38. Cruz
CRUZ
When I was twelve years old, I asked my mother who my father was.
We were in the kitchen, late afternoon, sunlight coming through the window in dusty gold stripes. Mamá stood at the stove, stirring rice. She smelled like soap, onions, and the orange blossom lotion one of the women had given her for her birthday.
I sat at the table with homework spread in front of me, but I had not written a single answer in twenty minutes.
The question had been gnawing at me all day.
I was out on an errand for Senora, and two boys I didn’t know made fun of me, asked me which of my mother’s customers was my father.
I got into a fight.
Not a bad one. Not enough for blood. Enough that the store owner grabbed me by the collar and told me to get the fuck out of his place.
When I came home, Mamá looked at my split lip and sighed. “Why did you fight?”
“Some boys said something.”
“People always say something,” she said. “But words are just words. They aren’t worth a split lip.”
At twelve, I thought that sounded like nonsense.
I stared at my homework until the numbers blurred.
Then I said, “Who is he?”
Mamá did not turn around. “Who is who?”
“My father.”
She continued stirring. “You know what I’ve told you.” She glanced over her shoulder. “He’s a very important man and he loves you very much.”
I looked at her.
Really looked.
I was twelve.
Old enough to understand about customers.
Old enough to understand about accidents.
Old enough to understand that women in our house sometimes got pregnant, and men with money didn’t always come back.
“That’s not true,” I said.
Mamá turned fully then. “What did you say?”
“He probably doesn’t love me.”
She furrowed her brow. “Cruz.”
“He probably doesn’t even know I exist.”
Pain flashed across her face.
“He was probably just some man who paid you and got you pregnant.”
Her hand tightened around the spoon.
“I know what people say,” I continued. “I’m not stupid.”
“I never said you were.”
“If he loved me, he would come for me.”
Mamá set the spoon down.
“If he loved me,” I repeated, “wouldn’t he come?”
She walked to the table and sat beside me. “He might someday,” she said.
I gave a harsh laugh. “Someday.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
She reached for my hand.
I almost pulled away.
I didn’t.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“That means never.”
She frowned. “No. It means I don’t know.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Her fingers closed around mine. “Yes.”
That surprised me.
I had expected another lie. “You do?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
She looked away. “I can’t.”
Anger surged again. “Why?”
“Because I just can’t.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Maybe.”
I pounded a fist on the table. “It is.”
“Maybe,” she said again. She lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles. “Do you know why I named you Cruz?”
I rolled my eyes. “No.”
“Because it means cross.”
I groaned. “Mamá.”
“Like the cross Jesus died on.”
“I know what a cross is.”
“Do you?”
“I’m hardly going to be the savior of humanity.”
She laughed.
That laugh. God.
I would cut off my own hand to hear it again.
“Never say never,” she said.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You think I’m going to save humanity?”
“No.” She touched my cheek. “That’s not why I loved the name.”
“Then why?”
“Because life is made at the crossroads,” she said.
I frowned.
“When roads meet, choices are made. One way or another. Good or bad. Toward light or away from it. You may not always know where a road leads, but you will know something about why you chose it.”
I crossed my arms. “That sounds like church.”
“It is bigger than church.”
I rolled my eyes again.
“You will have decisions to make, Cruz. All your life. Some small. Some so large they will feel impossible.” She squeezed my hand. “When you stand at those crossroads, you must try to make the right ones.”
“What if I don’t know which ones are right?”
“Then listen harder.”
“To what?”
“To God. To your conscience. To the voice inside you.” She smiled. “To me.”
I didn’t understand.
Not then.
I only understood that she wouldn’t tell me my father’s name. That there was a man somewhere in the world who might know about me or might not, might care or might not, might come someday or might never come at all.
“Leaving without saying goodbye, Cruz?”
I stand beside the stolen car with my hand still on the door handle.
For a split second, I’m twelve again at the kitchen table, Mamá’s hand around mine, her voice telling me life is made at the crossroads.
Then I’m a grown man with blood still visible under my nails, a fake passport in my pocket, a dead grandmother inside the house, and the woman who helped mold me into a criminal standing at my back.
A crossroads.
Of course.
I should have known.
I turn.
Adriana stands near the side gate, one hand resting lightly against the iron latch.
Cream silk blouse. Dark trousers. Hair pulled back. Sunglasses tucked into the front of her shirt. Red mouth. Gold earrings. No visible weapon.
But Adriana never needed to be armed to be dangerous.
She stares at me. At my bruised jaw. My split knuckles. The dirty shirt. “You’ve looked better.”
I don’t reply.
She glances toward the porch.
Zabala’s body isn’t fully visible from where she stands, but the blood is. Enough of it.
“Did you kill him?” Her tone is nonchalant, as if she’s asking if I broke a glass.
“Yes.”
A faint smile touches her mouth. “Finally.”
“Finally?”
“I couldn’t stand the motherfucker.”
I stare at her. “Senora Valentina is dead.”
Adriana’s face doesn’t change. “Unfortunate.”
My blood boils. This woman practically raised me, and Adriana is dismissing her like she was an inconvenience. Like a flat tire on the way to work. Not a living, breathing human being who put more good into the world as a brothel keeper than this snake of a woman could ever hope to do.
But I take a deep breath. Because letting my emotions get the best of me is exactly what Adriana wants right now.
I take one step toward her. “Did you send him?”
“No.”
“Did Vega?”
“Zabala was following orders.”
“Whose orders?”
She simply sighs. “You’ve made quite a mess.”
I grit my teeth. “Yes.”
“But not an irreparable one.”
I almost laugh. “There’s no repairing this.”
“There is if you come with me.” She extends a hand.
I stare at her. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to listen.”
“You expect me to go back to Vega.”
“Yes.”
“After Robin.”
“Yes.”
I raise an eyebrow. “After Zabala.”
“Especially after Zabala.”
I shake my head once. “I’m not a moron, Adriana. I know what Vega does to traitors.” I look toward the street. “How many men are coming?”
Her smile deepens. “That depends on what you do next.”
I scoff. “Right.”
“Vega is willing to overlook your role in Robin Bellamy’s breakout.”
I say nothing.
“And Zabala’s death.”
I laugh at that. “You’re good at lying, Adriana, but not that good.”
She twists her lips. “Senor Vega understands mistakes.”
I let out a humorless chuckle. “I’ve heard the screams outside his office.
I’ve heard the cracking of bones, the pleas for mercy.
Don’t try to tell me he understands mistakes.
You’re not here to save me. I know that.
You’re here to sweet-talk me into coming back with you so he can deal with me himself. Not happening.”
She sighs, and for a moment, her eyes look almost sad. “There was a time when you were smarter than this.”
“There was a time when I thought you were human.”
Sadness turns to anger. Then, instantly, back to a smile. “You’re understandably upset.”
“I’m done.”
“With Vega?”
“With all of it.”
She steps closer. “You’re not done with me.”
Every lesson my body learned from her wakes at once. The old electricity. The deep memory of her hand on my cheek, her mouth near my ear.
Vomit rises in my throat.
How many times did this seduction work?
Too many.
She would touch me.
Kiss me.
Reward my obedience before I agreed to obey. Make my body betray me.
She reaches for my face.
I catch her wrist before she touches me.
Her eyes flare.
“Don’t,” I say.
She squints. “You used to like my hands on you.”
“I used to be a child.”
She tilts her head. “You were old enough to know what you wanted.”
“No.” I tighten my grip. “I was old enough for you to use what I wanted.”
She chuckles softly. “So you found a conscience in Robin Bellamy’s bed? Is that it?”
I clench my jaw. How does she read me so well? But I don’t dignify her with an answer. Robin is through with me anyway.
“And you think she will save you?”
Cold spreads through me. “I don’t need anyone to save me. Truth is? I never did.”
“You’re being stupid.” Her eyes sharpen. “Vega will want blood.”
“He already does.”
“If he can’t get yours, he’ll take hers.”
Everything inside me stops.
Adriana sees it. Her face lights with triumph.
I don’t move.
She leans in. “He knows where she’s going. Embassy. Family. Airport. Texas. These people always run toward their names and their money. You think a border will stop him?”
I keep my expression calm as my pulse spikes.
“If Vega can’t have you,” she says, “he’ll get to the United States and take Robin Bellamy for himself.”
A picture flashes through my mind.
Robin at the embassy, thinking she’s safe.
Robin boarding a plane.
Robin in Texas.
Robin opening a door she shouldn’t open.
Robin back in a locked room.
No.
My voice drops. “He will not touch her.”
Adriana smiles. “Then come with me.”
“No.”
Her face goes cold.
For a second, I think she’s going to slap me.
Instead, she moves to her sleeve. I see the flash of metal too late. It’s a small device in her palm. A dart.
She lunges.
I twist, but the needle grazes my arm.
But not enough. I slam her wrist aside. “Bitch.”
She comes at me again.
I knock her hand away and grab her shoulders.
I’m ready to strike her, to stop her any way I can, when—
Something crashes into her from behind.
Mercedes.
She comes out of nowhere, swinging a heavy ceramic vase with both hands. It shatters against the back of Adriana’s shoulder and head. Adriana staggers, nearly falling. She grabs on to the side of the car.
Esmeralda appears beside her, wild-eyed, holding something in both hands.
The tranquilizer device. It must have fallen when Mercedes hit her.
“Esmeralda, no!” I shout.
Too late.
Esmeralda jams the device into Adriana’s side and presses.
Adriana gasps. Her eyes go wide.
“How dare—” she starts.
Then her knees buckle and she collapses onto the ground.
For a second, all three of us stare at her.
Mercedes breathes hard, still holding the broken neck of the vase, ready to stab Adriana if she comes to.
Esmeralda looks at the device in her hand. Then at me. “I think I got her.”
Despite everything, a laugh breaks out of me.
Mercedes points the jagged vase at Adriana. “Is she dead?”
“No,” I say. “Just drugged.” I should know. It’s the same thing I used on Robin at Adriana’s house in Texas.
Esmeralda’s hands begin to shake. She drops the dart like it burned her.
“I thought I told you two to get out of here,” I say.
“You did,” Mercedes says, “but we don’t follow orders from men who aren’t paying us.”
“Ha!” I say. “I gave you Senora’s money.”
“But it wasn’t your money.”
“Stop with the jokes,” I say. “Where are the others?”
“We gave them half the money and kept half,” Mercedes says. “We couldn’t leave until we knew you and Robin were safe.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You hardly know us.”
“But we knew Senora,” Esmeralda says. “And any friend of hers is a friend of ours.”
Mercedes steps closer to me, her face streaked with tears and fury. “You need a car.”
“I have one.”
“That piece of trash?” she says.
“It runs.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough.”
Esmeralda shakes her head. “Take mine. I’m one of only two girls that has one. The others piled into Violetta’s SUV.”
“No.”
“Cruz—”
“No.” I look at them both. “You need your vehicle. You need to get everyone away from here. Far away.”
“We can help you.”
“You already did.” I look down at Adriana.
“What do we do with her?” Mercedes asks.
“Leave her.”
Esmeralda’s eyes widen. “Here?”
“Someone will find her. She’s not your problem.”
“She’ll come after us.”
“Not if you’re gone before she wakes. She won’t have any interest in you. Only in me.” I look at Mercedes. “I can take you with me to the airport.”
“We don’t have passports.”
“But you can fly somewhere else in Colombia.”
“No,” Esmeralda says. “We’ll stay. We’ll meet the others. We’re not the ones they want.”
She’s not wrong.
I nod. “If that’s your choice.” I hug them both. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I get into the stolen car and I drive.
Away from the brothel.
Away from the dead.
Away from Adriana sprawled on the ground behind me.
Toward the airport.
I keep one hand on the wheel and the other near my pocket. Passport. Money.
A crossroads.
Mamá’s voice returns.
You will have decisions to make, Cruz. All your life. Some small. Some so large they will feel impossible. When you stand at those crossroads, you must try to make the right ones.
Maybe I’ve made wrong choices my whole life.
Maybe every road behind me is stained.
But this one?
This one leads away from Adriana.
Away from Vega.
And if God has any mercy left for sons of whores with blood on their hands, maybe it leads to where I can still stand between Robin Bellamy and the men coming for her.