Puzzlement angled his father’s bushy brows together. It was comical—almost—how unfazed the old man was by the damage an ego like his could do to another.
“I will be in Las Vegas at the same times as your Friday and Saturday concerts. My management team is meeting with Park MGM representatives to finalize discussions about my short-term fall residency at Dolby Live, where you happen to be performing.”
This was a new development. Vicente had never been interested in staying in one place. He preferred being on the move. Going from city to city with new women to woo along the way. But life on the road took a toll. It drained a body, especially an aging one. And for some, it drained the soul.
When Patricio didn’t respond with his congratulations or a suitable amount of praise for this new development, Vicente frowned but continued. “Padua, MGM, and I think it would be good to have a dual concert on Saturday. Vicente y Patricio.”
“No.”
“The fans will love it. Ticket sales will increase—”
“My concert is already sold out. Fans are expecting the show I’m doing now.”
“So, we give them more. Make the show better.”
“It’s already better. The set with Catalina has been the perfect addition. There’s no need to change anything else.”
“¡Ay, qué terco eres!” his father bellowed.
Better hardheaded than hard-hearted.
No, that wasn’t exactly fair. Frustrated, Patricio scrubbed a hand over his eyes and forehead, as if doing so would scrub away spiteful thoughts like that one. His father loved him. Just . . . in his own unhealthy way.
“You don’t see the benefit now, pero más tarde . . . sí, later, you will,” his father bulldozed on. “Padua can handle all the logistics, and we’ll see—”
“No!” Patricio slammed the side of his fist on the granite counter. Pain shot up his arm. He ignored it. Just like his father ignored his wishes. “We will see nothing. I have a show. You have meetings. That’s what will take place in Vegas. I’ve already agreed to sing a duet with you at the Latin Grammys later this year. That’s enough, viejo.”
“Mira, cabrón, this is a smart move.”
“For you. Not for me. I won’t—”
“Ay, what a wonderful surprise!”
At Catalina’s delighted cry, Vicente and Patricio swiveled toward the spiral staircase. She stood at the top in a flowy, pale-pink dress with short, capped sleeves. The dress’s design cut a straight line across her chest, giving a delicious peek of her cleavage. The pink material hugged her torso before falling to skim her apple red–painted toes. Her long locks had been loosened from their earlier ponytail and left to tumble with abandon. But her smile . . .
Damn, how that sassy smirk of hers sucker punched him every time. That mischievous sparkle in her hazel eyes never failed to tease a smile from him. And the jut of her chin that said she was ready to take on her next challenge made him swell with pride in her.
Only, Patricio didn’t want that next challenge to be his father.
“Gracias for coming all this way to meet me, Vicente. Es un placer.” She floated down the stairs like an avenging angel.
His father rushed forward to meet her at the bottom, his trademark charm dripping from his greeting. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Catalina rounded the spiral steps, her gaze locked on Patricio’s. Determination glinted at him, and she dipped her chin. An infinitesimal movement. Still, its meaning pierced his chest—I got this. I got you.
Alberto had often come to Patricio’s rescue in the past, especially when he was a teen. George did his best to pull his weight and influence at Padua to help Patricio maintain his distance. A few tutors and nannies over the years had bravely tried to speak up for him. Tried, failed, and been fired.
Sure, he might have misread Catalina’s unspoken message. She could simply be taking advantage of an opportunity to meet El Rey, a man whose influence could aid her career. Maybe she wasn’t purposefully interrupting the father-son disagreement to protect Patricio before it blew up. But something told him her intent was the latter.
Vicente reached out to help her—unnecessarily—down the final step. He bent to kiss the back of her hand, and Catalina threw Patricio a wink.
A chuckle rumbled in his chest. He coughed to cover it, surprised by his levity. It wasn’t an emotion he often felt around his father.
“I was going to suggest we head outside to the patio, but it looks like the day has suddenly turned dreary,” Catalina said, and damn if her overly sulky tone didn’t have Patricio’s lips twitching with a grin.
Holding on to her hand, Vicente led her to the three-seater sofa. Handcrafted in Italy, the wooden-framed sofa, with its channeled seat and backrests in nubuck leather, was one of Patricio’s favorite finds during his search for unique pieces for his oasis. Now, he would forever picture Catalina leaning against the bubble cushions, her dark hair draping like silk over the pale leather. Her sun-kissed skin a golden tan glowing against the soft pink of her dress. Her magnetism dazzling the slickest ladies’ man Patricio knew.
In no time, Vicente was singing his own praises, regaling his new audience with stories from his past. Offering sage advice to a “beautiful, talented artist” and warning her to “be wary of falling for the appeal of commercial pop music.”
It wasn’t easy, but seated on the ottoman angled beside the sofa, Patricio bit his tongue. No use refuting his father’s unsolicited guidance. The pop-versus-mariachi argument with his viejo would, at best, end in a stalemate. At worst, another father-son shouting match Catalina didn’t need to experience.
“Actually, Patricio’s pop album is one of my favorites,” she admitted, surprising Patricio. This was welcome news to him.
Vicente patted her hand where it rested on a bubble cushion between them and treated her to a patronizing smile that Patricio knew would be like nails on a chalkboard to her.
“Listen to the voice of experience, mija,” his father chided. “Like I keep telling mijo, El Rey knows best. Trust me.”
“Bueno, mi mamá always told me that trust must be earned. I will, however, take your words under advisement. In good time.”
“She is cheeky, this one, no?” Vicente directed his words at Patricio but tilted his graying head at Catalina. “But she will come to see that I am always right. Like you have, mijo.”
Patricio’s ire simmered hotter. The amount of time he could spend in his father’s lofty company before he exploded with outrage was quickly dwindling like a fiery wick on a stick of dynamite.
Catalina’s pursed lips were the first sign of her annoyance at Vicente’s heavy-handed counsel, which leaned more toward must-follow directives. “She is right here. And I prefer following my creativity’s lead, writing music that moves me and my fans. I will not be pigeonholed or ‘set in my place’ by anyone. Especially not by the patriarchy. Or outdated principles.”
“Cuidado, mija,” Vicente warned. Based on the way his father’s right eye twitched, she had hit a nerve. “You are new, inexperienced, pero this business takes hard work, and you will soon learn your place.”
“Enough!” Patricio shoved off the ottoman to grab his father’s arm, dragging the old man from the sofa and to the foyer.