Chapter 5 #2
By misplaced, Javier means the ones I hacked and stole from the Mancinellis’ encrypted server.
The ones Lorenzo, their accountant, doesn’t know we have.
We were saving them for when they pissed us off again, but Pasha, the bratva accountant, would love to get ahold of them.
Jorge has already gotten everything he needs from them, and we’re not inclined to do shit for Finn O’Rourke right now.
He bought his wife a Victorian sapphire ring Pablo had his eye on for Florencia.
Finn fucking knew that and coerced the auction house into selling it under the table to him just to spite Pablo. Why? Because he could.
Anyone who didn’t know better would think we’re just a bunch of Petty Betties. I mean, we are, but that’s neither here nor there. But it’s why we’re willing to “help” a rival when it means screwing over a different enemy. The enemy of my enemy and all that.
“Let’s see what Tío says, but I think that’s a good idea.”
Jorge and Javier nod in agreement. We won’t act alone when it comes to giving away this kind of information. We’ll run it by our tío, but we’re confident he’ll agree.
“It’s been two weeks since Alejo and Toria got home. They haven’t reciprocated and had Sera and Carmine over.”
“Jorge.”
“Ne?” What?
“Don’t be a little shit.”
It’s a good thing our men don’t speak Macaguán because at least one of them would tell Mamá that I’m picking on my baby brother and calling him names. But he is being a little shit.
“I just made an observation.”
“Yeah, well, we aren’t done sorting out this situation. What do we do if we let Nielson hang back and someone else takes advantage?”
“We make sure Nielson knows he works for us first and foremost right now. Anyone else tries to step up, he and his crew intercede. When Alejo and Toria have Sera and Carmine over, will you be there to make sure Alejo doesn’t stab Carmine with his butter knife?”
Jorge grins at me as only a youngest brother can. If we weren’t related, I’d throat punch him. It’s the same thought I had while walking home with Alejo and Toria after the dinner from hell.
“You live closest to them. You can go. Why should I have to come in from Manhattan when you live two streets over?” I turn to Javier. “You live three blocks away. Make it a triple or quadruple date. Leave me out of it.”
“Scared she might be there, and you won’t be able to get away with the grunts you call conversation?”
“Jorge.”
I stress his name even more, and it sobers him. I used to get teased about my shyness as a kid. My brothers would defend me, even though I’m the oldest. Javier and I covered for Jorge’s anxiety, while Jorge and I softened Javier’s misanthropic rough edges. We’ve always protected each other.
Right now, both of my brothers are realizing what Alejandro did.
I really like Tre, and I’m way in over my head.
This isn’t me being standoffish or annoyed about being inconvenienced.
It’s a near-debilitating fear that I won’t come up with anything to say or that whatever I say will be so banal she’ll think I’m an idiot.
It’s an awkwardness that reminds me of when we moved to the States as tweens and barely spoke any English.
At the reception, it abated because Tre did most of the talking from the start.
But dinner was such an utter shitshow that I doubt Tre will ever speak to me again.
She definitely won’t carry the conversation.
I’d wanted to melt into the floor that night.
I didn’t know what to say and because I stayed silent, she took the brunt of it.
She dug herself into a hole, and rather than reaching down to help her, I kicked dirt onto her.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“Yeah, well, now you do.”
“Why don’t you?—”
“Why don’t you butt out too, Javier?”
I keep my tone level, so our men don’t realize I’m bickering with my brothers. But it effectively ends the conversation as we fall into silence. I pull out my laptop, and my brothers do the same. We work the entire ride from Key Largo to Boca Raton. It’s only two hours, but it’s a blessed reprieve.
“Tía!”
My brothers and I practically topple out of the car like a pack of puppies as we rush to greet our tía abuela—great-aunt.
She’s Papá’s tía and one of our most favorite people in the world.
She moved to Boca when our tío abuelo died about ten years ago.
Our abuelo and abuela still live in Colombia with the rest of Papá’s family.
It’s nice having a connection to Papá’s family who lives in our hemisphere. Hell, in our time zone.
“Ni?os!” Boys!
We’re convinced she’ll outlive us all. She’s in her eighties but still plays tennis nearly daily, keeping her spry.
Her strong voice belies her age as she rushes down the front steps and opens her arms. We jostle each other as we race to get the first hug.
Somehow, as only a mother can, she hugs us all at once.
We take turns kissing her cheeks as we lift her off the ground.
She looks me over and shakes her head before tucking her arm through mine.
“Ni?os, get a snack while I speak to your hermano.” Brother.
My brothers glance at us, but they don’t have to be told twice.
They bolt into the house, elbowing each other like we’re still kids.
Generally, we don’t turn down opportunities to raid someone else’s fridge, but Tía Ana Lucía takes the term “snacks” to another level.
She knew we were coming, so I can guarantee there’s a seven-course meal waiting for us before we even sit down to dinner in a few hours.
“Muchachito, ?qué está sucediendo?” Little boy, what’s going on?
No one’s called me muchacho—boy—in nearly twenty years, but Tía still calls all of us—my brothers and cousins—muchachito. We adore it just like we adore her.
I don’t pretend to misunderstand her. I inhale her floral scent as I glance down at her pressed-powdered cheeks, and I feel myself relax for the first time on the trip. We walk through the house to the terrace that looks out over the ocean before I respond.
“I met someone, Tía.”
“And it’s not going well.”
“You could say that.”
“I did. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“We met at Alejo and Toria’s wedding.”
“Ah, I remember her. Beautiful young lady. You looked happier than I’ve seen you in ages. You left with her.”
My ears are on fire. My cheeks are radiating heat. I can’t look her in the eye, and it’s only made worse when she chuckles.
“I take it things weren’t so wonderful once the sun came up.”
“She offered me cupcakes because I woke up before she could sneak out.” I can’t believe I just admitted that to someone other than my brothers and cousins.
“That sounds sweet.”
“It was like she—she was going to—going to?—”
I can’t finish my sentence. It’s too humiliating.
“Better something than nothing.” My great-aunt shrugs.
“Tía, they wouldn’t have been a gift.” I cock an eyebrow.
“It’s not like you need more money.”
I literally want to die right now.
She’s always been blunt, but this is an utter nightmare. I would talk to her about girls I liked when I was a teenager, but I’ve never discussed a woman I’ve been intimate with.
“Joaquin, you’ve never been the playboy you portray to the world. But I’m certain there’s been at least one woman who left feeling disappointed you didn’t want more. It was your turn to discover how that feels.”
“I know, Tía. I just watched her. I had no idea what to say. It was fine during the reception because she was so easy to talk to. She didn’t wait around long enough to see what it would be like the next morning. Then she was at dinner at Serafina and Carmine’s a couple weeks ago.”
“And you were quieter than a church mouse.”
I nod and sigh.
“And now she thinks you don’t like her when it’s the opposite.”
I nod a second time.
“And rather than reach out to her, you buried yourself in work, then went on this trip. She has no idea how you feel.”
I sigh a second time.
“Joaco—”
It’s rare that anyone in my family uses that nickname.
“She called me that, that night at Serafina and Carmine’s. Her name’s Patrizia. Her friends call her Tricia, but for some reason, I call her Tre.”
“For some reason.”
My tía scoffs at me and rolls her eyes. I hunch my shoulders, wanting to shrink into myself. I feel way too exposed. She’s about the only person I’d talk to about this, but it’s still massively uncomfortable.
“Muchachito, we both know why you call her that. The men in the Cardenas family are no different from the ones in the Diaz and De Santos families. They come up with nicknames for their women that no one else uses. Something that is theirs alone. They only do it for ‘the one.’”
I close my eyes as my hands rest on the terrace rail. The sun’s too dazzling off the water. At least, that’s the excuse I’d give if anyone asked. Tía covers my left hand with hers.
“I think I missed my chance. I accompanied Toria and Alejo to that dinner at Serafina and Carmine’s as Toria’s guard.
If it were a dinner somewhere else, I would’ve waited outside the dining room.
You know how it is. But you also know it’s weird now that so many of the wives are friends and family with rivals.
I didn’t know Tre would be there when I agreed to go.
I figured I’d have some decent Italian food and keep Alejo from sticking his fork in Carmine’s eye.
Sera and Toria asked Tre what she thought of the reception.
Tía, she was a deer in the headlights. Instead of coming to her rescue, I may as well have gunned the engine. ”
“You didn’t intervene. You went quiet.”
“Yeah. I’m so ashamed of myself.” I am.
“Quino, it’s your turn.”
She went back to my usual family nickname. She’s letting Tre have Joaco for herself. I open my eyes and turn to look at my tía as she continues.
“You’ve done your duty to the others. It’s your turn to be happy.”
My brow furrows, not understanding what she means. It’s Tía Ana Lucía’s turn to sigh.