipped response, but all I need.
Don Mauricio says, “And we can have what we want when it’s all said and done?”
I can tell he’s skeptical by the way he twists his ring around his middle finger. Of all the men at this table, he’s had the most conflict with the Sandovals, even more so than Don Rubin. Their territories share too many straddling borders which has resulted in a power struggle for the last five years.
“I already told you. I have no intention of absorbing his empire into mine. Take what you want or don’t. It makes no difference to me.”
He considers this a moment then gives a curt nod. Something tells me he isn’t entirely convinced but that won’t matter by the time this meeting is over.
Don Enrique is the last to speak. “I won’t stand in your way, Don Alejandro. But I won’t help you either.”
“I can accept that.”
The other men at the table exchange glances, and satisfied with the outcome of our meeting, go to make their exits. They shake hands with Don Rubin and thank him for hosting us in his office and Sergio opens the door, effectively unsealing the vault and marking the formal end of our meeting. As planned, Mauricio, one of my security guards, walks in and delivers an “urgent” message from Lettie, one two of us had worked out beforehand.
“What would you like to do?” he asks.
I pause and rub my jaw. Diego approaches the exit and we exchange glances. He tugs on his ear and leaves the room. A few feet behind him, Don Mauricio and Don Enrique are engrossed in deep conversation, their voices mere whispers in the otherwise quiet room. The two of them are related through Don Mauricio’s mother who was Don Enrique’s favorite niece, the only child of his youngest sister who died of breast cancer when Don Mauricio was only eight years old. I expected Don Enrique’s abstinence during today’s meeting and predicted his grandnephew’s hesitancy and ambition would prevent him from a wholehearted commitment. The two are often united in most major decisions and this is no different. As they make their approach to the door, they’re too lost in conversation to realize we’re heading in the same direction.
It’s the perfect opportunity for us to cross paths.
“We’ll make a stop at the house,” I tell him and start for the door, making sure he falls into step beside me. “I want to make sure Dahlia’s all right before I visit my grandfather. Call my sister back and let her know we’re on our way.”
He gives a firm nod. “Of course.”
I stop at the door and look up, pretending to notice Don Mauricio first. We shake hands and his eyes briefly skate over the man at my side. The one with whom he shares a name and an eerie familial resemblance. He makes a sharp double take and can barely conceal the look of shock on his face. All of ten seconds pass before he’s able to compose himself but not before I spot him falter.
God, it’s just too easy.
The man at my side doesn’t notice. He’s too eager to get out of here and make that phone call to care about the Don in front of him. He’s loyal and devoted to his job, I’ll give him that much.
“Gentlemen, this is Mauricio Sunyer. We’re making some changes to the family’s security detail so expect to see him more often,” I say, making casual introductions. “Sunyer, this is Don Enrique Villamizar and Don Mauricio Falcón.”
He shakes hand with the elder Don first before moving on to the next.
Don Mauricio’s back is stiff, face unreadable when he asks, “Sunyer, is it?”
His son replies politely, “Yes, sir.”
“Two Mauricios in the same room,” Don Enrique attempts a good-natured pass at humor, oblivious to the catastrophe taking place in front of him. “We’ll have to make sure not to confuse them.”
A difficult feat, I think to myself. Considering father and son practically share the same face.
It’s hard to tell because Mauricio Junior has inherited his mother’s coloring; born to a Somalian mother adopted by Spanish parents, she was brown-skinned and dark-haired just like her son who inherited none of his father’s fair-features, as most of his family is northern. But they both have the same mouth, same sharp eyes, and impressive height. It’s in their mannerisms and the way they speak, even their voices sound the same; a deep vibrato that’s difficult to miss.
“Is the situation so dire it requires heightened security?” Don Mauricio articulates his question carefully, so as not to arouse suspicion. No one is supposed to know about his illegitimate child. Not even the son standing beside me.
“As I’m sure you know, Manuel was quite the loss. His family has served ours faithfully for many years and with him gone, we had to restructure. Mauricio is working directly under Dimitrio now.” I make it a point to use his first name as well as informing the Don exactly who his son is being groomed by. Before he can ask another question, I glance at the watch on my wrist and straighten my shoulders. “I have an appointment to keep with my grandfather. Thank you for coming today. We’ll keep in touch.”
Don Enrique dips his head. “We will.”
Mauricio and I leave the building in a rush, him heading to Dimitrio’s car, while I step into Diego’s.
“How did it go?” my brother asks.
“Child’s play.” I pull out my phone. “I’d have a more difficult time convincing our sister to spend her way into bankruptcy.”
He chuckles.
I call Abuelo and let him know I’m running late. When I hang up, Diego turns to me. “Do you think it’ll work?”
“Let’s see. Falcón’s secret love child is working for our family in a position where his life’s constantly in danger. Do you think it’s incentive enough to back up an ally in a war that could possibly get your son killed?”
He tsks. “I’m disturbed by your level of thinking sometimes.”
“Falcón will fall in line. His ambition has always gotten the better of him but with Sunyer in the middle, it’ll force him to think more carefully. He’ll choose whatever side his son is on and Don Enrique will follow suit. He’s the real target anyway.”
“How did you know Sunyer was Falcón’s son?”
“Dad told me years ago, around the same time he told me about Dimitrio.”
Practically infamous for his impartiality, everyone knows Don Enrique is the last to pick sides, and that’s if he does. With him in my back pocket, I can turn any family with ease, down to the Lopezes and De la Vegas.
Sandro won’t know what hit him.
Dahlia
T he current drought in Barcelona is one of the worst in living memory.
It’s all anyone’s been talking about lately.
Across the street, a man in a white uniform is hosing down the sidewalk where twenty minutes earlier, a pair of American children drew flowers and butterflies with street chalk. I could tell they were American because when a waiter came to take their order, the parents spoke very loudly and very slowly, which in and of itself isn’t such an egregious offense but the waiter looked like he had murder on his mind.
The American couple ordered tapas and chicken paella which they shared under a green umbrella while the children were forced to entertain themselves. After they left, a manager came over, pointed at the chalk drawings, and now they’re being washed away.
So much wasted water in a drought. How ironic that in a city where murals and graffiti are plastered on every corner, some stuck up manager is inconvenienced by the innocent musings of two thoroughly neglected children.
From the living room, I have a perfect view of incoming traffic. We live in a quiet part of the neighborhood but every once in a while when a car passes, I make up a game in my head. I memorize the license plate and when the next one passes, I memorize that plate number too. I keep going until I forget one in the chain and have to start over. Thus far, this is my longest streak: six in a row which is quite impressive.
A car approaches and I run through all six previous license plate numbers. I haven’t forgotten one yet so I continue with the game, adding a seventh license plate to my streak.
Two, three, nine, seven. K-B ? —
Wait.
I sit up and lean toward the window. The sun has begun to set and so it takes more work to examine the last two letters on the plate, though even without them, I recognize the black sedan as it approaches the house. It’s Alejandro’s car.
I almost leap off the sofa when I remember I’m not wearing my boot. If he sees me without it, he’ll put me back on bed rest with Do?a Ana as my jailer. One would think I lost a limb rather than broke my ankle. As insufferable as the constant surveillance has been, I remind myself that it comes from a place of love and concern and the irritation subsides a little. Another two weeks in this house without any movement and I think I’ll go stir crazy.
Alejandro marches down the hall like a man on a mission, completely flying past the swooped archway in the gallery that leads to the living room. Not five seconds pass before the soles of his shoes screech against the hardwood floors and he backtracks several steps.
“What are you doing out here?” He strides into the living room. “Who carried you over here?”
I point to the boot I conveniently strapped back on. “I waddled.”
He makes a face before bending down to kiss me. “Have you eaten yet?”
I shake my head. “I was waiting for you.”
“I’m stepping out again, I just needed to grab something from my office?—”
I reach out and grab his wrists. Turning his palms over, I lift the edge of one of the gloves to look inside. “You’re not going anywhere until these bandages have been changed.”
He inhales deeply and fists his hands as he pulls away. “They don’t hurt.”
“I didn’t ask if they hurt.”
I get up from the couch and before I apply any weight to my right foot, he lifts me off my feet and carries me back to our room.
He sets me down on the edge of the bed and in anticipation of his escape, I hook a finger through his belt loop and yank him back. I lift a brow at him and tilt my head in the direction of the bathroom. Resigned, he sighs and walks to the bathroom without protest. When he returns, it’s with a roll of gauze, scissors, hand towel, and ointment tucked under one arm, and a small bowl balanced on his left forearm. Before the bowl can topple over, I take it and set it on the floor. I then take the scissors, gauze, hand towel, and ointment and put them on the bed beside me.
Alejandro drags the ottoman over and because of its height, he’s able to sit in front of me so we’re eye level.
He extends his hands and we both hold our breath.
We hate what comes next.
I start with his right hand. The glove is removed and then the gauze. One strip at a time, slowly unwinding the material from each of his fingers, then around his palm, all the way down to his wrist where it’s tied in a neat knot. Alejandro snuck away from bed this morning because he knows that otherwise, I’ll subject him to this torture twice a day. Most of the ointment I applied last night dissolved which means the gauze has dried in some places. Around the center of his palm where the burn is the worst, a piece is stuck and when I pull the gauze away, he hisses through his teeth.
“I’m sorry?—”
“It’s fine.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Keep going.”
Inside the bowl of warm water is another hand towel. I squeeze out the excess water and gently clean the wound as best I can.
Alejandro looks away.
The doctor called his hands a miracle—no one in the ER had ever seen burns like his before.
He could’ve damaged muscles, tendons, or lost sensation and mobility permanently. Another few seconds of direct heat or if the burns had reached a centimeter deeper…he’s lucky he still has hands. As it is, he doesn’t seem particularly grateful to be on the road to recovery.
I wish I was brave enough to ask him why.
His hands will scar, of that there’s no doubt. The problem is making sure contractures don’t form which would impair his functionality. That and infection are his two main concerns—well. Mine at least. His mind is elsewhere nowadays.
I pat his hand dry with the other towel, apply the ointment, dress the wound, and put the glove back on. If he wants, he can put on a new pair of gloves but I doubt he cares enough to switch them out. I move on to his left hand and repeat the process. I hold my breath every time the gauze tugs on his skin. Gnaw on the inside of my cheek whenever he flinches but doesn’t pull away.
A broken ankle is nothing compared to this.
I take my time because who knows when he’ll let me redress his wounds again. Doctor says he’s supposed to do it twice a day but I’m lucky if I can get him to take the antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medicine he was prescribed. Today would’ve been his last day taking them but instead, the bottles remain almost untouched on my nightstand. Ten days’ worth of pills gone to waste.
The second I finish, he yanks both hands away and starts tugging on the gauze and stretching his fingers.
“How does it feel?”
“How does your boot feel?”
“They are nowhere near the same.”
Alejandro lifts his head to meet my gaze. Seconds pass and he extends his hands, as if to cradle my face between his palms, but I touch his wrists and gently push him away.
“Please. Don’t. ”
He shouldn’t be touching, grabbing, reaching. He shouldn’t be doing anything with his hands but my objections fall on deaf ears. If he won’t follow the doctor’s orders, I’ll simply have to enforce them myself, especially if he’s going to keep me prisoner in this house. I should’ve been the one to go to the bathroom and shuffle through our medicine cabinet but getting up from bed wasn’t worth the argument.
Alejandro’s gaze remains fixated on me. He lifts his hands again and I push them away.
“You shouldn’t?—”
He gets up from the ottoman and advances toward the bed. Before he can grab hold of me, I catch his wrists and guide his arms away, while still lifting my head to receive his kiss.
Heat burns through me and I open my mouth at the insistent thrust of his tongue. We’ve kissed a million times but when he does so with this much hunger and desperation, I wonder how he manages to make each time feel like the first. With wonder and familiarity, he explores my mouth with long, measured strokes that send a bolt of pleasure through me. He nudges me backward and I follow his lead, almost as desperate to have him inside me as he is.
I move across the bed and he covers his body with mine. Spreading my legs to make room for him, he settles himself between my thighs, the hardness of his erection pushing against my core. Inch by inch, the hem of my dress rises, gathering at the tops of my thighs before pooling around my waist. Alejandro pulls away to touch me but I press my hand against his chest.
“If you touch me, we stop.”
He thinks I don’t know what he’s doing—using sex to distract me from whatever’s going on with him. I’ll indulge him for a while longer because aside from craving the intimacy we’ve lacked the last two weeks, I know he won’t talk about it. Forcing answers out of him has never gotten me anywhere but sex? Works like fucking truth serum.
Careful not to twist my ankle at an uncomfortable angle, I sit up and flip us over, knowing that so long as he’s on the bottom I have a better chance of maintaining control. The boot is bulky and obnoxious but sitting on my knees isn’t too difficult, especially if I put all my weight on my other leg. He opens his mouth to protest and places his hands on my hips as if to flip us over again but I silence him with a kiss.
We don’t undress—we can’t, not in this position and not with our injuries impairing our mobility. What follows is swift and without ceremony; I unbuckle his belt, he lifts his hips, I guide him inside of me. His eyes flicker with surprise upon realizing I have nothing underneath this dress and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t with this in mind. Last night I fell asleep before he got home and the night before last he went to bed with his laptop and typed away until I forced him to stop. And the night before that one, we hadn’t been intimate either.
It’s been so strange. So unintentionally cold between us.
He watches me as I ride him, lifting and lowering my hips at a slow and steady pace. Not the rough fucking I’m sure he expected but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he wraps his arms around me, conscientious of where he places his hands, and kisses his way across my jaw. Each kiss is gentle, reverent, soft. He kisses below my ear and down the column of my neck. Across my chest and between my breasts, everywhere he has access to. Then he lifts his hips and meets me thrust for thrust, the depth of each plunge inside me stealing my breath.
He fills me so fully, so completely, stretching me as far as I can go. My body responds to him and the walls of my sex contract and expand, molding to the shape of him. There’s a buzzing in my veins and a ringing in my ears. It’s so achingly slow that when the orgasm finally hits, I wish it hadn’t. I wish it had gone on for longer, that I could’ve stretched every second out into an eternity.
Alejandro pulls out of me and sets me down on the bed. My breaths come in short, labored pants, still coming down from the high as I watch him zip up his pants and buckle his belt.
I reach out and touch his arm. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.” He takes my hand and kisses the inside of my palm. “I have to go. Abuelo’s expecting me.”
“Take me with you.”
“It’ll be boring, I promise. I wish I didn’t have to go.”
I sit up and adjust my dress. “I’m worried about you.”
He won’t look at me but the glimpse of his profile is all I need. “I can’t talk to you about it.”
Ever since I came home from the hospital, he’s been off. I can’t imagine what’s caused such a monumental shift in him. Losing the lounge has nothing to do with it, although I know it must break his heart to know his father’s place is beyond repair. I myself haven’t had the opportunity to assess the damage but from what I’ve gathered from overheard conversations, very little can be done to save it. A renovation will be tricky when the integrity of other surrounding buildings is also at play.
But I know it isn’t the lounge. I can feel it. He’s been cold and standoffish with everyone. Last week for Diego’s birthday, he sat at the dinner table for two hours and didn’t utter a word. On Sunday, Do?a Ana went to bless him before he left the house but he walked right past her. Granted, neither of us thought he was paying any attention to his surroundings, but that’s exactly the problem. He’s so detached I wonder if he’s even existing in his own body.
And his hands…he refuses to let me take care of him but yet, won’t permit me to leave the house. I’ve done so twice, both times on a Sunday, and it was in a wheelchair.
Does he even know he’s suffocating me?
“If you can’t tell me, tell someone else. Diego, Lettie, Abuelo.”
“I’m taking care of it, Dahlia,” he responds, more sharply than I’d like. “That’s all you need to know.”
He moves to get out of bed and I place my hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “Don’t push me away. Please. It hurts. I’m just trying to help.”
“I know, mi amor, I know. And it’s not you. It’s never, ever you. Te amo, te adoro, eres lo más importante en mi vida.” He turns to me and kisses me all over. Featherlight touches on both cheeks, the tip of my nose, my forehead, each corner of my mouth. “If something ever happened to you…”
He cuts himself off, swallows hard, then shakes his head quickly.
I whisper, “Is it because of the fire?”
“Dahlia—”
“You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You’re short and curt with everyone, even Do?a Ana. Why won’t you talk about it? Why won’t you tell me?” I cradle his face between my hands and he lets out a deep, shuddering breath as his shoulders tremble. He closes his eyes. Rests his forehead against mine. “What happened in there, Alejandro?”
He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut tighter.
“Why don’t you like it when I change the gauze on your hands?” Gently, I caress the side of his face. “Alex, please. Talk to me, lean on me. Let me help you.”
“I—” His voice catches. “I can’t escape it. I close my eyes, and I can see it, feel it. The fire everywhere, the smoke in my lungs.”
“Nightmares? Is that it?”
His jaw tightens. “No, I don’t sleep. I can’t. I have to make sure you’re breathing. You weren’t breathing when I found you.”
Understanding dawns on me. “Alejandro, it was an accident. I’m okay now.”
“Si algo te pasa, me muero. Me muero, Dahlia?—”
I put my hand over his mouth. “Don’t say that. I hate it when you talk like that.”
I have no idea why he’s convinced something’s going to happen to me and the thought of him dying if something ever did makes my heart seize. We haven’t spoken much about the fire. For one, he hasn’t been around enough to have a conversation about it and second, it was an accident . One no one could’ve predicted or prevented and save physical injury, we made it out okay. Because I hit my head, I don’t remember much and so my brief encounter with death is nothing more than a faded memory. It had never occurred to me that for Alejandro, who went into a burning building and dug me out from under the rubble, the experience would’ve impacted him differently. I feel so stupid for not having realized it before.
I thought we were okay. Maybe a little shaken but not so much that time wouldn’t heal us on its own.
Apparently not.
He covers my hand with his and guides my fingers to his lips for a kiss. “What’s the point in life without you?”
“Is that why you went in?” I can’t help but ask. “When the building was about to collapse?”
“I was either getting you out or dying with you.”
I blink and warm tears roll down my lashes. “What can I do? What will help?”
“Just be with me. That’s it.”
“Always.” I kiss his cheeks and then each corner of his mouth. “Forever. For the rest of our lives.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”