A bitch I’d murder a motherfucker over, but still a bitch, nonetheless. One who looked more like our mother every day. Besides identical features, they shared the same pale blue eyes, a rare sight in Mexico. A trophy. One that a handful of assholes coveted, thinking a smile and a fast car would win them an all-access pass into her pants.
What it got them were broken noses, broken legs, and a warning shot to the foot.
Mamá tossed her head back and laughed, the cake wobbling in her hands. “She’s right, mijo. Blow out the candles and make a wish.”
I groaned. “Mamá, please don’t call me that. I’m eighteen, not eight.”
She smiled, and a pang of guilt hit me. I knew what she was doing, and as a kid, it meant a lot. But I was a man now. Calling me cute names wasn’t necessary anymore. I understood what she went through. She didn’t have to try so hard to make up for the years she didn’t know me.
“I know, but you’re my son, Santi. It doesn’t matter how old you are. You’ll always be my little mijo.”
Fuck, I wish I hated that more than I did. But I didn’t. Truthfully, I loved it. Not that I’d ever admit it.
Having my mother back was a gift I’d never take for granted. It didn’t happen overnight. It would’ve been so much easier if it had. But like Tía Adriana always said, “Anything worth having is worth waiting for.”
Five years.
It took five years for her full memory to return. Little by little. Piece by piece it came back. Every day more and more. Watching papá live through it was something I’d never wish on my worst enemy.
Actually, that wasn’t true. I’d wish it on one.
“Goddamn it, Santi, you’re letting wax drip all over the icing!”
“Cuida tu boca, Lola.” A stern voice said behind Mamá. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to send my sister’s ass back into her chair and clamp her mouth shut. “Watch your mouth,” he repeated, this time in English. “You’re sixteen years old. Have some respect.”
Valentin Carrera. My father and the man Mexico—hell, most of the world—bowed down to. He hid more of himself from Lola than from me. Papá’s little girl hadn’t watched from the shadows as blood stained the sink where he washed his hands. She hadn’t snuck across the estate and hid outside Senado, listening as her father and Tío Mateo and Tío Brody planned men’s murders.
She turned a blind eye. But me? I sought it out.
Lola stomped her foot like a toddler. “But Santi cursed!”
Papá raised an eyebrow as he wrapped his arms around mamá from behind. “Santi is a man.”
“That’s sexist! Mamá, do something!”
Mamá didn’t miss a beat. “I am. I’m waiting for your brother to blow out his fucking candles.”
Lola flopped back in her chair like she was in a damn telenovela. “Ay, Dios mío…”
A rare smile floated across my father’s face. He reserved them for my mother. I was okay with that. They’d earned the right. They went through hell to be where they were, and today, as a man leaving the home I grew up in, I could appreciate that for what it was.
Undiluted fortitude.
They never gave up. Every year they got stronger and stronger. Even through a child’s eye, I saw it. The hugs got more frequent, and the kisses got longer. The stolen glances held something, at the time, I didn’t understand. Going through what they did wasn’t a good thing. Fuck that. But they were okay. No, they were better than okay. They were fucking unstoppable.
One day, I’d have a love like that.
Maybe.
Eh, probably not.
“This party sucks balls,” Lola grumbled.
Despite my disdain for everything that was happening, I couldn’t help but smile. My family was so fucked up, we’d make Shakespeare's most tragic characters go, “Yeah, maybe we don’t have it so bad.” But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I liked who we were.
I loved the power the Carrera name held. I loved the fear and respect in my classmates’ eyes. My name shook the foundation of every step I took, and now that I was eighteen, that power would take on a new meaning. A prophecy. A destiny promised to me before I knew the meaning of the word.
Make a wish?
No problem.
Drawing my lungs full of air, I blew it out with the force of what this day meant, and every flame extinguished on my command.
See? Respect.
Everyone clapped, and words finally stopped coming out of my sister’s mouth long enough for her to shove cake in it. On edge, I turned to leave when a plate was shoved in my face.
“Eat,” mamá ordered, refusing to move until I relented and took the damn plate. I loved her, but she could be as ruthless as papá when she wanted something. Begrudgingly, I took a bite and stifled a moan. Fucking hell, the woman could bake a cake.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, crumbs flying out of my mouth.
“I know what you wished for.”
“That’s kind of gross, mamá.”
A knowing smirk pasted across her lips. “Oh, trust me, mijo, I know it wasn’t that. You are your father’s son.” I let out an audible sigh as she ruffled her fingers through my slicked-back dark hair, dislodging it into a chaotic mess. “With those devil gold eyes, I’m sure you wouldn’t have to waste a wish on getting that.”
And there went my appetite.
Groaning, I tossed the rest of my cake onto a side table. “Ah, fuck, mamá. Can we please not—?”
“You want in.”
I stilled. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say. She was right. Full entrance into the family and a seat at Senado was my birthright. It was what I’d been waiting for. I felt the stirring in my bones. The itching for blood on my hands. The torch was passing, and the flame still burned as hot today as it did sixteen years ago.
But I said none of that. Besides, knowing my mother as well as I did, she’d tell me anyway.
“Santi, I’ve lived with your father long enough to know this day was coming.” She pinned me with those icy blue eyes. “You’re a man. You’ve grown up amongst men who live this life. It was inevitable.”
Well, damn. I didn’t expect this.
“Just promise me you’ll be smart. Promise me you’ll always think before you act. Consider the consequences. Carreras are made of strong stuff, but sooner or later, life throws us all off the dock and we either sink or swim.” Her eyes glistened, and a sad smile painted her face as she squeezed my hand. “No matter what, you always swim, Santi. You always fucking swim.”
Six Months Later
“We’ve arrived at Teterboro, Señor Carrera.”
Nodding to the pilot, I slipped on my sunglasses and stepped off my father’s private jet, inhaling the familiar stench of burning rubber and rotten eggs. “Ah, home sweet home.” Chuckling to myself, I climbed down the remaining few steps to the tarmac and made my way toward the waiting car.
I didn’t have to ask. I knew it was for me.
For six months, this had been my routine. Fly to New Jersey, land at Teterboro Private Airport, and take a car over to Elizabeth Marine Terminal in Newark where I verified shipments, greased a few palms and reminded dirty politicians and dock hands exactly what the Carreras were capable of if crossed.