Page 29 of Eat, Slay, Love

“Have you ever heard of Belvedere?” I decide to end with.

The room freezes, a collective stilling of motion and breath.

“Why?”

I look around at the faces of each one of my family members, attempting to gauge what’s happening. “Who’s Belvedere?” I ask.

Everyone looks toward my mother, who clears her throat. “He’s… one of the oldest demons known to New York City.”

“Oh,” Andres says lightly, fighting a grin. “You mean the one Ma’s tried to kill approximately a hundred times?”

“Belvedere’s really strong,” Gabriel adds diplomatically.

“If not the strongest,” says Rafael, with a smile that says he’s enjoying this.

I clap my hands in delight. I love this game. It is deeply pathetic that the rare moments of Magdangal unity occur when we collectively roast our mother, but the validation is intoxicating. “Let me guess,” I continue, barely containing myself. “He’s almost killed you.”

My mother does not answer.

“Oh, once Ma lost an entire arm,” Leo supplies gleefully. “Clean off. Took her weeks to regenerate.”

“It was not weeks,” my mother says tightly.

“It was absolutely weeks,” Andres insists. “Papa had to help her button her shirt.”

My father does not deny this.

I press both hands over my heart. “You lost an arm?”

“It grew back,” my mother says.

“That’s not the point,” I tell her.

“He shattered three of Ma’s ribs that same night,” Gabriel adds helpfully. “And cracked her sternum.”

“Ma coughed blood on the Persian rug,” Raf chimes in. “Papa was furious.”

My father gives him a look.

“It was a Filipino rug,” Raf concedes.

I look back at my mother, who is standing there in dignified silence while her children dismantle her legend.

“And you never killed him?” I ask sweetly.

Her jaw tightens. “He is strategic.”

“Translation,” Leo clarifies, “he’s strong, and he runs.”

“And you’re telling me,” I say slowly, glee building in my chest, “that this ancient, undefeated, arm-severing demon…”

“—who is a scourge on this city, responsible for hundreds of deaths a year—” my mother cuts in sharply.

The glee evaporates.

“—who is responsible for hundreds of…” I echo, and then finally my brain catches up with my mouth.

The kitchen tilts.