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My parents never let us drink any type of alcohol unless we’re celebrating some achievement my father approves of; but tonight, my brother and I have managed to refill our glasses each time our parents are distracted.
I swallow down the remaining wine in my glass as I inwardly roll my eyes at my father’s toast. It’s the same one every damn time. The same ridiculous cheers to the Guzmán legacy.Give me a fucking break.I wonder how prideful he’d be if he knew neither of his children gave two fucks about the family legacy.
“And what are we celebrating?” We all look up at the men who have crashed our dinner party.
There are five of them staring us down, but my eyes are on the man who spoke, leaning away when he comes to a stop a little too close to me. He stands in the front as though he leads the others, who I haven’t given another look at since the man beside me feels like a predator you don’t want to lose sight of.
He looks like he could be about fifty years old, the beginnings of crow’s feet framing his eyes and wrinkles spoiling what was once probably blemish-free skin. Despite the charming smile he wears, his menacing vibe sends a chill down my spine. He wears a white suit that somehow works on him, with a long, white, wool coat over it. The shine of an ostentatious gold ring on his pinky draws my attention and I see a crest with a B at the center. Who the fuck is this guy?
“Mr. Banderas!” my father sputters, before standing hastily as though he’s in the presence of the president himself. Vicente and I share a confused look as my father holds out his hand for a shake. The man rudely ignores it, his attention latching on me instead.
“What’s the celebration?” Mr. Banderas asks. He says it no less charmingly, but somehow, it sounds even more chilling.
Who is this man that has turned my father into someone I don’t even recognize?
Dropping his hand with a nervous chuckle, my father gestures toward me. “My daughter, Vicenta, won first place in the state championships.”
“Ah,” the older gentleman says as he looks at me, his moss colored eyes widening slightly. “Felicidades,Vicenta.”
“Gracias, Señor,” I tell him, my tone dry as I hold his stare.
My skin practically crawls as he lets his gaze linger on my entire form a little too long. Vicente clears his throat, his eyes filled with fury at the man’s leering. He stands from his seat, but the men around Mr. Banderas move quickly, pulling guns from beneath their jackets.
I quickly grab my brother, yanking him down to my side where I hold him like his life depends on it, pulling my trembling mother closer too.
“No, no, no. Please, Mr. Banderas, sir, forgive my son. He’s a hothead, but he will not do something so foolish again.”
The last part is said in a growl, Victor’s gaze filled with warning that my brother wisely heeds. Still, my lip curls at my cowardly father.
Banderas waves a dismissive hand to the men around him, all of them tucking their guns away and moving back but never out of reach in case my brother makes another threatening move. No one pays us any attention but then again, how could they? No one realizes the danger standing in their midst because the table my father chose has Shoji blinders that keep us from view.
“We came here to celebrate, Mr. Banderas, but we were just leaving.” My father gestures to us and we all stand, eager to get the hell out of here as fast as we can, but Bandera’s words to my father have my brother pulling us to a stop.
“They may leave—you will not. We have business to discuss.”
“I will not leave my father here alone with you,” Vicente snaps, ignoring mine and my mother’s hisses.
“What’re you doing?” I hiss.
Banderas turns to look at us, his smile turning cruel as though he had hoped my brother would put his foot in his mouth again.
“Alvaro, llévatelo,'' he commands quietly, but his men hear him nonetheless. My father hears him too, but his pleading is deftly ignored.
A man—closer to my age, but still older—steps up to us, his light green eyes locked on Vicente.
I step in front of my family, my blood pressure rising to dizzying heights.
Looking up into the man’s shockingly handsome face, my voice shakes with both fear and anger as I speak. “Nosotros nos vamos.” I tell him angrily, “We don’t need your help.”
He stares at me, his shaved head tilting to the side as his brows twitch in pent-up fury that I dared to even speak to him.
He’s tall and broad chested, his light gray suit hugging a defined body that makes me fear for my brother.
“Luego vete, bruja. And take your dog with you.” His accented voice is so low and deep that I doubt anyone heard him calling me a witch.
The excitement I get when I’m at the starting line of a race begins to shoot through me, filling my blood with adrenaline. I let my smile form as I reach behind me, grabbing both my mother and brother’s arms. While I yank them in front of me, shoving them both to go, the guy never takes his hate-filled eyes off me.
My smile grows as I pass the green-eyed man.
