Chapter 4 Tasting Tears #2
He laughs. "Not the welcome you were expecting?"
"No. Not at all. Her name was Nadège. A beautiful Haitian woman-turned-vampire in her early fifties, so her temples were streaked with grey. But don't let that fool you—she was terrifying as hell. Told me to fuck off in three languages and never come back."
Angel's lips twitch. "But you didn't."
"No way. I came back every day for a month. Just showed up, asked for a job, got rejected. Rinse, repeat. Finally she got so tired of seeing my face she gave me a gig cleaning cars for below minimum wage."
"Sounds glamorous."
"Hey, everyone's gotta start somewhere." I set the mortar aside and set about arranging a few candles around the bowl.
"The shop was functional, but it was also a front.
They used it as the perfect cover for money laundering, smuggling, all that fun stuff.
But it was also where they prepared for jobs.
Where they met clients. Where they did their actual work. "
"So you just...cleaned cars?"
"For a while. I watched, learned the ropes, and made sure to keep my mouth shut. Gradually I met the others, and they began to trust me. There's fifteen of us in total. Not including La Madre. Despite the age differences, human and vampire, they're like sisters to me, and I'd do anything for them."
"You're the youngest," he says, but it's not a question.
"I am," I say, jutting my chin up. "But that doesn't mean anything. They still treat me with respect."
"I didn't mean anything by it,” he says with a look of sincere concern. “It's just—I have sisters, so I know what it's like. Every single one is a pain in my ass, but I'd do anything for them."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, for all seven of them."
I gasp. "Seven? Your parents are Catholics, I'm guessing?" He gives a knowing nod of confirmation as I gesture to my lap. "Give me those feet. This needs to go on the bottom of them."
To my surprise, he doesn't protest, just leans back on the couch and stretches his legs out.
I catch myself staring for a second. Strong calves, well-defined thighs.
Probably from running around the tennis court at the local country club.
Or maybe he spends hours in the gym picking heavy things up and putting them down again.
A body sculpted by a personal trainer who prescribes creatine and meticulous macronutrient tracking.
I lift his ankles and settle them across my lap, trying not to think about how much I enjoy feeling the weight of him on top of me. After all, I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction.
"That must have been a lot," I say as I pull off a ribbed cashmere sock and reveal his immaculate toenails. This motherfucker gets pedicures. Of course he does.
He studies me with his head tilted to the side as I run my thumb up the sole of his foot, searching for the pressure point that should provide some relief.
"So, seven sisters, huh? Are you close?"
"With some of them, yeah. Valentina's the eldest—she just had a baby.
Saul." His expression softens. "I'm biased, but my nephew is so fucking cute.
She knows how much I love spoiling him, so she's always dropping by and leaving him so she can rest. When the others start having babies, I'm gonna be so screwed.
Uncle Angel's daycare is gonna be the hottest spot in town. "
He laughs, and it catches me off guard.
I try to picture it: Angel bouncing a pink-cheeked baby on his knee, wiping spit-up from his designer lapel. The fearsome cartel prince playing peekaboo. The visual stirs something uncomfortable in my chest, but I swallow it down.
"Must be weird being the only boy," I say,
I sense a hint of bitterness in his reply. "I'm the golden boy. The only child for thirteen years until Valentina arrived and changed everything. After that, my mom seemed to always be pregnant...or welcoming a new baby into the house."
I dip my thumb into the mortar and smear a little of the concoction on the sole of his foot.
It smells good, like the spilled contents of a spice drawer, a mix of mismatched aromas that don't quite belong together.
He doesn't flinch or squirm when I touch him, so I use the liquid to mark a symbol that stretches from the base of his big toe to his heel.
A simple sigil consisting of a swirl with an X cutting through it.
“Your poor mother,” I say. “She must have been exhausted after all that. How did your father cope with all that estrogen? Talk about being outnumbered."
I offer a laugh, but he doesn't return it. Instead he looks past me, his eyes glazing like he's recalling a painful memory.
"Something like that," he mutters.
There's something so intimate about holding his feet whilst we talk. The easy way they fit in the nook of my lap like we're an old married couple watching TV.
It's as if they belong there.
I barely notice that I've started to rub them, pushing the pads of my thumbs into his unnervingly soft skin and unknotting some of the built-up tension of the last few days.
I used to do this for my mom when she'd spent all day at the convenience store on her feet.
After a long shift she'd come to me with her hand pushed into the small of her back and groan until I promised to rub them.
Eventually I got smart enough to charge for my services. She never complained. I think she secretly admired the moxie and always handed over two hard-earned dollar bills when I was done.
"What was it like growing up so rich?" I ask.
Angel doesn't meet my eyes, like he's weighing his words before replying. "It was...difficult." I open my mouth to speak, but he hastily adds, "I know how that sounds, but it's the truth."
"How so?" I ask, flexing his toes back gently.
"I used to get driven to school in a bulletproof car by two armed men who watched me from behind tinted glass at recess.
Not exactly an invitation for friendship.
" He pauses, watching my hands work. "Every now and then a new kid would show interest. I'd think maybe this time it was real, so I'd invite him over to play.
Then he'd show up and just want to mess with my stuff.
Or want the rich kid at his birthday party with expensive gifts.
I'd go full of hope, and they'd dump me right after they got what they wanted. "
"I'll be honest, that doesn't sound like much compared to growing up in poverty," I say.
I lean back against the thick, grey couch cushions.
"I once knew a kid who would come to school without lunch in dirty clothes.
The teachers even had to feed him one time because his meth-head mom had gone on a three-day bender and forgotten about him. "
His voice rises an octave. "Okay, well how about this?
I grew up never seeing my parents except for when my father summoned me to give me a life lesson or tell me what a disappointment I was.
I was raised by nannies and teachers and strangers.
My mother was emotionally distant and used credit cards and cocaine to numb the pain of her own miserable existence.
My father used cruelty and extravagance as currency, and believe me, he was a big spender. "
Fine. He's got me there.
"What kind of cruelty?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "You don't want to know."
"I do."
He hesitates, but I press a spot under his third toe, and his whole body relaxes.
"There was plenty. Always these so-called lessons to teach me how to be a man.
He never did this kind of stuff to my sisters, only me.
When I was nine, he invited me into his office and made me smoke a cigar and drink tequila until I threw up.
Another time he hauled me out of bed at three a.m. and forced me to count stacks of money in front of him so I could understand 'where my privilege came from.
' I was so tired I kept messing up, and every time I lost count, he'd slap me across the face and make me start over. "
He pauses, swallows hard. "One time he even—"
He stops himself, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Go on," I murmur. "It's okay."
He takes a deep breath, wincing at the memory.
"Right after my thirteenth birthday, he decided to bring me to 'work.
' My mom tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen.
Told her to stay out of it. Said it was time I learned the business.
" His jaw tightens. "I was scared—I knew enough about what he did to be afraid—but I was also excited to spend time with him.
I thought that maybe if I could just do what I was told, prove myself somehow, maybe I could make him proud.
Maybe he'd finally..." He trails off and shakes his head. "Anyway, it doesn't matter."
"What happened?" I ask, but I'm already scared of the answer.
But he's already pulling back. His jaw sets. He shifts awkwardly on the couch, like he’s trying to put distance between us.
"That's enough," he says, avoiding my eyes. He straightens up and gestures vaguely at his feet. "You done?"
"No." I don't release his foot. I keep my hand wrapped around his ankle, like I’m afraid he’ll drift away if I let go. "We're not done."
"I think we are." His voice is flat. The shutters have come down. The softness behind his eyes is gone.
"Angel—"
"There are parts of me, Sophia, that no one will ever know." He's looking past me now, into the distance. "Parts that are too shameful. Too dark. I wouldn't want anyone to see me like that." His eyes flicker to mine for just a second. "Especially you."
I smile. "You think a little shame is going to scare me off?"
"I think some things are better left buried."
"Is that what your father taught you?"
His jaw tightens. "Don't."
I shake my head. "Angel, I'm a sixty-five-year-old vampire who's seen some shit. You really think you're going to tell me something that'll make me think less of you?"
"You don't know what I—" He stops, swallows. "What happened. What I did."
"Then tell me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because!" His voice cracks. "Because if I say it out loud, if I let you see it, then it becomes real. And I can't—" He presses his palms against his eyes. "I can't let you look at me the way everyone else does. Like I'm broken. Like I'm exactly what he made me."
Oh.
Oh, Angel.
I'm quiet for a moment, just holding his legs on mine. Feeling his pulse under my fingers—still slow and irregular.
"You want to know something?" I say finally. "We all have things we're too ashamed to say out loud. Things we think make us monstrous. But shame is a poison. It sits inside us and corrodes us like battery acid. It convinces us that we're unlovable."
He's listening now, even if he won't look at me.
"But here's the thing about shame," I continue, softer now. "The only cure for that kind of darkness is sunlight. You have to pull out the darkest part of the root and hit it with exposure. Let it breathe. Let someone else see it and tell you that you're still human anyway."
His laugh is bitter. "I'm not human anymore."
"You know what I mean." I squeeze his ankle gently. "And hey, that's the only kind of sunlight a vampire should be messing with anyway. The metaphorical kind."
That gets a small, broken sound that might be a laugh.
I wait.
Then I say the most important part: "You don't have to impress me, Angel.
I'm not keeping score. I'm not judging. And I'll never tell another soul about what happens in this room.
" I meet his eyes when he finally looks at me.
"Why don't you use this once in a lifetime opportunity—here in this luxury jail—to release yourself from it? Just this once."
He stares at me for a long moment. His throat works. His hands are shaking slightly.
"I was thirteen," he says finally, and his voice is barely above a whisper.
I don't move. Don't speak. Just stroke his calf and listen.
Angel's laugh is hollow. "He brought me to a warehouse outside Monterrey.
Told me to wait in the car with one of his men while he went inside.
I could hear shouting, screaming. Then this popping sound.
" He opens his eyes but doesn't look at me.
"After maybe twenty minutes, he came back out and told me to come inside.
Said it was time I learned what happens to people who betray our family. "
My hands still on his feet, but I've stopped rubbing them. I hold them steady with a simple grounding touch. Just enough to keep him here whilst his mind wanders to darker places.
"There were three bodies on the floor. Two men and a woman.
They'd been shot in the head, execution-style.
Blood everywhere—on the walls, pooling on the concrete.
The metallic smell..." He swallows hard.
"I threw up right there. Couldn't help it.
And my father—he just stood there watching me.
He waited until I was done, then made me look at each body. Made me memorize their faces."
"Fuck. I'm so—"
"He said, 'This is what happens to traitors.
This is what happens to people who think they can steal from us, lie to us, betray us.
You need to understand this, mijo. This is our world.
This is who we are.'" His voice cracks. "I was thirteen years old, Sophia.
Thirteen. And he made me stand there in that room with those bodies for an hour.
Said I needed to get used to it. That this was my future and I'd better have the stomach for it. "
I shake my head, my throat tightening as I shift closer to him on the couch.
"I cried all the way home, but he told me to stop being a little bitch.
Said men don't cry over necessary work. That if I couldn't handle it, I wasn't his son.
" He finally looks at me, and his eyes are brimming with tears.
"So when this happened, when I was kidnapped and drugged or turned into whatever I'm turning into, my first thought was him.
I thought maybe he'd done it to teach me another lesson. To punish me again somehow."
The silence hangs between us for a long while. I don't know what to say. What comfort can I offer for pain like that? What words would be sufficient?
I reach for his hand, and even though it feels massive in comparison, I hold it in mine and stroke his knuckles with my thumb. He doesn't flinch, just lets me.
"For what it's worth," I say finally, "you didn't deserve that. None of it. You were just a child."
He avoids my eyes, and his voice becomes small, Almost childlike. “But maybe I deserve what's happening to me right now."
I lean forward, take his face in my hands, and using the tip of my finger, collect a single hot tear inching its way down his cheek.
Then I kiss him.