“Alexa, call Malcolm!” I yell out, grabbing items in a rush before stuffing them in my bag. I’m not even sure what’s making the cut, but my goal isn’t organization here; it’s speed.
The first ring barely finishes when an audible click follows. “What time is your flight?” he says in greeting, not sounding surprised in the least. Not upset either.
“Haven’t booked it yet.” I grab my passport from a small safe I keep in my closet along with two guns and other important papers. “I’m packing now and just heading—”
“The jet will be ready when you are. Do you need a ride?”
My eyes narrow at the speaker. “Why are you being so easy about this?”
“Because he needs you more than I do at the moment, little cousin.” My eyes tear up, but I blink back those tears. Very few people ever see the softer side to this man, but those closest to him have the privilege. Malcolm shows he cares with actions, and this right here is his way of accepting Javier as family.
Not just as an employee. Not just as someone I’m casually dating.
Are we dating? Is he my boyfriend? The title doesn’t sit right with me. Doesn’t describe his place in my life adequately.
“I’ll still be available for scheduling and meetings through Skype. Refreshments can be catered and—”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?” I pause mid-zip of the carryon luggage, my eyebrows scrunching up in confusion. “You know we can’t have a temp in there. People are nosy, and I’d hate to go to jail this close to my birthday for killing a snitch.”
“Mom’s covering.” Thank you, Jesus! She held the position before me, helping her husband run Asher Holdings until the day he stepped down. “We’ve already discussed the upcoming week and moved a few things around.” The sound of papers being shuffled comes through the line, followed by the creak of a chair. “So don’t worry about anything.”
“But when—”
“Not another word about work.”
“Thank you,” I breathe out, letting the worry about work melt away. If anyone can run that office better than me, it’s his mother.
“Just make sure he’s okay and knows we’re here if needed.” With that, he hangs up and I smile. His acceptance of Javier makes me feel at ease—comforted by the knowledge that someone I admire finds him worthy.
“Welcome to Colombia,” a man greets me with an outstretched hand the second I exit the airport. He’s smiling, dressed all in black while a younger, female version of him stands against a black F350, studying me closely. No smile. No frown. “How was the flight?”
“Emiliano or Alejandro?” I ask, remembering a photo Javier showed me of his cousins one day while scrolling through his phone. They’d sent it to him and after I accused him of being stuck-up, I was shut down with the snapshot in question. All three were standing side by side with goofy drunk grins, but I was too busy staring at Javi to understand who was whom. He’d been younger in the photograph, but still just as handsome while wearing that grin I hate to love.
“Emiliano, Miss—”
“Mariah. Just Mariah.” His grip is firm before dropping my hand and grabbing my bag, motioning with his free hand to get inside. “You want the front or back?” I ask the girl, but she doesn’t answer, choosing instead to climb into the second row and buckling up.
I know who she is and why she’s upset.
It’s hard to lose someone you love—watch them take their final breath—while another close relative moves away without plans for a return. So many changes for a girl still in her teens surrounded by blood and carnage—her life path paved by the choices of others.
She’s a victim in this. A survivor of a night that killed one and left the young woman with a scar she’ll forever carry.
I see so much of myself in her.
And while my father didn’t directly pull triggers or slice throats, he did lead many toward their demise.
Our last name is a blessing and a curse. A weight we carry and a stigma we can never escape.
“The drive is about two hours.” Emiliano slips into the driver’s seat and presses the keyless start beside the steering wheel. He’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s frowning at Lourdes through the rearview mirror. “Do you need to stop for anything?”
“No.” At my curt response, he looks over with a questioning look, but I shake my head at him. “Does he know I’m here?”
“Are you okay?” Christ, men can be dense at times. It’s obvious his sister is uncomfortable and doesn’t trust me—she doesn’t know me—and shouldn’t be expected to open her arms easily. Not in our world. “You seem upset, Mariah.”
“Please answer the question, Emiliano.”
“Can you answer mine?” His expression is one of a lost puppy, but before I can respond, Lourdes takes her seatbelt off and leans forward.
“Oh, dear God!” she grits out, her head is closer to mine than his, and I see the moment her glare turns to tears. “She’s just saying lay off with the reprimanding looks my way. I’m not talking because I dislike her, but because I don’t have the energy. It’s all too much...” Her hiccupping pause is filled with pain and before the first tear falls, I’m jumping from the front to the back and hugging her tight. Thank God I’m small and flexible. A shuddering breath escapes her, and the small hands clenched at my sides open and grip; she’s holding on to me while letting go of what’s eating her inside.
“Lourdes, please. Not now, sis.” Emiliano pulls out from the curb, his voice tense as are his shoulders. “Just keep it together until—”
“Just drive. I’ll handle her.” If he’s inclined to argue, I don’t know. He simply zips his lips and nods. However, a few minutes later I catch the thankful expression at a red light when he turns to look at us.
His eyes soften when he sees his little sister’s tears and the way my arms embrace her. Thank you, he mouths, and I know at that moment I’ve made a friend in him.
After a while, when the sobs turn into sniffles, Lourdes tries to move back. Her face is blotchy, expression embarrassed. “My apologies. I don’t know what—”
“Stop.” Gently, I wipe my fingers under her eyes. “You have every right to be upset. Javi told me what happened, and I’m so sorry for what you’ve gone through.” At the mention of his name, another round of tears fall. Her chest heaves and her tiny frame trembles, and it breaks my heart. “Breathe, Lourdes. No one is upset with you.”
“I should’ve done more to save Mama Ida.” It’s low, a whisper full of recrimination and pain that leaves her exposed. Lourdes blames herself because she’s here and my Javi’s mother isn’t.
“How?” Tipping her face up to meet my eyes, I raise a brow. “Sweetie, they sent men there with high-round capacity weapons and one goal. There was nothing you could’ve done, and it’s a blessing you weren’t harmed.”
“But Javi won’t even look at me!”
“Because he feels guilty for not being here.” That makes her pause. Her watery eyes are stunned and mouth open, as if to speak. She doesn’t, though. For the next few minutes, nothing comes out except the occasional sniffle and I leave her alone to dissect my words.