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“Good luck,” Fernanda whispers and hurries off, head bowed, smiling a bit as she passes my papa. He gives her a little nod, since he knows she loved me so much, and he won’t punish her for coming out first. Besides, his household runs thanks to that old woman and he knows that pissing her off would only be a headache.
“Daughter,” Papa says, coming toward me. There’s no happiness in his expression, not like Fernanda. He doesn’t want me home and he knows my visit must mean something awful happened. “You’re back and you’re alone. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know, Papa. I left in a hurry and didn’t call. I wanted to get here as fast as I could. I drove straight out, over six hours.”
He comes nearer, his frown deepening as he gets a good look at me. I know I’m a mess, disheveled, exhausted, malnourished. Fernanda was being kind when she said I looked well-fed. I’ve been living on rest stop fast food for the last day and I feel like a bloated mess.
“Come inside,” Papa says quietly. “Let’s talk about why you came here. I will warn you that I already called Casso and let him know you’re with me.”
My stomach sinks. “Did you speak?”
“No,” he says, head tilted. “I left a message. Strangely, his phone did not pick up.”
He leads me in through the main entrance. My footsteps echo and the familiar walls, paintings, little statues, the decorated niche with its drawings of Saint Mary and the flowers and the little burning candles with the crosses and the necklaces and the offerings, it’s all so familiar and so achingly comforting. Being back here feels good and it feels awful, because I’m here for such a bad reason, and I know that everything back in Phoenix must be falling apart. Casso called my phone a dozen times, but I never answered. What could I say? Nothing would make this okay, not after he admonished me already for following up on Manuel’s murder. This house itself is a blessing and a curse, and I don’t know if I love it or hate it. I think a little of both.
It was bad enough pressing them on Manuel’s death, but running away? I know I may never be able to come back from this.
But it’s so important that I’m willing to risk it all to find out the truth.
Papa leads me into his study. Not the living room, not the back patio where we used to sit and drink coffee in the morning, but to his private study where he does all his work. It’s like that, then. My visit is work for him, nothing more. His daughter is now a reluctant duty.
“Let me call for food and drink,” he says as he sits and hits an intercom. “Fernanda, we need refreshments, please.”
I lower myself into an uncomfortable chair across from him. I feel like a little girl getting scolded all over again. It’s been so long since I sat here facing Papa, and he looks older than I remember. More gray hairs, more lines around his eyes. But not good lines—the sort of lines that come from stress and anger and fear. I don’t know how his business has been since I left, but I thought it would prosper with the Brunos’ help. Maybe I was wrong.
Fernanda comes immediately—she must’ve already been putting together something—with coffee and fruit. Papa picks at the food and I sip the coffee, happy for the caffeine.
“Why are you here?” he asks finally, getting to the point, since why bother pretending? I’m not his responsibility anymore. He sold me to another man. No need to chat about pleasant things like how my life is going and what I do with my time. No need for kindness.
“I came to talk about Manuel.” His face falters slightly, but he gives nothing away. “I know what happened to him, Papa. I know about the meeting and the car bomb. I’m here to find out everything you know, because I feel like I’m even further from the truth than when I started.”
He stares at me hard. All pretense at gentleness is gone now. This is Papa the cartel leader, not my father, the kind man that’s always loved me in his own way. Even when he was stern and when he ripped me from my life in the States and when he forced me to stay hidden away in this house, he did most of it out of love. This man, the son of Mexican farmers, this man that pulled himself from poverty through ruthlessness, risk-taking, blood and death, this man for whom life has never been kind, this is my father. This is my lineage.
“Why did you come all this way to ask me about the past?”
“Because it isn’t the past for me. It’s all coming back to haunt me, and I think what’s happening with the Bruno family and what happened to Manuel are linked. You worked with a man named Federov, didn’t you?”
