He chuckled, the sound husky and rumbly as he grazed her sensitive earlobe with his teeth.
A heavy knock sounded on the suite’s door. She froze and the air backed up in her lungs.
Patricio cupped her shoulders, gave them a tight squeeze. “¿Estás lista?”
Was she ready?
There was no choice. She had to be.
Like Cat had done all those years ago when the abuela who lived next door and watched her and Blanca when their mom worked late at the dry cleaner’s had gotten word that several employees had been picked up by ICE, Cat vowed to do whatever was needed to protect her younger sister. If Pedro Santos was a scammer, looking to capitalize on the sisters’ recent success, he could take his battered guitar and get the hell out. He was good at leaving anyway.
Sliding off the high seat, she adjusted the wrap dress’s bow at her left hip, then nodded. “I’m ready.”
They wound up seated on the sectional sofa after all. Patricio had ushered Blanca, Pedro, and surprisingly, Luciano into the suite, and Cat had motioned at the cold, granite-topped table with seating for six.
Blanca’s smile faltered, her crestfallen expression pleading for compassion, and Cat had caved.
Pedro had tentatively extended his hand to shake. Cat gave him a brisk nod but kept her arms crossed, unwilling to breach the physical distance when emotionally there were miles separating them.
Patricio had eased the awkwardness, stepping in to shake Pedro’s hand, then leading the tense group to the living room area.
Now Pedro, Luciano, and Blanca sat on one side of the sectional, Cat and Patricio on the other. Outside, the late-afternoon sun peeked around the buildings of the Vegas skyline, giving the clouds and sky a muted purply-pink glow. Its intense beams streamed through the expansive glass windows overlooking the suite’s terrace and the Strip beyond. Cat squinted at the brightness, stoically refusing to be the first to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Gracias por la invitación.” Pedro dipped his graying head politely, first at Patricio, then at her.
“Privacy, for Cat and Blanca, is important. There’s no reason for the press or fans to get wind of whatever happens here today. ¿De acuerdo?” Patricio’s tone sharpened at his question, making it clear that he expected Pedro to agree.
“Sí, of course. I am only here because . . . bueno, porque . . .”
“Why are you here?” Cat demanded. “Why now? And not, say, twenty years ago, when our birth mom died? Or before that, when you promised to marry her but never actually stuck around. Always off to the next pit stop along the way to nowhere. Who knows, maybe Blanca and I have other siblings out there. Left behind just like us.”
“Catalina!” Blanca’s scandalized whisper cut off her tirade.
“What?” Cat scoffed, chin jutted at a haughty angle. She was a pro at pretending all was fine when inside she was a jumbled mess of fucked-up emotions. “It’s the truth.”
“No, mija,” Pedro said. “There was—”
“I am not your daughter,” Cat said, biting out the words of denial. “I have a father, and his name is Arturo Capuleta. He raised me and Blanca. And all our sisters. He’s the one who stayed home with me when I got the flu and missed the fifth-grade trip to Austin. He took me for ice cream when my teeth ached after my orthodontist appointments. He was there yelling a grito when Blanca, Mariana, Violeta, Sabrina, and I first performed as Mariachi Las Nubes. He’s still here, checking in by text or a quick phone call. Because that’s what real familia does.”
She finished on a shaky breath, blinking back the tears she refused to cry. Beside her, Patricio laid a hand in the center of her back. She sent him a shaky smile, thankful for his steady presence.
Blanca sniffled, then swiped at the corner of one eye. Luciano handed her a bandanna, and she murmured a soft “gracias.”
Pedro hung his head. “Perdón. I mean no disrespect to Arturo y Berta Capuleta. They have my undying thanks for the life they have given you. Both of you. A life I could not have.”
The truth of his words couldn’t be denied by any of them. A single man who didn’t know how to parent and craved life on the road was no match for two devoted parents who provided a secure, loving home.
“There was never another woman,” Pedro told them, shifting his contrite gaze from Blanca to Cat. “Not one of flesh and blood. Yo era joven—too young, really—with stars in my eyes. Music became my mistress. The chase for a bigger stage, a bigger audience. It was there, around the next corner. In the next city. I thought I could eventually come back a success and make up for lost time. Pero one year became two, then three. Y cuando regresé . . . when I came back . . .” He ran a shaking hand through his hair, sadness and regret shadowing his dark-bronze face. “By then, your mother was gone. I asked the neighbors about you girls, put out some private feelers. When I finally found you, you had just arrived at Casa Capuleta.”
Cat closed her eyes, memories of those eighteen months after her birth mom’s deportation and death flooding her mind with a horrible slideshow she couldn’t stop. Shuffling from one foster home to another, some rougher than others. Holding Blanca when she cried in the middle of the night. Squelching her own fear over the looming threat that she and Blanca might be split up.
Until Arturo and Berta had opened their door, and Mariana had peeked out from behind them. They had all sat down to familia dinner that first night, and almost every night since. Papo had played the guitar, encouraging Cat to get hers out of the case and join him while Mamá’s fingers flew over the keyboard.
For the first time in months, Cat had smiled. A real, honest-to-Dios smile. Not a fake one trying to impress the DFAS counselor or a prospective foster parent, so they’d keep her and Blanca together.
For the first time in months, she’d felt hope.
Casa Capuleta became their home. Their sanctuary. How different would their lives have been if Pedro had swooped in to take them on the road with him? Or worse, to leave them behind with another stranger while he chased after his muse again?
“Wait, you found us, but you just left us there? Without even trying to see Cat and me?” Blanca’s agonized voice cut into Cat’s memories and the painful, scary truth of what could have been if Pedro had done what Blanca obviously wanted him to have done—contact them. Claim them as his daughters.
Pedro shifted to face Blanca on the sofa. “You barely knew me. But I knew me well enough to understand that I could not give you the life you deserved.” He reached for Blanca’s hand, and Cat’s heart squeezed with anguish when her gentle, softhearted sister took his. “The life I saw you living with Arturo and Berta—that’s what you deserved, mija. Did it hurt me to walk away? Sí, more than you can know. But if I have done anything good as a parent who did not have the right to be one, it was letting you go to have a better future.”
“Then why seek us out now?” Cat eyed him warily, searching for even the smallest tell that might give him away. His tale of woe and self-sacrifice when it came to her and Blanca might sound believable to some, but she wasn’t ready to trust him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“Sí, I get it.” He motioned around the lavish suite, with its granite countertops and table, multiple flat-screen TVs and priceless artwork, well-stocked wet bar, and marble steps leading to the roomy main bedroom. “You probably think I’m here for a handout.”