Chapter Nineteen
That night, Enrique arrived home late.
After dropping his wife off at the apartment, he’d met with Ibarra and set Lourdes’s plan into motion.
To Enrique’s relief, Alonzo Sanchez wasn’t squeaky clean. With the bribery allegation added on top of pending sexual assault charges, Ibarra had confirmed that the police chief would quietly shelve the internal investigation and let the matter drop.
Sanchez got what he deserved. No man called Lourdes a whore.
With his SUV now back in the parking garage, he relinquished the key fob into the bowl where Lourdes had taken it earlier.
Shadows cloaked the dimly lit combined living and dining area as though in hushed anticipation of his return.
His stomach rumbled. The scent of roasted tomatoes and mouthwatering jalapenos lingered from the half-eaten tamale casserole on the dining table. The now-cold casserole.
Carajo. Lourdes had cooked their first meal as a married couple, and he missed it.
He headed down the dark hall to her new studio. The tingle of awareness sparked life in his veins as he neared the shaft of golden light that spilled out from the open doorway.
In the room, Lourdes faced away from him in her swivel chair and flipped through the sketchpad on her lap. Tension permeated the air around her as though she carried the weight of the world upon her rigid shoulders.
A vivid painting of a smiling boy, still in his toddler years, holding an infant girl swaddled in pink greeted Enrique from an easel.
Two other colorful paintings rested on the floor, one on each front leg of the wooden structure—a newborn boy in blue who closely resembled the cherub-faced toddler, and another of the sleeping girl.
Lourdes closed the pad and turned. Her eyes widened. “I didn’t hear you come in. Been there long?” She stood and reached out her hand.
He took it, moving before he could think about it. “No, just got here. Sorry I’m late. Thank you for dinner.”
“Busy day. I’m only grateful to have been a part of it.” A half-smile curved her mouth. “We had a relationship breakthrough today.”
“Very true, princess.” He brushed his lips across hers and moaned from her delicious peach-flavored lip gloss. He nodded back at the paintings. “Who are the children?”
Lourdes averted her gaze. “They’re mine. What I imagined they would have looked like.”
“I don’t understand.” He frowned as she pulled back from him. Unease settled like a stone in his gut.
“I had two miscarriages.”
He snapped upright. Of all the things she could’ve said, he hadn’t expected that.
She blinked back tears and stared at the top painting. “Jacobo never knew. No one did. Once, he knocked me down the stairs. The other time, he kicked me in the stomach.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “My crime? Trying to stand up to him.”
Rage exploded in Enrique’s chest. Dark furls of heat threatened to suffocate him. Red flashed in his vision. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms.
“I imagined the first was a boy; the second, a girl. I haven’t painted or drawn them in a while, but I’ve been thinking about them a lot again lately.” She handed him the sketchpad.
He leafed through it as gently as he could. Page after page of babies and toddlers, each one drawn with exquisite detail and care. Wrinkled splotches marred a few sheets as though from fallen tears. He pulled Lourdes close and pressed her head to his chest.
She stiffened, then melted into him. Her warm, minty breath fanned his neck as she gripped his shirt.
Enrique swallowed hard past the constricting ball in his throat. He couldn’t fix this. Couldn’t wipe away her pain, the past. She’d lost so damn much.
As she pressed her hands on his chest, she peered up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Shame stamped her face in fine lines. “As much as I want a child, I’m not sure if I’m ready to try for one.”
The soft, heartbroken words hit him like a punch in the gut. “Lourdes, I—”
“No, let me finish.” Lourdes took the sketchpad, stepped away, and hugged it to her chest. “I’ve done some research.
Since the miscarriages weren’t because of a medical condition, I’m sure I can get pregnant again, but all these what if scenarios keep running through my mind.
What if I trip or get into a car accident?
What if something goes wrong? Another loss would kill me.
I’m just not ready. Who knows if I ever will be.
I should have told you before we got married in case—” Her breath caught, cutting off her words.
She ducked her gaze. “In case not having children was a deal-breaker for you. In case you didn’t want me anymore. ”
Cristo. His heart fucking broke. Everything made sense now. Every time he mentioned children, she’d hesitate or wince or suggest they might not be so blessed to have them. In her own way, she was trying to break the news gently, too hurt and scared to come right out with it.
He brushed his thumb over her tear-damp cheek.
“As long as I have you, I’m happy. Golden.
We can make an appointment with a doctor or look into adoption.
If it doesn’t work out, then we’ll be the best family of two that we can be.
” Though with enough money and leverage, he could persuade any adoption agency to accept their application.
Lourdes hiccuped and rubbed away her tears. “Would you be all right with adopting?”
“Is that a serious question? I’m an orphan myself.
” He forced a smile to alleviate her worry.
“If we can save a child or three from the loneliness of an orphanage or the horrors of the street, then we should. Family doesn’t always mean blood.
Rubén, Santi, Domingo, and Zac are my brothers.
I would kill or die for them. If I had children, blood or not, I would raze the earth to keep them safe.
Love them as if they came from my body and yours. ”
She flung herself into his arms and kissed him.
Enrique hugged her as tight as he dared.
Heat coiled between them, fast and unrelenting.
He nibbled on her bottom lip. “Come with me. I want to show you exactly how I see you.” He snatched his keys from his jeans pocket and led her into the hall.
Once he unlocked his office, he strode in and flipped the light switch.
Lourdes’s self-portrait, “Essence of Light”, hung on the wall in front of his desk where he could see it every day. Where he could daydream of her to distraction.
Her sharp intake of breath and bulging eyes soothed his raw nerves.
“My God. I never thought I’d see that again.” She stroked her fingers down the textured pink flowers and the golden splash behind her wild curls. “After everything that’s happened, I forgot you bought it. It feels like we were at your cabin years ago, not just last weekend.”
He leaned against the back of an armchair. “I’m no expert on art, but I sense sadness in this piece even though it’s bright and cheery. You’re a riddle, Lourdes. Complex. Bright and dark. Strong and vulnerable. Free yet trapped.”
“You see me well.” She laughed softly and picked up the small picture frame on the gleaming black table beneath the painting. “I’m glad you made a copy of this.”
Enrique shrugged at his only surviving family photo—the one where his parents grinned and his ten-year-old self held up a fishing rod with pride.
“If you don’t mind, I would love to paint this. A present for you.”
“Go ahead. I have something for you, too.” He crossed over to the sleek mahogany sideboard and pulled a jewelry box from a drawer. The tequila and whiskey decanters clinked together as he closed up a little fast in his rush to return to her side. He opened the lid.
A delicate silver watch lay on the velvet pad.
“It’s beautiful. You didn’t have to get me anything.” She set the frame aside and fingered the intricate loops of the band.
“Prepare yourself, Lourdes. My wife gets spoiled. Big time.” He winked at her and fastened the watch to her wrist. “Never take it off. Except to shower. It’s not waterproof.”
Laughing again, she wiped away a sheen of fresh tears. “I promise.” She held up her arm to admire the diamond-studded oval watch face and grinned back at him. “Make love to me. I want softness this time. Romance.”
“So handcuffing you wasn’t romantic?” He smirked and curled a lock of her hair around his finger.
“Not at all. Sometimes, though, I do like it dirty. Rough.”
“That’s why you’re perfect me.” He swept her into his arms and carried her to bed.
****
“No, leave us alone!” Lourdes shouted in the dream.
Jacobo stalked toward her as she clutched her baby girl to her chest. Her son whined and clung to her leg with his trembling little hands.
“You can’t have my babies.” She turned and kissed her son before giving him his sister.
“Be brave. Hide,” she told the boy, and he ran to the corner of the room, holding the girl as best he could.
She flipped back around to face the monster, a knife suddenly in her hand.
But Jacobo no longer stood before her. Diego did.
He seethed like a demon straight out of Hell, his chest rising and falling in fevered madness.
His nostrils flared as though fiery brimstone would shoot out and roast her alive.
His twisted snarl and balled-up hands promised pain.
Humiliation. Punishment. He would kill her. Kill her children. Kill Enrique.
Enrique? Where was he? She gripped the black-handled knife so hard her fingers ached.
The hilt with its onyx inlay. Enrique’s knife.
El Tajador. He was in her heart, her memories, directing her hand.
Protecting her. Loving her. Then she saw him.
Far past Diego’s shoulder, Enrique stood with a young boy in his arms. A strange blur obscured the child’s face, yet she knew him.
Her adopted son, ten years old. The same age as Enrique when he was orphaned. Her family.
She turned back to her babies. Her sad little boy faded into nothingness, taking his sister with him. A sob ripped from her throat. No, they couldn’t be gone! Not again.
She faced Diego and attacked.
“Lourdes, I have you. Calm down.”
Two iron bands confined her as she thrashed out and slashed with her knife.
Kill, kill, kill. The mantra played on repeat in her head. She landed a hard uppercut to Diego’s chin and elbowed him in the stomach.
“Oomph,” the man gasped, then chuckled. “Damn, you hit like a pro.”
The laughter cut through the fog in her mind.
Enrique? She jolted awake, already sitting upright, chest heaving, and met his deep-set gaze in the darkened room.
Their bedroom. Apartment. Her new home. The moonlight streaming in from between the open blinds cast beams of silver across the bedding and sharpened the edges of her husband’s face.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stuttered and tucked the sheet under her arms to hide her bare breasts. A chill clung to her skin and raised goosebumps. She stared at her hands. Clean. Spotless. It was all a dream. “I could’ve killed you.”
Enrique tapped her chin. “It would take more than a punch or two to kill me, princess.”
The lazy smile curling his lips heated her cheeks.
“No, I mean...I don’t know what I mean. In my dream, Jacobo stole my babies.
Then Diego came. He wanted to kill our son, a little boy we found living on the street.
I attacked him with your knife. I sliced.
Stabbed. Got my hands red. I could feel his blood on my skin.
It was so oily. So real. I wanted to kill him.
” A shudder rolled through her. “I want Diego Zayas dead.”
Enrique sobered, blinking hard. “Give me time. I will do it.”
“I want a life with you. A family. But there’s so much anger and pain inside me.
” She pursed her lips, struggling to find her words.
“When I saw Officer Sanchez strung up, I kept thinking about how dangerous he was to us. That if he survived and testified against you in court, I could lose you forever. I didn’t want the man dead.
I didn’t want his family to suffer his loss.
But the alternative? No, absolutely not.
I will not suffer losing you.” She thumped her fist on her chest. “I don’t know how to get rid of all this pain. ”
“That’s why I’m here. Talk to me. Tell me everything.”
“Everything?” She coughed behind her hand and cleared her constricting throat. Her new watch glinted in the sharp light, the band stark against her skin. “What if I’m cuddling with our child and fall asleep, and I have a nightmare? I could hurt him. Kill him.”
“No, you will never lose control like that.” Enrique grasped her hands with his much larger ones. “You will never hurt our children, accidentally or not.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I know you.” He reclined back in bed and opened his arms. Once she cuddled into his warm embrace, he stroked his hand over her messy hair.
“You’re a strong woman, Lourdes. You proved that at the Warehouse and when you disobeyed your father to follow your heart.
Hell, every breath you take proves it. A weaker person would’ve given up with all the heartache you’ve endured. Trust in yourself.”
She kissed the tattooed swirl on his pec. “I’ll try to make you proud.”
“You already have.”
How she wanted to believe him. After years’ worth of insults, slaps, and shame, how would she ever overcome the pain? The degradation? The sense of not being good enough?
Somehow, she had to.
Or the future she could have with Enrique was already forfeit.