Chapter 30
Efren
Iknock on Alma’s door gently, even though I know she won’t answer. She hasn’t left her bed in two days. Not since she found out she’d been kidnapped at birth.
“You have to eat something, Kitten.”
Don Cheetos lifts his head from where he’s cuddled up beside her. He knows as well as I do that it’s useless, but I won’t stop offering, even if she only nibbles on the toast and abandons the eggs and bacon like the days before.
The small storage space we found hidden underground on Curtis’s property had been turned into a studio apartment.
Time had made the wood wither, and there was a stale smell.
There was a box in the corner filled with letters, similar to the one Ricky had given Alma.
Every envelope was addressed to Curtis, with no return address.
Inside the box were two newborn hospital bracelets.
One had for sure belonged to Missy’s child, the one who’d been stillborn, and the other had to have been Alma’s.
She hasn’t let go of it since we found it.
Even now, as she lies in bed, the same bracelet passes between her fingers.
Time has turned the plastic brittle, and the white has turned to a light yellow.
Most of the writing has faded, except for the faint, bold letters of a date and a room number.
September 13th, 2001.
Room number 1210
I can see how desperately she wants it to make sense, and I want to make it make sense too.
There’s a faint letter R and a last name I’m positive says Alvarez, but every search I’ve done comes out empty.
No R. Alvarez had reported a missing baby from Houston Methodist Hospital.
No reported scandals or articles circulated the internet.
Something’s off. Too off. Curtis Anderson didn’t have the kind of reach to cover up something like this. He had money, but not the kind that could pay for multiple hits from the private investigators Alma had hired or to tamper with her Ancestry DNA submissions.
“You gotta eat something, mija.” The statement comes out as a plea.
I set the tray on top of her end table and take a seat next to her on the edge of the bed.
Cupping her face in my palm, I lightly brush my thumb over her flushed cheek.
Tears still cling to her long lashes. Licking my lips, I hold off on the impulsive thought to kiss her and steady my voice before speaking.
“Talk to me, Alma. Tell me what I can do to help you.”
She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes stay fixated on the bracelet. The silence stretches between us. I move to leave and give her space before I feel the tug of my shirt. Falling into the pull, I find myself on the bed next to her. Her breathing stutters, and her big brown eyes pin me in place.
I should pull back—a better man would. But I’m not built for mercy. I’m built for her. To be everything she needs in this moment. Alma leans in, her forehead pressing to my chest and her arms reaching out to draw me into her.
Every promise she’d made to push me away in her grieving is fractured in her embrace. And me? I’m ruined. One small mercy, one fragile reach for comfort, and I want to burn the whole world down for her. I lift her into my lap and cradle her in my arms.
The world falls silent as I hold her. She releases the emotions that have been swelling up inside her.
Seeing her like this makes me wish I had some kind of superpower that could transport us out of here.
Find a place where we could be whoever the hell we decide we want to be without the current fucking labels.
Undocumented.
Orphaned.
Stolen.
Fuck all those things. We never asked to come into this world, and we sure as hell didn’t ask for the lives we received.
“You’re mine, Efren. I don’t care who brought us into this world. All that matters is that we found each other.”
Her words from the other night burn inside me. She was right, our only purpose was to find each other. Nothing else matters. The silence falls around us as we cling tighter to each other. I listen to the beating of her heart, in sync with mine. We stay like that until Alma pulls back slightly.
“Did you bring the box of letters back?” she asks.
“I did. Do you want to read them?” I ask, but Alma shakes her head.
“I doubt Missy would put anything in there to incriminate herself. She was smart.”
“That she was.” I agree, not to appease her but because I’ve read every single one.
Each letter offers insight into the lives they lived and into Alma’s childhood.
A childhood Missy documented with postcards, Polaroid pictures, and stories of why she was abandoning another town.
Her excuses ranged from schools needing documentation to someone asking too many questions.
She was paranoid, and it showed in every letter.
Alma brings the bracelet back up in front of her and examines the brittle plastic.
“It’s strange,” she says quietly. “I can’t hate Missy for what she did.
For stealing me when I know it was rooted in her own grief.
But there’s someone out there, a woman who was robbed of her own child.
Can you imagine? I grew in her womb. She had ideas and plans to love and care for me, and it all vanished in the blink of an eye. ”
“What Missy did to you and what she meant to you don’t cancel each other out,” I whisper. “They just live in the same place. That’s what makes it hurt. You can hate her and still ache for her. Your heart’s a battlefield, and both sides look like love.”
I pause, fingers tracing her wrist as her pulse flutters beneath my thumb.
“I get it,” I add quietly. “I felt the same way with Bud. I want to hate him for lying to me, but I can’t help loving him for wanting to protect me.”
Her eyes glisten, and for a moment, she isn’t just looking at me. She’s seeing me. “I love you” is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t say it. Something pulls me back as I look away.
“I don’t know where I belong anymore,” she whispers.
“With me.” I reach for her hand and bring it up to my lips. “You belong with me.”
_______
Life slowly goes back to normal, or what Alma and I consider to be normal. Her working the weekends at La Cuevita and me preparing everything for Vidal’s return to the real world.
“Jefe,” I greet him.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he replies.
When Vidal Montalvàn speaks, every word demands attention and respect. I stare through the glass at the leader of Los Antros. Even dressed in an orange jumpsuit, he carries himself with the highest level of authority. He’s not in prison, he’s running it.
And willingly too. After a drug bust, Vidal Montalvàn accepted a thirty-year life sentence to appease his kingpin father. The notorious family runs one of the largest drug smuggling businesses through the Federal Detention Center in Texas.
“You sent the Italians to beat me and starve me for three days, sorry I didn’t call to check on you sooner.” I let my sarcasm roll off my tongue.
“Aye, Efrencito, Efrencito.” He tsks as his hardened expression moves closer to the glass separating us.
“These walls breed trustworthy soldiers. When I’m at the top, and we’re confined to this hellhole, it’s easy for you to maintain that loyalty because you want to stay alive.
But the outside world is different. Out there, I’ve seen the way people turn on each other. ”
“I’m not like that.”
“As I’ve learned.”
Vidal will be out on parole soon enough.
His home will be ready, and he will take his father’s place at the head of the Colombian Cartel.
Adrian, Ricky, and I have been his minions on the outside, pulling the strings while Vidal pulls the levers from behind bars.
Ricky is Vidal’s nephew and the one who will take his place on the inside.
Patricio made sure, upon Vidal’s release, that Adrian would be cut loose from his ties to Vidal as the heir to Calavera Hotels.
As for me? I have no promises, no neat arrangements in place or prestigious last name to save me from my fate.
“What happens to me when you get out?” I keep my voice flat.
“What do you want to happen?” Vidal replies.
“I told you I want out.”
Silence stretches between us. He nods as if confirming something only he can see.
“You know, Savino mentioned to me you had nothing to place in front of you to really test your loyalty. But Claudi told me you’ve grown real close to one of the dancers at La Cuevita.”
Every cell in my body freezes, and I do my best to stay neutral.
Touch her, and I’ll kill you.
“Threatening women doesn’t seem like your style, Vidal,” I say with a fake calm.
He lets out a cruel laugh. “You’re done when I say you’re done.”
And just like that, he calmly places the phone onto the receiver as one of the guards on his payroll escorts him out.
Standing to my full height, I slam the phone back onto the wall where it’s mounted.
Outside, Adrian is waiting in the driver’s seat, and Ricky has moved to take my place in the passenger seat.
“No mames güey.” I groan when I open the side door to find the floor covered in nut roll wrappers.
We have four more stops to make before I can pick up Alma. I need to find a way out of this shit. Doing Vidal’s dirty work is starting to weigh on me.
“Everything good?” Adrian asks when we arrive outside a Mexican Market on the east end of Houston. The property belongs to the Consuelos, but they’d offered it up to Vidal as a bargaining chip for Adrian’s freedom.
“Todo bien,” I lie.
But the truth is, inside I’m rampaging. My teeth grind, and my fist clenches as I think of all the injustices I’ve had to face.
Deep down, I fucking hate that Adrian has had all the resources at his fingertips because of his ties to the Consuelo family.
The same resources I could have if I wanted them—if I was willing to confess to Patricio that I’m his biological son. But my pride won’t allow it.
Vidal still owns me. Patricio hates me. A mutual feeling.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I’m the bastard caught between their shadows.
Alma’s right, I am fucking Bruno Madrigal for fuck’s sake.
I close my eyes and picture her instead.
Alma, waiting in the lot behind the club, the way her smile widens at the sight of me, the way her body molds against mine as we lay tangled in the sheets.
Fuck.
Alma doesn’t ask me questions. She doesn’t demand loyalty. She just sees me. She’s the only thing I plan on protecting in this life where we’re both surviving a cycle of endless betrayal.
“Let’s just get this fucking money and get the fuck out of here,” I mutter.