Chapter 39
Efren
“Ay! Not the stache, Kitten!”
“This is why I told you to do it yourself,” Alma fires back, dropping the razor into the sink.
I grab her by the waist before she can leave and pull her back into me. There’s still shaving cream on my face when I kiss her cheek.
“Efren! Eww.” She moves again, and I pull her back.
“?Qué te pasa, Almita?”
“Estás loco.” she laughs.
“Por ti.”
She smiles the way she always does when I remind her that I am crazy but for her. Turning the water on, she rinses the razor then lifts it back to my face.
“Lift your chin,” she murmurs.
Her touch is soft, her hand steady as she glides the razor against my skin. Each stroke scrapes softly, the sound impossibly intimate in the quiet room. I watch her focused eyes. Her shaving me like this feels sacred. Each stroke is like a quiet spell that beckons me to her will.
“Hold still.” Her thumb tilts my face toward her.
I hold still. I’d stop breathing if she asked. She leans closer, her breath warm against my cheek as she clears the last bit of stubble under my jaw. The world narrows to the warm weight of her knee brushing mine, her palm anchoring my chin, the subtle pull of the razor.
When she finally wipes my face clean with the towel, her fingers linger at my jawline. She examines her work with a tiny, satisfied smile.
“I’ve been feeling really emotional lately,” she says, looking up at me. I notice her eyes glistening with moisture.
“What is it? Are you regretting our decision to leave?” My voice comes out softer than I intended. She’s been quiet since sunrise, and I don’t think I can take her deciding at the last minute to stay here.
“No. Of course not. It’s not that.” She shakes her head.
It’s our last morning in Houston. After today, Mireya and Adrian will be married, and Alma and I will finally be free. She turns away, fussing with her hair in the mirror, pretending it needs fixing before ours eyes catch in the reflection. Her shoulders lift, then fall with a steadying breath.
“I wanted to tell you something last night,” she says.
“Tell me now.”
“I’m embarrassed.”
A soft laugh escapes me. “Darling… you literally had your friend peg me last night while you watched. And now you’re embarrassed?”
Her laugh breaks through—quiet, warm, a little shaky.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s not that.” She hesitates. “It’s just… my fantasies were already unhinged, and now I think my hormones might actually destroy me.”
Hormones.
The word lands heavily. I stop mid-breath. She’s not looking at me, not directly, but her reflection is hesitant, hopeful, and terrified all at once. I step closer.
“Alma,” I say gently. “Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”
Her lips twitch, the smallest smile breaking through. She doesn’t say yes. She just lets me see it. The softness in her face. The nervous glow I somehow missed.
“Neta?” I whisper, my chest tightening.
She turns toward me and presses her hand to her stomach.
“Yes,” she breathes. “We’re having a baby.”
My knees give out before my mind can catch up, and I drop to them in front of her. The room feels like it’s tilted on an axis.
“A baby?” I whisper, pressing my mouth to the warm skin of her belly, my throat thick. “Hi, baby. This is your dad talking. I love you already.”
I look up, and the way she’s smiling at me, the tears gathering in her eyes, nearly undoes me. She’s perfect. More than perfect. I kiss her stomach again, reverent this time, then lower my voice and add, stiff and robotic, “Luke, I am your father.”
“Estás loco.” Alma laughs, shaking her head.
“Por ti.”
_______
My breath stalls when I see Alma walking towards me. She’s wearing a gold bridesmaid dress, her hair pinned up with flowers, and long pearl earrings grazing her bare shoulders.
“You look beautiful, Kitten.”
“It’s the dress.” Her cheeks warm and turn a soft pink.
“It’s you.”
“Ready?” she whispers, flashing a nervous smile.
“I’ve never been more ready.”
We take the first step together. The aisle stretches long, red roses are scattered across the floor, and a soft melody guides us to the altar.
Alma’s fingers tighten around my arm the moment all eyes fall on us, and fuck, that does something to me.
I’m protective. Proud. Territorial. All of it.
Halfway down, she glances up at me. Her big brown eyes shine in the light.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs under her breath.
I don’t look away.
“Can’t help it.”
She tries not to smile and fails, but her eyes stay focused on our steps. That tiny curve of her mouth hits me harder than any punch I’ve ever taken. There’s this warmth inside me, this pure feeling of contentment that’s impossible to contain. The kind of happiness I never thought I’d get to feel.
Not after everything I’ve done.
Not after everything I’ve lost.
But here she is. Walking beside me. Carrying our future inside her.
We reach the end of the aisle, and Alma lets go of me, fingers sliding reluctantly from my arm. I pull her back and place a kiss on her forehead.
“After this, you’re mine for the rest of the night,” I whisper against her temple.
Her breath catches, her lashes lowering.
She walks away, and I take my place next to Adrian, who, even at the altar, seems to radiate a lack of emotion.
His expression is hard as he waits to see his bride.
Thalia walks down the aisle next, holding her nephew PJ.
It was the only groomsman Silas would allow her to walk with who wasn’t him.
After Thalia and PJ walk down the aisle, the flower girl, Lucia, makes her grand appearance, holding tight to Luca’s hand. A laugh catches in my throat when she stops midway through the aisle and shouts into the crowd.
“Ari! Ari! Come take a picture of me right here.” Her small pink painted nail points down, her eyes firm on Ariella’s flushed face.
“Lucia, there’s a photographer right there.” Ariella’s whisper echoes in the large church.
Nero chuckles, and Luca takes off down the aisle to his mother, Olivia, abandoning Lucia, who is posing for the camera as she walks the rest of the way dramatically. Thalia shakes her head and pulls Lucia to stand with her behind Alma, but not before scolding her under her breath.
The laughter in the church fades, quieting at the soft piano that begins the traditional bridal chords.
The door opens to reveal Mireya in a long white dress and veil.
Adrian watches her possessively. Fire ignites in his gaze—he’s ready to burn the world in a moment if she asks.
Adrian very rarely cared for anyone. For him, life was just a game of survival, but Mireya was his one reason to survive.
The guests stand, and Mireya steps forward. Don Vicente hooks his arm through hers and walks her down the aisle to meet his grandson. He places Mireya’s hand in Adrian’s, and Adrian kisses her wrist before wiping away the tears falling down her cheek.
I stand next to Adrian the entire ceremony, my eyes on Alma as I avoid the death glares from Patricio sitting in the front row.
There’s so much beauty in the cathedral, from the stained glass windows to the statues and architecture.
So much money had been put into this wedding, and I can respect the elegance, but none of it fazes me the way the woman standing behind the bride does.
Alma beams at the couple. While she watches, I can’t take my eyes off of her. All I see is her. She catches me staring and gives me a pointed look. I don’t look away though.
Enrique Consuelo and his husband, Gael, approach the altar and lift a lasso over Adrian and Mireya.
The dark red beads shimmer under the church light.
Alma watches with a softness I only ever see when she’s unguarded.
Her eyelashes blink slowly, and her lips part in that delicate way when she’s fighting emotion.
It makes me wonder if she wants this for herself.
For us. Does she need a public display of our unity or is the baby inside her enough for her to know I am bound to her for life?
Does she know that not even fate itself could take her from me?
“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest announces.
Adrian doesn’t hesitate. He grabs his wife and kisses her like he waited his whole life for this moment. His fist closes around her long veil as he pulls her into him, and Mireya melts into the kiss, a red bouquet of roses clutched tight in her hands.
“It is my pleasure to introduce to you, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Ibarra,” the priest announces.
The church erupts. Applause, whistles, and cheers echo off the stained-glass walls. An all female mariachi band begins to play their rendition of Oceans by Karol G, and Adrian leads his wife down the aisle while red rose petals rain over them.
PJ begins to cry when he sees his parents leaving. Thalia shifts him in her arms, whispering to calm him, but he twists away from her. I move to Alma, but I can’t ignore the tiny hands outstretched toward me. I take PJ into my arms.
“Vamos, chiquillo llorón,” I murmur against his soft hair.
Alma and I step out behind Adrian and Mireya, following them to the front of the church.
Guests rise pew by pew, crowding the aisle with hugs, blessings, and phones raised to capture the moment.
We’re halfway to the courtyard doors, sunlight spilling in, the rose garden beyond already set up for photos and champagne, when a voice sounds behind us.
“Hey!”
I turn immediately to find Patricio standing at the top of the cathedral stairs behind us, cutting through the groups formed outside.
“Give me my grandson,” Patricio says, grabbing PJ from my arms.
I want to laugh in his face. His grandchild is literally in the womb next to me.
“Alma,” he repeats, eyes fixed only on her. “Can I have a word with you?”
My hand tightens around hers on instinct. I glare at Patricio, a part of me amused by what he can’t see. The similar features that I hate to admit we share. I catch a distraught Thalia looking at me from where Silas stands talking to Nero. PJ begins to fuss, and the tension becomes thick.
“Privately,” Patricio says when I don’t budge.
“Like hell,” I mutter, pulling Alma into me.
“You need to leave. The ceremony is over,” Patricio warns.
“Mireya told us to wait for pictures,” Alma explains as Thalia comes to grab a now wailing PJ.
“?Què traes Tio? You’re gonna start some shit outside the church?” she questions him.
“Patricio,” Don Vicente calls, walking towards us. “What’s going on here?”
“This fucking Cholio. He needs to leave,” Patricio explains.
Don Vicente’s eyes soften on me with a flicker of recognition as he takes me in.
“They want to take family pictures,” Vicente says.
“And he’s not family,” Patricio says, pointing at me.
“Alma can come with me. We’ll take the bridesmaid pictures, and then you two can leave,” Thalia says, nodding her head toward the rose garden where Mireya is waiting.
Mireya doesn’t have either of her parents. For her side of family, she only has her Tia Vicky and Alma. It feels wrong. Every part of me hates letting her go, but swinging on Patricio here would ruin Adrian and Mireya’s day. This is not the time nor the place to try resolving my daddy issues.
“It’s okay, mija,” I tell Alma quietly. “Go. I’ll wait for you right here.”
“Are you sure?” her voice cracks.
I nod. Because what else can I do? Drag her back like she’s in danger when everyone else is smiling and pretending this family isn’t poison?
But the truth is, something in my chest tightens when she half-heartedly walks away with Thalia.
Vicente pulls his son forward, following them down the steps to the rose garden.
I light a cigarette and watch the photographer snap photo after photo. The entire Consuelo family is framed perfectly around Mireya and Adrian. One by one, they peel away until only Alma remains, pulled beside Vicky, filling the space where Mireya’s family should have been.
She looks beautiful.
She looks like she belongs.
And I look like I never did.
The sun begins to lower, staining the church walls gold, when Thalia and Silas head toward me.
“Are they done?” I ask immediately.
“Yes. Alma wanted to stay in the garden for a moment. She said to tell you to meet her there,” Thalia says.
I stand to my full height and nod, watching the blur of a gold dress sit on the swing in the garden at the side of the church.
“What the fuck is Patricio doing?” Silas asks, and my head snaps to the bottom of the Cathedral stairs.
Patricio Consuelo stands below us wearing the smuggest, most satisfied smile I’ve ever seen. Walking beside him are two police officers and a K-9.
“What the fuck?” I say.
“Efren Nevarez. You’re under arrest.” My heart drops, and I don’t even think, I move.
A hands grab me from behind, dragging me backward. I twist and swing hard.
“ALMA!” her name tears out of me.
My fist cracks across Patricio’s jaw. I shove forward, desperate, eyes locked on the rose garden where I see a tall figure emerging from the trees.
“ALMA!” I bellow, lunging toward the garden.
I recognize the man behind her. Bald head and a large scar running down his face. Cassiel.
He’s pulling her into the trees. I rush toward them, but something sharp clamps down, tearing into my calf. The K-9 attacks me, and I howl. My knees slam into the stone, and the first strike of a baton stings across my back as I fall forward.
THWACK
Another across my ribs.
THWACK
Another.
THWACK
Every time I try to stand, they put me right back on the ground.
Pain explodes in white behind my eyes. Thalia’s screams begin to fade, and the world tilts sideways as rough hands wrench my arms behind me, placing the cold metal around my wrists.
I’m dragged across the steps and shoved into the back of the cruiser, my breath knocked out of me.
The last thing I see before the door slams shut is the empty swing swaying in the rose garden.
And the space where Alma should have been.