“Ha!” Cat threw back her head with a harsh laugh. “Don’t get any ideas—this is Patricio’s, not mine. I couldn’t afford half a night’s stay here.”
“If I may,” Luciano cut in, gesturing politely with his Stetson at Cat and Patricio. He reached his other arm behind Blanca to clasp Pedro’s shoulder. “I’ve known this viejo for practically my whole life. I’m not condoning what happened when you were kids. But he’s not looking to scam you. He’s not like that, te lo juro.”
Cat wasn’t sure about accepting Luciano’s “I swear” point-blank. Blanca, on the other hand, sent the young mariachi a besotted smile.
Pedro nodded solemnly. Eyes similar to Cat’s in color and shape gazed back at her, sincerity and sorrow clouding their hazel irises. “I’m not here for money or . . . or anything like that. I read about you joining the tour and took it as a sign. That maybe this viejo could meet his daughters on their terms. As adults with a shared love of our música. And maybe, if possible, in time, you might find a way to forgive me.”
Once again, a confusing mix of emotions welled inside Cat, pressing against the walls of her chest. Long-held pain and anger for the abandoned child left feeling unworthy of her father’s love. Disillusion at facing Pedro, living proof of the harsh reality of the personal sacrifices many paid while chasing a dream few realized. And now, a new one: a dawning, uncomfortable sense of understanding that perhaps the monster in her memory had actually played an instrumental role in one of the biggest blessings of her life, becoming a Capuleta.
Closing her eyes, Cat allowed herself to feel all of it. No tamping down to get through or ignoring with a joke. The pain, the anger, the disillusion, the understanding . . . they were all a part of her, and she had to accept them, deal with them. Find a way to move forward.
“¿Estás bien?” Patricio murmured, smoothing a hand over her head.
She leaned into him, reassured by his presence and the knowledge that, because of the confidences they had shared, he empathized with how difficult this situation was for her.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” she answered softly.
Maybe she wasn’t ready to invite Pedro to a Capuleta familia dinner. And how—or even if—he fit into her personal life remained to be seen. But, like it or not, she had to accept that Blanca may want him in hers. Cat had no right to make her sister choose sides or hold Blanca’s desire to connect with an important part of her past against her.
On some level, hearing the man’s version of their history did bring a measure of closure. Pedro Santos had done his girls a favor by staying away. And with this knowledge, Catalina realized he was no longer an evil specter haunting her.
Like Patricio had claimed, she was a rising star of her own making. Her history might be troubled, with issues still needing to be worked through, but her future, which hopefully included the incredible man beside her, looked pretty freaking amazing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“¡Otra! ¡Otra!”
Patricio stood under the bright spotlights, grinning out at the crowd standing on their feet, their chants for one more song filling the MGM Grand Garden Arena.
The last concert on the tour never failed to be his best. Oh, he gave a great show for every performance. Pero había algo . . . sí, there was something about the last one. The crowd’s energy always seemed more intense, a palpable force shimmering throughout the arena. Knowing he wouldn’t be in front of a crowd for a while heightened his awareness of every minute onstage. It revved him up even higher, which also meant working a little harder to hold back.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, he’d taken a page out of Cat’s instruction manual and given his all. Adding runs and stretching his vocals—letting instinct guide him. It felt so damn good, and hearing his fans’ show of appreciation filled him with pride.
Like always, Cat had charmed and dazzled during their set. Now she waited in the wings for tonight’s special encore with the show’s secret guest. Patricio’s compromise with Padua.
Striding to the front of the stage, he stopped in a wide-legged stance, a foot shy of the edge. One fist planted on his hips, he jutted his chin at the precise angle that would have him eyeing the fans in the front rows under his lashes, reenacting the cover pose that had sold millions of copies of his second album, spawning T-shirts and posters and more creative fan paraphernalia. As expected, the arena erupted with screams and gritos and high-pitched whistles. Somewhere in the front few rows, a woman yelled, “Marry me, Patricio!”
He blew the woman a kiss, then motioned for the cries to quiet as he raised the microphone to his lips. Lowering his voice to a deeper, sexier octave, he asked, “I’m not ready to go home, are you?” The audience went wild. “How would you feel if I invited a secret guest for a special end-of-tour encore. ¿Les gustaría?”
The fans showed just how much they would like it, responding with more earsplitting cries of “¡Sí!”
“Por favor, welcome mi papá, El Rey, Vicente Galán!”
Camera lights flickered throughout the arena as Vicente strode out onto the raised platform at center stage. He stopped at the top of the stairs, lifting his arms wide, his lips split in a huge grin as he lapped up the adulation. Dressed in his trademark black-and-silver charro, Vicente cut a commanding figure. With age had come a slight widening of his jowls and a thickening of his waistline, but he maintained himself well, and his admirers were vociferous with their approval.
Patricio played up the crowd, jerking his head and thumb at his viejo, waggling his brows suggestively, encouraging catcalls and whistles of appreciation.
As rehearsed, before Vicente started down the steps, the band struck the opening notes of the first of two songs Patricio had agreed to sing. Cheers erupted as the audience recognized “Perdón,” a classic ballad beloved by fans and a favorite of his father’s. The irony of El Rey begging for forgiveness for past transgressions through the lyrics he sang was never lost on Patricio. Still, he played his part, harmonizing with his father, only this time, with this performance, he didn’t hold back.
To his father’s credit, the only evidence of Vicente’s surprise at the few runs Patricio added was a raised brow or questioning tilt of his head. A lover of the spotlight, Vicente encouraged the crowd’s cheers, calling out an “Este es mi hijo” and patting Patricio heartily on the back as he held a long note.
The song drew to a close and Vicente gestured toward him. “Mi hijo, singing better than ever, much like his viejo!” His father pounded his chest with pride, then he made a grabbing motion at his chest before pretending to toss something at the crowd, as if he were gifting them his heart. The fans ate it up. Once again, gritos and whistles and cries of joy bounced off the arena rafters.
Patricio nodded at the leader of his mariachi band, indicating he was ready for them to start the second song. One more, and then Cat would join them for the finale. Their last song of the tour. But, if everything went as planned, certainly not his and Cat’s last time singing together.
Luciano and the rest of the trumpet section kicked off the second number, their notes sharp and crisp. Vicente angled toward Patricio. Rapturous joy and . . . and, unexpectantly, love . . . shimmered in the viejo’s dark eyes as he sang the opening lyrics.