Chapter 4 – Remi
Four
Remi
The smell of warm tortillas, fried eggs, and a hint of spice from simmering salsa hits me the moment I step through the door. No matter where life takes me or how long I’ve been on my own, this kitchen will always smell like home.
I follow the aroma straight to the kitchen, expecting to find my mom, but Estela is there instead, moving between the stove and counter with ease. A pan sizzles beneath her hand while steam carries the bite of onions and toasted corn through the room.
She hasn’t noticed me yet, so I linger in the doorway and watch her for a moment.
I was six when she started working for my parents, and I gave her hell.
Not because I wanted to be cruel, but because I was grieving, angry, and convinced nobody could ever take Milly’s place.
She’d helped raise my mom before helping raise me, and losing her felt like losing another member of our family.
Estela never tried to replace her. She just kept showing up with extra pieces of pan dulce she pretended weren’t meant for me until one day I stopped pretending I didn’t like her.
“Looks delicious,” I say, reaching into the pan and tearing off a piece of tortilla soaked in salsa. I ignore the heat as I pop it into my mouth.
Estela spins around before breaking into a smile and pulling me into a hug.
“Mi nina Remi. I haven’t seen you in over a week. What a wonderful surprise. And you’re here early today.”
I hug her just as tightly.
“Yeah, I ran out of food at home. Figured I’d come freeload for a bit while I wait for my groceries to be delivered.”
She laughs and shakes her head.
“Well, your timing couldn’t be better. I made extra since Matteo spent the night.”
“And I’m glad I did.”
I turn at the sound of Matteo’s voice, already rolling my eyes.
“Aren’t you and Gio a little too old for sleepovers?” I ask, stealing another piece of tortilla from the pan.
He laughs and pulls me into a one-armed hug. Matteo mostly outgrew the puppy-dog crush he had on me through his teens, and now it’s just a running joke between us. He knows he’s another little brother to me and always will be.
I tip my chin up to look at him and realize “little” brother might not be the best description anymore. He’s tall as hell these days.
Almost as tall as...
I stop that thought before it gets any farther.
Letting a complete stranger into my garage last night, apparently, wasn’t enough bad judgment because now I’m standing in my mother’s kitchen thinking about him without a shirt. It certainly doesn’t help that Thiago is built like he spends his free time carrying refrigerators for fun.
I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek and shove the image from my head. I’ll probably never see Mr. I’m-not-a-serial-killer again anyway.
“You still with us?” Matteo asks. “You look like you’re fighting demons over breakfast.”
I shove him back. “Don’t you and my brother have a playdate to get to?”
“Funny.” He stuffs his mouth with a forkful of fried eggs. “Gio has a fight today. I’m driving him. You know, in case he gets his ass handed to him.”
I wave him off and start toward the door. Halfway there, I glance back just in time to catch his eyes drifting south.
“Eyes, Leone,” I warn.
Estela smacks him upside the head. “Respeta a la nina.”
“What?” he mumbles around a mouthful of eggs, lifting a shoulder in an innocent shrug.
I laugh and shake my head. Some things never change.
“Senora Amalia is out back,” Estela calls after me, knowing exactly who I’m looking for.
I head down the hallway lined with my mother’s paintings until one in particular catches my attention. It’s the painting of Villa Dorada, and it’s always been my favorite.
Stopping in front of it, I run my fingers along the edge of the frame.
It was where my mom grew up, where she fell in love with my dad, and where she lost my Uncle Giovanni, the man my brother was named after.
It’s been decades since the estate left my family’s hands.
I’ve never seen it for myself, but I’ve always felt drawn to it somehow.
Maybe it’s the history buried there, or the reminder that something beautiful managed to grow in a place marked by so much loss and violence.
My fingertips brush the painted wildflowers along the entrance, following the strokes my mother put there years ago. She used to tell us stories about Villa Dorada. About the house, the gardens, the people who filled it, and the life she had before everything changed.
For some fucking reason, that reminds me of Thiago telling me about Houston. I pull my hand away from the painting like it’s on fire.
“Seriously?” I managed to make it less than five minutes this time.
“Hey, Rem!” Giovanni darts past me, then doubles back just as quickly to press a kiss to my temple. “Gotta run.”
“Good luck,” I call after him.
Determined to make it the rest of the way without thinking about Texas, pretty curls, or one obnoxiously broad pair of shoulders, I keep walking.
The steady thud coming from one of the back rooms tells me exactly where Mamá is. I push open the door just as her arm extends and an axe leaves her hand, cutting cleanly through the air before burying itself dead center in the target.
Of course she hits the bullseye.
I grew up surrounded by incredible women, all of them strong and resilient in their own ways, but there’s no one I admire more than my mother.
Before she was my mom, Amalia Montesinos was La Mercenaria.
I can’t remember how old I was when I learned the truth about my parents and the rest of my family.
It feels like I’ve always known I was born into a family of assassins, where learning to fight, survive, and protect the people you love was as ordinary as learning to tie your shoes.
Maybe the rest of the world would consider that a cruel reality for a child to grow up with, but I wouldn’t change it.
These people are everything to me. I give Matteo hell most days, but we both know there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for him.
Family isn’t just blood. It’s who you’re willing to spill it for.
“Murder before breakfast?” I ask as she lets another axe fly.
Mamá doesn’t startle or turn. She takes her time retrieving another as though she knew I was standing there before I ever opened my mouth.
Knowing her, she probably did.
My whole life, people have told me how much I resemble her. They say I move like her and think like her, but I’d give anything for that to actually be true.
I was never an easy child, and I spent most of my teenage years testing every ounce of my mom's patience. She loved me through all of it, even when I gave her plenty of reasons to lose her mind.
Watching her with Valentina had always made me wonder more than once if she wished I’d turned out a little more like her.
I know I do.
“Mi amor, you didn’t tell me you were coming by this early. I would’ve had Estela make your favorite.”
“Mamá, anything Estela makes is my favorite. And since when do I have to announce myself?”
She chuckles and pulls me into a hug. “You know that’s not what I meant.
” Her hand lingers at the back of my neck when she pulls away, her thumb brushing beneath my ear the way she used to when I was little.
“You know you’re always welcome. This is your home.
Now, tell me, what really brings you by? ”
I laugh because I should’ve known she’d ask. The only problem is, I don’t have a good answer. I woke up this morning, ordered groceries, and somehow ended up here before they could even be delivered. I could blame it on missing my family, but I know there’s more to it than that.
Less than twelve hours ago, I pulled a gun on a stranger. Then I climbed into his truck, brought him to my garage, drank with him, and spent half the morning thinking about him when I should’ve forgotten his face the second he left.
Thiago is no one to me, but my brain hasn’t gotten the fucking message.
My hand slips into my pocket, and my fingers close around my father’s ring.
Mamá notices.
She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Instead, she crosses the room, braces a boot against the stand, and pulls the axes free before extending one to me.
“Estela won’t mind if we’re a little late,” she says. “It always helps take the edge off.”
I curl my fingers around the handle and step up to the throwing line. “The day I pass up target therapy is the day you need to worry.”
“That’s my girl.”
I roll the axe once in my grip, draw my arm back, and let it fly. And just like hers, it buries itself dead center.
She smiles. “Again.”