I didn’t have time for this. We already went to El Palacio and searched for Cristiano. We threatened, I begged. No one was letting us into that club in the middle of the day. He wasn’t answering his phone, and I couldn’t waste any more time. When you had a smoking gun in your hand, you didn’t tuck it away to search for the missing bullet. You went straight to the hand that fired it.
Besides, Brody called Val before we left the club, and he had already deployed a swarm of Carrera soldiers before they ended the call.
“Would you stop with that? I’m not accusing him of anything until I have proof. You’re a damn lawyer. Aren’t people innocent until proven guilty?”
Brody squeezed the steering wheel. “If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s—”
I glared at him. “It’s not a fucking chicken. I know. I’ve heard this one already. Get new jokes.” He didn’t answer, and I didn’t elaborate. “We’re here,” I announced as a tiny house came into view.
With the papers in hand, we walked in silence along an overgrown walkway toward the front door. I knocked twice, drawing the ferocious barks of what sounded like extremely large dogs. “¿Señora Vergara, estás en tu casa?” Miss Vergara, are you home?
The dogs kept barking, but no one answered.
Brody sighed, the lines around his eyes deepening. “See? She’s not here, can we go now?” Just as he turned around, a frail voice filtered out from behind the door.
“¿Quién está ahí?” Who is there?
Grabbing his arm, I pulled him back and continued in Spanish. “Miss Vergara, my name is Adriana, and this is my friend, Brody. We have a few questions we’d like to ask you. It won’t take much of your time.”
“Go away!”
I pounded on the door again. “Miss Vergara, please. This is important. It’s about your son, Ignacio.”
There was a moment of tense silence before a makeshift curtain rustled against a window beside the door. I held my breath as a weathered face appeared. “I know no Ignacio.”
That was a lie. I saw it in her eyes when she said his name. I didn’t wish this woman harm, but I wasn’t leaving without the answers I came for.
Pulling out the birth certificate, I turned it around and slammed it against the window. “I think you do.”
She raised a shaking hand, tracing the handwritten words. “Where did you get that?”
“In a safe deposit box belonging to Esteban Muñoz. I know you know who he is, just like you knew Pablo and Carmen Muñoz. Now you can let us in, or I have no problem standing out here all day.”
The old woman’s hand dropped, her dark eyes lit with renewed fire. “I’ll call the police.”
It was the response I anticipated. “You do that,” I challenged, pulling the certificate away from the window. “I’d love to tell them how your son hunted me then chained me up like a dog. Or how he’s the one rebuilding the Muñoz Cartel.” She jumped as I slapped my palm against the glass. “How many people do you think you’ll have at your door then, Rosita?”
The curtain fell, and she disappeared. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs felt too small, and the air too thick.
Brody placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Adriana, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay! She can’t just—”
There was a soft click, and we both turned as the wrinkled face from the window appeared in the doorway. “Come, I’ll put the dogs away.”
Ten minutes later, Brody and I sat on a stained floral couch in a pathetically bare house. A few pictures hung on what was probably once vibrant orange walls, and a small square table sat tucked in the corner covered in a serape.
That was it.
A door opened near the kitchen area, and she made her way toward us, the battered cane she gripped in her gnarled hand scraping along the dusty floor. Lowering herself into a rickety chair, she settled a hesitant eye on me and waited.
However, Brody waited for no one. “Is Ignacio Vergara your son?”
I glared at him, but he kept his eyes on Rosita, who shifted her attention toward him, transitioning into broken English. “Yes. But I haven’t seen him in many years. Not since…” She looked away, a sudden cloud shadowing her face.
“Not since what?” he pushed.
“Not since…” Her frail voice trailed off, and tilting her head, she narrowed an accusing gaze at me. “How do you know Esteban?”
I froze, the words stuck in my throat. Panicking, I looked at Brody, who gave an encouraging nod. “I’m his daughter,” I said.
She studied me. “His daughter is Marisol. You said your name was Adriana.” My name barely left her mouth before recognition sparked. Her eyes widened, and both hands wrapped around her cane as she flung herself out of the chair and snatched the crucifix off the wall. Holding it close to her chest, she dropped to her knees and closed her eyes, chanting a prayer in frantic Spanish.
Ave Maria. Hail Mary.
She knew who I was.
There was a harsh edge to Brody’s face, and his eyebrows pinched together in confusion. But I knew exactly what was going on, and if I was going to get answers out of her, it had to be woman to woman.
Victim to victim.
I fell to my knees beside her and wrapped my hand over hers. Raising my voice, I overpowered her chanting with rapid fire Spanish.
“You know who I am. You know Esteban murdered my mother and stole me from her arms. Now you tell me what Pablo Muñoz’s bastard son has to do with it!”
Without warning, her incessant chanting stopped, and her eyes flicked toward mine. “Esteban wasn’t the one who killed your mother, child. It was my son.”
I released her hand, falling backward as if I’d touched fire. “What? Why?”
“Adriana, what the hell is going on?” Brody shot off the couch, but I didn’t move. I never averted my eyes as the harsh truth spilled from Rosita’s parched lips.
“It was a test,” she said, her eyes locked on mine. “To prove his loyalty. All my boy wanted was to be accepted by his brother, and Esteban used him as a pawn.” She spat the words like poison. “Pablo refused to acknowledge Ignacio, so no one knew my son existed. Esteban used our shame to his advantage. He sent Ignacio away for months to make a trade alliance with promises to make him lieutenant of the new syndicate.”
“Let me guess; Esteban lied.”
She didn’t answer, pressing her lips in a thin, tight line. “He gave him one last task to complete. ‘All or nothing,’ he said. If he succeeded, the new territory was his, but if he failed…” She trailed off, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “The task was a revenge mission in Mexico City. I told him it was too dangerous, and Esteban couldn’t be trusted, but he wouldn’t listen. He was willing to risk everything to return to what he’d built. But I was right. Alejandro Carrera demanded justice, and that lying pendejo handed Ignacio over like a sacrificial lamb.”
“Obviously, he didn’t kill him.”
“No, Ignacio overheard the conversation and ran for his life.”
“You act like he was innocent!” I yelled. “This wasn’t a cartel hit, Rosita! Your son went after women and children. He killed my mother and my aunt. Had my brother not escaped, he would’ve been slaughtered too.”