18. Hope
18
HOPE
T he Acapulco sun beat down on my skin as I pushed open the church’s iron gates and entered an immaculate courtyard fringed with palm trees and manicured hedges. The grand stone building, accented with archways and columns, had been well maintained since my last visit almost twenty years ago. Far better than the neighboring properties, with their crumbling stucco and faded roofs. My father used to make sizeable donations, and I wondered if his regular installments continued to fund the church’s costly upkeep.
My legs had the consistency of jelly, and my stomach churned with the same unease I’d experienced when I’d handed myself over to Alvarez. My sweaty hands slipped before gaining purchase on the handle of the large ornately carved door. It closed behind me with an ominous thud, making my skittish heart pound even faster.
After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the church’s dim interior. It looked mostly how I remembered it. Two sections of wooden pews split by a central aisle that led to the candle-laden altar. On the wall straight ahead, Jesus on the cross oversaw the room .
My footsteps echoed off the tall arched ceiling as I took steady steps toward the altar. Colored light filtered through the stained glass windows that each depicted a different scene from the Bible.
This house of God provided me no comfort. My memories were tainted by the funerals I’d attended as a child, almost all of which were the direct result of the deceased’s association with the Pacific Coast Cartel. Colleagues of my father, two uncles, a cousin, and lifelong family friends.
Worst of all had been attending the funeral of my mother and little brother, Rafael. At the time, I’d felt such anger and confusion. The car bomb had been meant for Carlos. How different might my life have been if the explosion had reached its intended target?
An overwhelming sense of isolation hit me. Daphne and Titan were far away, and for the first time in over a week, I didn’t have Vaughn at my side protecting me. It was strange how reassured I’d become with the constant presence of my lethal guardian angel.
But I wasn’t truly alone. Vaughn and Brandon were a block away, watching and listening in their surveillance van. The rest of the team waited in cars nearby, ready to come to my aid should I need it.
Mamá, Rafael, Simon, Natalie, Mari. Standing in front of the altar, I silently recounted the names of those I’d lost, reminding myself why I was here. Why this important task had fallen to me.
Given where I was, I figured now was a good time to pray, not that it’d ever done much good. I made the sign of the cross, pressed my palms together, and bowed my head.
Before I had a chance to ask for my loved ones’ safekeeping, a man appeared, wearing black pants and a button-down shirt with a slash of white at the collar. Heavier than he’d been twenty years ago and with gray hair, he was the man I’d hoped to find. Father Bernardo.
He aimed a warm smile at me but didn’t interrupt my prayer.
This was it. Showtime.
I turned toward him. “Padre Bernardo?”
“Yes?” With a nod, he stepped closer and shifted the pile of books he was carrying under one arm.
“Do you remember me?” I asked.
He placed the books on the first pew, then raked his gaze over my features. His attention lingered on my scars, but there wasn’t a flicker of recognition in his expression.
Father Bernardo shook his head, giving me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Are you new to the parish?”
“No. Although it’s been many years since I was last here.” I adjusted the backpack on my shoulders. It contained only a few personal belongings, the bare minimum of what you’d expect a woman to carry if she were traveling through the country. “I need your help. I’m trying to find someone.”
“I’m happy to do whatever I can. Whom are you looking for?”
“My father. Carlos Espinoza Medina.”
He stared at me for a beat, probably considering whether the man I looked for had the unfortunate burden of sharing the same name as Mexico’s most violent and powerful cartel boss.
“Yes”—I dipped my chin but held his stare—“ that Carlos Espinoza Medina.”
Father Bernardo’s throat bobbed. “Don Carlos’s only daughter is dead.”
“Do you remember the last time you saw her?”
“I remember it clearly. What happened to her family was a tragedy.” His gaze turned distant, and I wondered if he was recalling the day the car bomb had exploded in our driveway. The news had rocked Acapulco and triggered the bloodiest cartel war the city had ever known. The first of many my father would be involved in.
“I remember the last time I saw you, too.”
Father Bernardo’s eyes cut to mine. Sensing he thought I was either a psych-ward escapee or a disgruntled illegitimate child, I offered further evidence. “When I was six years old, I sat there”—I pointed to the pew at the very front—“beside my father and listened to you lead mass at my mother and brother’s funeral. I wore a bright-red dress with white polka dots because Mamá hated black.”
It’d also been my first act of rebellion against Carlos, who’d ordered me to wear something traditional. Even then, I’d known my father was to blame for Mamá’s and Rafael’s deaths, and the loss of so many others.
Surprise flashed across Father Bernardo’s features.
He remembers that dress .
“You must be playing a cruel joke. Who are you?”
“You know who I am. Look at me.” I covered my burn scars with one hand, leaving only the undamaged portion of my face visible. “ Really look. I have my mother’s nose and mouth and my father’s amber eyes. If nothing else, you must recognize those.”
The priest remained silent, staring at me like he’d seen a ghost. I supposed he thought I might be one.
“This…this isn’t possible.” Disbelieving eyes darted across my face, then his brows drew together, and it seemed as though, finally, his memory had caught up with the picture I’d painted. “Elena?” he asked softly.
I nodded. “Me showing up like this must come as quite the shock.”
“A miracle, I would say.” Father Bernardo beamed with joy, and I only hoped Carlos would greet me so warmly. “Everyone believes you are dead. Where have you been? ”
“That’s a story for my father’s ears only. Can you help me find him?”
He shook his head, jowls wobbling. “I’m sorry. I haven’t spoken to Don Carlos in years. He hasn’t attended mass here since your mother and brother were buried.”
That was when Carlos’s paranoia about being assassinated had skyrocketed and he’d taken our personal security to the next level. It was also when his cruelty and depravity had kicked up a notch. He wanted his enemies to fear him, and each life he took, he did so fueled by the devastation of his murdered family. He sought vengeance for their deaths through brutality, but there was never enough to quench his thirst.
“I know you can’t call Carlos directly. If it were that simple, I’d have done it already. And I’ve been away from Acapulco for so long that I don’t have any friends or family to ask for help. What I need is for you to contact someone in the cartel—a senior member if you can reach one. Send them a photo of me and ask them to verify my story with my father. It’s important I get word to him that I’m alive.” I took hold of his hand and squeezed, conveying my genuine desperation. “Please, Father Bernardo. You can do that, can’t you?”
My request wasn’t a stretch. Father Bernardo would know influential people throughout the city, and cartel members made no secret about which criminal organization they belonged to. They waved that flag proudly, because what good was being a narco if you couldn’t use your status?
Father Bernardo mulled over my appeal before saying, “Yes. Of course. Let me make some calls.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. The plan was working.