Chapter 19
Artemis
Iwant to stab my dessert fork in my eye just so I can get out of this awkward situation. What the fuck am I even doing here?
The meaty smell permeating the air and the familiar scent of Mamá’s favorite perfume isn’t enough to mask the fucking cinnamon clinging to every molecule of oxygen in the building.
Damnit.
It’s one thing faking happy families in front of the cameras. We can stand close, in each other’s spaces, flash a wide smile for photographers, laugh together and pretend that everything is fine. But behind closed doors, it’s not fucking fine. It’s not fine at all.
We can’t even fake it anymore.
And the more my father simply breathes the same air as the rest of us, the more difficult it is not to open my mouth and tell him I’m about to destroy his company by rebranding everything he’s ever worked for.
Cabrón.
He’s currently lecturing Mamá about something in the restaurant. Her restaurant. It has nothing to do with him, and yet, he’s addressing her like she’s a fucking idiot. This isn’t her first rodeo. She’s built that place from the ground up and made it the success it is.
Sometimes, I just wish she’d stand up to him a little more. My stomach dips. It must be so hard to just turn your back on someone who has been such a big part of your life for more than three decades.
She’s wringing a napkin in her lap. Is she thinking about wringing my father’s neck the same way I am? Her smile is painful, a carefully practiced mask that, unfortunately, too many women have to wear.
Abuela pats my hand like she can sense my tension, her rings are cool against my skin. Not sure what gave it away, the white knuckles, or how I’m gripping my silverware like I might use it as a weapon, but she saves me from opening my mouth and giving him a piece of my mind by opening hers instead.
“Alonso?”
His head snaps to face his mother-in-law, my formidable grandmother, and my siblings suck in a collective breath. Ares scrapes his plate with his fork like some kind of perfectly timed record scratch.
Scott makes eye contact and widens his as if to say, ‘should we take cover?’ He’s not thrilled with the shrug I give him in answer because his eyes go bigger still.
“Do you really want to continue talking to my daughter in this way?” She runs her finger around the rim of her wine glass, peering into my father’s black soul, brow quirked in challenge.
He opens his mouth to reply, but she holds up a finger to silence him. “Don’t be un maldito idiota.”
The entire table goes still. The only sound I can hear is my thumping heart, and the crack in my jaw from forcing myself to stay quiet.
Mamá freezes mid-breath. My father turns an alarming shade of puce. And Abuela just… sips her wine like she hasn’t got a care in the world.
Alonso clears his throat, adjusts his tie, and offers Abuela the fakest smile I’ve ever seen on a living human. “Mamá—”
“No.” She says it calmly, like she’s swatting away a fly. “You don’t get to speak to me either. Not until you remember how to speak to a woman with respect.”
Scott leans toward Athena, whispering behind his napkin, “This is better than pay-per-view.”
She nudges him, but she’s smirking, her eyes full of mirth. She loves nothing more than watching our father getting metaphorically kneed in the nuts. In fact, the only thing she’d love more is if someone actually kneed him in the nuts.
I swallow a laugh I definitely shouldn’t let out.
My father’s jaw works as he tries to pull himself back together. He fails. Miserably. “I was simply offering advice—”
“Advice she did not ask for,” Abuela cuts in again.
“And does not need. Dios mío, Alonso. The restaurant is full. The staff is competent. Your wife runs a successful business feeding the locals and the local economy. You run a… what is it now? A company full of men who think they know everything and learn nothing?”
Scott actually snorts, and I’m going to have to buy him a car if he doesn’t get me killed. My throat burns with the laugh that’s trapped there, desperate to escape.
My father bristles. “I will not be spoken to like this by my own family.”
It’s on the edge of my sharpened tongue to invite him to leave, because he’s not behaving like any family we recognize. Ares’s leg vibrates so much under the table the silverware is moving. Apollo widens his eyes at me, a silent plea not to get involved.
“Then behave like family,” Abuela replies, cool as ice. “Not like a tyrant.”
Mamá? She’s still quiet and pale, making my chest cave. I wish she’d find the inner strength we all know she has and leave that pendejo.
Something in my father’s expression wavers—ego cracking maybe? His pride denting? Rage simmering dangerously close to the surface. And somewhere beneath that? Panic.
Good.
Maybe he can sense it. Maybe he can feel the change coming in the air. Maybe he can smell the gasoline I’ve been slowly pouring all over his legacy. My fork digs into the tablecloth, the edge of the metal biting into my palm.
I shouldn’t enjoy this. I shouldn’t want to twist the knife. But seeing him powerless for even a heartbeat tastes better than any food ever could.
Mamá clears her throat gently. “Perhaps we can enjoy the meal?”
I don’t know how, since all taste has now turned to ash in my mouth.
The tablecloth shifts. She pats my father’s hand, an act of placation that doesn’t go unnoticed by my oldest sister who rolls her eyes.
Scott covers her hand with his and squeezes, another quiet message not to wade into the conversation right now.
Abuela nods and resumes eating, utterly unbothered.
My father tries to do the same, but the tension rolls off him like smoke, thick and choking and bitter. My siblings avoid eye contact like it might get them drafted into the next round.
Me? I swallow another bite I can’t taste and picture the explosion that’s coming. The takeover. The rebrand. The press. The part where he learns his ‘spare’ son isn’t the obedient little pawn he keeps pretending I am.
A slow, dangerous satisfaction curls through my chest as he prattles on at us. Let him lecture. Let him posture. Let him think he’s still the king of this family, because I’m days—maybe weeks—away from knocking his crown clean off his head.
And for the first time tonight, I don’t want to stab myself with my dessert fork. I want to watch him fall.
Over dessert, I pull out my phone, because despite wanting to see Xavier again, I’m so glad he wasn’t here to witness this shit show of a holiday with my family.
Holidays aren’t always like this in our family home, but those that have just my immediate blood connections and aren’t a lavish party keeping up appearances?
Well, they’re starting to feel… suffocating.
We all feel it, the conversation landmines, the polite conversation, the silent discussions with our eyes across the table. It’s exhausting. I miss how things used to be, or how things are when Alonso is traveling for work and can’t make it.
I pull up my message thread with Xavier. Should I message him Happy Thanksgiving? Is that something people do?
I close out of the app and pull up social media instead.
The first post on my screen is a very happy looking Martinez family crushed against each other.
Xavier, his mom, his siblings—who all look like someone copy-pasted Roman, the eldest, and a few extended family members are all holding flute-shaped glasses of something probably fizzy.
My stomach stirs with something bitter, something green, and my chest pinches tight. I hate how the holidays force reflection. And I hate how much I wish I was in that photo right now even more.
Fuck. I hate my father. He’s ruined all the joy I might ever have held for holiday situations in this oversized house.
Choosing not to invite Xavier to dinner with us was absolutely the right thing to do, but there’s a yearning in my chest that makes me wonder.
Should I maybe have gone to him instead?
Perhaps I’ll invite him to our Thanksgiving 2.0 with our half-siblings next week. Thiago, Mathias, and Alejandro. The two girls won’t be there, though.
Yup. Old father dearest has twin daughters, Lucía and Isabella, that Athena discovered a few weeks ago. They aren’t ready to talk to us just yet, they’re a little on the young side, and certainly not ready for an overwhelming, full-familial onslaught at Thanksgiving.
Even without the twins coming, it’s going to be quite the weird and awkward gathering, but we want to spend time with our siblings, and we want them to know we aren’t their enemies. Alonso wears that crown. He’s everyone’s enemy, including his own.
Ares elbows me, jerking his chin to my screen. “There’s still plenty of time, Hermano. You could take the plane and go give your friend a Thanksgiving kiss.” He keeps his voice quiet, probably so the man himself at the end of the table doesn’t overhear or ask questions.
Heat flashes up my neck at my brother’s suggestion. People definitely don’t do that… take planes to kiss people.
Scott kicks me under the dinner table, glaring at Ares like he wants to climb over the fancy place settings and smash his face into something. “He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.”
Am I though?
Scott holds my gaze, narrowing his eyes like he’s trying to telepathically tell me something. Does he know about Xavier? Did Apollo tell him?
No. My twin wouldn’t betray my trust to anyone, not even my best friend. Ares wouldn’t either.
Then why is Scott staring at me with what feels like white-hot judgment right now? The hum of conversation around us does nothing to lessen the severity of his gaze. Is he staring at me with judgment? Or is my judgment my own reflected back at me?
Let my father cling to his crown. For now. I’ve got work to do. And once I’ve taken everything he thinks is his… maybe then I’ll be free enough to deal with the man I can’t get out of my system.