Chapter 6
6
I walked five blocks from The Tropics and waited at the corner where my brother, Manny, told me he’d pick me up. He wasn’t known for his punctuality. A trait that drove my father and I crazy.
I mindlessly scrolled on my phone satisfied I’d done a good job tonight. It was hard to imagine how Smoke and Blood transformed the place from a rundown strip joint to an upscale club.
Ten minutes later, Manny’s dark grey Lamborghini pulled up and hovered by the curb. I slid into the passenger seat and almost choked at the cloud of smoke surrounding me.
“Open a window at least.”
Manny’s handsome face split into a grin, as he offered me the blunt. I waved it away, and opened my window hoping he wasn’t too high to drive us to the Baja coast.
“So, how’d it go?”
Manny’s question surprised me because he rarely cared about anything other than his sports cars, his designer clothes, his next trip to Europe—and women, lots and lots of women.
“It was only the first night, but I did okay.”
“So, what are these big, bad bikers like? ”
“Big and bad.” I kept my response short and sweet, because yes, I had noticed. Blood was huge with bulky muscles, but Smoke . . . He had the long, lean, sculpted muscles that came from regular workouts.
“Very funny.” Manny revved the engine. “I was thinking about getting myself a Harley. What do you think?”
“I think you get yourself in enough trouble with the Lambi.”
Manny’s playboy persona didn’t match his accomplishments. He’d graduated from the University of Miami with a masters degree in accounting and passed his CPA on the first round, yet he spent his days working on his tan and dropping thousands on clubbing and gambling.
He turned to me and grinned again. “You’re the son our father always wanted.”
I laughed because that’s what Manny expected, but I didn’t miss the hint of angst or jealousy in the comment. Genetics and personalities sometimes got twisted. Where Manny had a gentler side like our mother, I was my father’s daughter. Sharp, on-point, and resourceful.
Although I had to admit, I enjoyed spending the night playing Marisol Marquez the ditsy bartender who came to work late. I found it liberating and far less stressful than my true identity?—
Marisol Sandoval.
Daughter of Rico Sandoval, wrecker of havoc all over Mexico. The man whom everyone feared, the man who made the decisions, the man everyone listened to—or else.
A half hour later, Manny eased the Lamborghini onto an unpaved beach road, turned into a driveway, pressed the remote control in his car, and the large white gates slowly opened. He nodded to the armed guards on either side of the pavement, then pointed the sports car down a palm lined driveway until we reached the ultra-modern styled villa where we grew up.
A nervous tick kicked up my heart. My father would want a full report and although I agreed to do his bidding the reason for our vengeance was far too personal, and still too traumatic.
Manny stopped the car and nailed me with a long, serious look. “I still can’t believe you agreed to do this for him.”
“I’m not doing it for him as much as for our mother.”
Nightmares plagued my sleep daily, some worse than others where I could actually hear the staccato of the assault weapons, the screams of my sweet mother, and then the blood—so much blood.
The traumatic experience affected us differently. Manny became reckless and seemingly carefree, but I wasn’t fooled. I’d heard him weeping behind his bedroom door, and no amount of weed, alcohol, or coke could squelch his pain or his anxiety. Sadly, he would have to realize this fact for himself.
I handled the tragedy with controlled emotions. Family couldn’t understand how I didn’t shed a tear at the funeral. They labeled me heartless and insensitive, but they were wrong. My anguish hollowed out my heart leaving only hate and regret. Hate toward my father and his heinous business for taking so much from us and regret that I will never share another smile, laugh, or conversation with my sweet mother.
Manny shook his head. “Just don’t be fooled by him or the act he wants you to believe.”
I chose to ignore Manny’s cryptic warning, and although I’d read all the press about Rico Sandoval, we were told he was a businessman of a large empire who sold goods to rich Americans. My mother failed to mention our father’s business was drugs and the goods he sold were cocaine, heroin, and all varieties of artillery.
As naive as it sounds, as a child, I never once suspected my father of any wrongdoing. There was never violence in our home or tension when my father was present. He was always my handsome hero, attentive and caring to me, my brother, and my mother.
I entered our large marble-floored foyer of the only home I’d ever known, and inhaled deeply, hoping the fragrant scent of tropical flowers would calm my nerves. Living in our gated estate on the Baja Coast, I was doted on by numerous nannies and my beautiful mother, Angeline.
Manny and I were schooled at home, by tutors and after school, we played on the beach, or swam in our Olympic-sized pool. We traveled by private jet to magical places like Spain, the Amalfi Coast in Italy, and the beautiful islands of Greece. We never thought our lives were different than any other children.
Suddenly exhausted, I longingly eyed the staircase leading to my bedroom suite, but my father would be waiting up no matter what the hour. He boasted only needing a few hours of sleep a night, and just like when I would come home on school vacations he would be awake and waiting for a full report.
When I reached high school age I was sent to Santa Catalina Private Girls School in Monterey, California. That was the first time I used the name Marisol Marquez. My mother told me it was a precaution, and because of our wealth it was dangerous for me to use my real last name.
It wasn’t until I attended Stanford that I found out my father’s true identity. I’d overheard some professors talking about the different celebrities they’d had in their classroom when my name popped up. I refused to believe what they were saying so I confronted my mother and she brushed it off as idle gossip. Saying it was a form of prejudice, when Mexican people were wealthy others accused them of being drug lords.
I veered around the stairs and down the side hall leading to my father’s office, or rather the set of rooms my father occupied more than the rest of the house. The guard standing outside the closed door nodded to me, then knocked once against the thick teakwood door.
“Enter,” my father’s muffled voice came through the door.
The constant guards roaming our property day and night, the security who traveled with us were another anomaly. My father’s insistence both Manny and I learn how to shoot a gun and learn self-defense. As a result we were both excellent marksmen and I excelled in Jiu Jitsu. When I was young I thought those things were normal until I visited my high school friends’ homes and saw a completely different scenario. No guards, and no security with an emphasis on Pilates not self-defense.
My father’s office boasted four monitors for surveillance of the house and property, a large sitting area overlooking the tennis courts, and an enormous glass and chrome desk from where he stared at me with his ebony eyes.
I stopped four feet in front of his desk and waited. When he motioned to the chair in front of his desk, I sat.
“So, how was your first night working as a bartender?”
Graduating with honors from Stanford with a masters in arts and humanities I spoke four languages, and while I speak perfect English without a Spanish accent, affecting the local accent at The Tropics came easy.
“Uneventful. I played my part as you suggested.”
My reaction to his question took me by surprise. Had I really been Marisol Marquez I would’ve said I enjoyed myself. The activity of the club, the constant action and interaction with the customers at the bar. Meeting the other women behind the bar and not having to worry about people linking me to my father. The experience was freeing and liberating.
“And of course, no one suspected your true identity?”
“No.”
I excelled in theater at college. Welcoming the chance to get out of myself and forget my family’s business. If tragedy hadn’t struck our family I would’ve stayed in California and pursued an acting career. I’d already secured an agent who assured me my talent and sultry Mediterranean looks (his words) would shoot me to the top of every casting director’s list.
“I’m also assuming you met Smoke and Blood.” My father leaned in, his eyes searing me like lasers.
“Yes.”
“You said Blood interviewed you the other day, but did you get an opportunity to make an impression on Smoke as we discussed?”
“Yes, I played the ditsy scatterbrain and he seemed to fall for it. Even questioned how I would be getting home since I used my car breaking down as a reason for my lateness.”
“Excellent.”
“Yes, if I was back in Hollywood, I definitely would’ve gotten the part.” The sarcastic edge in my voice didn’t go unnoticed.
“My intel says Smoke will be the one you want to target.”
I knew what I had to do, but I wasn’t expecting Smoke to be as attractive. The scar along his jawline and his overall demeanor screamed wild outlaw biker. My sworn enemy, but still there was something about the rough, edgy way he carried himself. Like my father he commanded attention and I was sure he got it.
“He has a weakness for beautiful women. Apparently, it was because of a woman he was banished to Tijuana.”
I could definitely believe it. I envisioned hearing his deep raspy voice whispering to me after— Shut it down now.
“I will also be paying them a visit, but I’m going to wait a bit. Let them get settled and put their guard down, then I’ll insert myself.”
“Smoke sounds interesting. Just the kind of guy I’ve managed to avoid.” Again, I couldn’t keep the sarcastic lilt out of my voice but honestly this might be more enjoyable than I expected. Especially the part of leading Smoke on only to drop kick him to one of her father’s underlings.
“You do understand why we are doing this, Marisol?”
“I know why I’m doing it—to avenge my mother’s memory.” I stared back at my father daring him to confront me. “You, I’m not so sure.”
My beautiful, caring mother was taken from us a year ago because of revenge. Although I loathed everything my father stood for, that day changed my life forever. That day made me the woman I am today and made me realize how much like my father I really am.
I’d come home for my mother’s forty-third birthday. Having both Manny and I in her early twenties, she still looked so youthful and vibrant. We spent the day poolside—everything was perfect until it wasn’t.
The sun sparkling over the pool, the gentle breeze, then the sounds of heavy boots over the travertine patio. The deafening crack of the assault rifles and commotion exploding around us, then the air filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder. My mother dead, on her birthday, at the hands of the Royal Bastards haunted me day and night.
“That insolent mouth will be your downfall.”
“You’ve been telling me that since I was five, yet here I am doing your dirty work.”
My father let out a deep chuckle. “I know you hate to hear this or even think it, but you are just like me.”
I did hate it although I couldn’t deny it. We were alike in so many ways. We not only resembled each other with our ebony hair and eyes, but I also inherited his tenacity and one-mindedness. The same qualities allowing me to graduate at the top of my class without too much effort. Remember lines to a script after one reading. Be able to recite random details after experiencing something once .
Many times I wished I was more easygoing like my mother. Able to see only the good in people, but what good had that done her? Shot down dead way too soon because of a stupid grudge. A grievance which had nothing to do with her.
“Which makes you invaluable for this job.”
If my father used those traits and ambitions in a legitimate business I believe he would’ve been successful also, maybe not to the magnitude drugs allowed, but still successful. How sad a product which caused so many people such pain was so lucrative.
And now because of all this violence I would basically be putting myself out there to a man whose buddies killed my mother. Twisted for sure, but I would make sure this was my best acting job ever, and the best part—Smoke would never see it coming.
“You’re right, I hate it, but I’ll do what I have to do—of that you can be sure.”