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Cristian shoots to his feet, his hands balled into tight fists at his side. “I’ll do it. For Val.”
With a roll of his eyes, Andrea shakes his head. “You might as well put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. It’d be a much faster and merciful death.”
“She’s my sis—”
“Sit your fucking ass down. You’re not going anywhere,” Andrea snaps.
After a lengthy challenging stare, Cristian concedes and takes a seat.
“Tell me where to find him.” My voice is far more resolute than Cristian’s.
“No. Go home, Anthony.” It’s strange hearing someone call me by my old name. For a brief moment, I feel exposed and vulnerable all over again. “Do what you been doing for the last few years. Don’t come back here.” Once again, he rises to his feet, and signals for Cristian to follow after him, but I step in front of Andrea.
“Do you have any idea how much blood was on those sheets?” Tears swell in my eyes, and I scowl to keep my emotions in check. “They told me Isabella was alive when Vinnie finished off Val.”
His jaw shifts in anger, and he snaps his head away to keep from showing the tears I see in his eyes, too. “If I hadn’t already gotten word he was dead ...”
“He was paid. By someone who gets to walk free and clear of his crimes. Tell me where to findEl Cabro Blanco.”
“I don’t know.” He rolls his head against his shoulders and sniffs. “He has operations in Calexico, at the border. That’s all I know.”
“It’s a start.”
“You go there, you ain’t coming back.”
“If I don’t, their killer walks free.”
“You won’t find him before he finds you. But I wish you well, anyway.” He pats my shoulder as he passes, and Cristian does the same, offering a sympathetic smile on the way.
“Andrea,” I say, before he exits the room. “Did you honestly think I could hurt them?”
He doesn’t even take a moment to contemplate. “No,” he answers, which is likely the reason I wasn’t dead before my key hit the lock.
The two of them leave, closing me in the small and suffocating hotel room. My first thought is Ivy. Convincing her to stay back from this trip was hard, but nothing compared to how I suspect she’ll take the news that I’m planning to go to Calexico, with no intentions of returning.
Running both hands through my hair, I drag my palms over my face and exhale hard against my skin. What the hell am I doing? What am I thinking?
I fall onto the foot of the bed beside me, which sits across from the oversized mirror above the dresser. Dark circles shadow the bloodshot eyes in my reflection, proof that I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over a week.
It took me years to lay my wife and daughter fully to rest, and here I am, tearing open the wound for the pure sadistic joy of it. I killed the man who physically murdered my wife and daughter. I avenged them. Going after what essentially sounds like a ghost will only drum up old enemies.
My mind drifts to the day, at just fifteen years old, when I showed up at Our Lady of Sorrows after sleepless nights, lost in the fantasy of killing my mother’s murderer. The church has always been a source of opposition to my otherwise irrational thoughts. It was the first place I stumbled into after my wife and daughter died, as well. However, I remember, when I was a young boy, Father Vicio sat quietly, listening to my confession, my vow to avenge my mother.
I remember his imparted words with such vivid clarity, it’s as if he’s speaking them to me now:Wrath is a terrible poison, Son. A wound that festers and bleeds, until all that's left is the putrid stench of death.
Killing this goat will only bring more pain and suffering, and I won’t risk Ivy becoming a target as a consequence.
From the small fridge, I grab a fifth of whiskey and pop open the cap. Warm liquor coats the flames burning inside of me, numbing them for the cool buzz of the alcohol, and the hurricane of thoughts inside my head somehow settle on the simple task of returning back to California. Reclaiming the life I’ve worked hard to build in the aftermath of Val and Isabella.
Perhaps I can start over with Ivy. She’s young and vibrant and makes it exceptionally difficult to keep my hands off her.
Perhaps God sent me here for a reason—to show me that life is far too short and fragile to waste on wrath that will never be sated.
My father spent his entire life hunting down his enemies, and now spends his final moments guarded by the only person he can trust in this world.
I don’t want that to be me someday.
* * *
