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The dirt road gives way to old-world pavers, where we round a fountain and park in front of the main entrance of the house. Several men, including Montero, are stationed about, fully armed and on guard.
It should scare me to see something like this, but the truth is, it doesn’t. My father always held large security teams under his employ. I grew up surrounded by men hired to protect us. Although I always assumed he was afraid his wealth put us at risk, now I’m not so sure.
Montero comes to my door and opens it for me. I step out hesitantly, watching him carefully—the way he moves, the way he commands respect and fear, even when at ease. This was the way many of the guards at Villanueva behaved. Could they have been men like Montero and not mere guards at all? Men like Santos…
I turn to him as he comes to stand beside me. He never told me exactly what he did for my father. Always evaded my questions. Could he have been part of some security detail? Or was there something else?
I’m just about to ask him when he orders, “Go get ready for bed.”
Bristling at his tone, I want to argue that it’s not night yet, until I realize the sun has all but set, its dying glow fading on the horizon.
I rub by eyes and yawn, feeling more tired than I have in a long time. “All right.”
“There’s some business I need to attend. I won’t be long.” He and Montero head in the other direction, speaking so low that I can’t make any of it out. Not that it matters at this point. What I need is to get enough rest that I’ll be able to make a plan and get away from here.
A man standing near the front door opens it for me, and I go into the foyer. I look down a hallway to the right, wondering what could be there. Just as I take the first step in that direction, a voice behind me has me practically jumping out of my skin.
“You won’t find anything in my room,patrona.”
I spin on my heel to find Montero observing me with those dark eyes. “Jesucristo, you scared me.”
“That’s good,” he says, his tone dead serious.
“Um… So, do you live here too?”
“We all do,” comes an unfamiliar voice from yet another hall. From it appears a man who very much resembles Santos, though younger and lankier. He’s holding a large burrito that he scarfs down before my very eyes.
“This is Damian Alvarez. Santos’s cousin,” Montero introduces.
“His favorite cousin.” The man takes my hand and places a soft kiss on it. “It’s nice to meet you again, Sonia.”
I’m about to answer, when out of my peripheral, I spot three men entering the house and going up the stairs, all just as dangerous-looking as Montero. “Are there any other women who live here?”
“You’re the only one,” Damian says. “That’s why you’re so special.” He waggles his brows and gives me that same wolfish grin Santos likes to wear.
I slide my hand out of his. “Is the kitchen that way?”
“Are you hungry?”
“A bit,” I say, my stomach growling as if to confirm my response.
“I can make you something,” Damian offers.
“I’ll do it,” Montero interjects. “She probably prefers something other than canned food, and Santos will be out for a while.”
“Where did he go?” I ask, and they both look at me like I’ve grown another head for daring to question the boss’s whereabouts. I shake my hands in front of me. “You know what? I don’t care. I haven’t eaten all day. Food would be appreciated. Any kind of food.”
As I follow Montero and Damian down a hall lined with windows, I make it a point to observe everything, mapping out the house as best I can. We go around a curve, passing a few rooms before we finally come to the kitchen.
It’s a chef’s dream, with Viking stainless steel appliances, a copper pot rack hanging over a wide marble countertop, and a walk-in pantry. A pang of something, a little heartache perhaps, fills me because I remember Santos telling me about his dreams to be a chef someday. That was back when we believed in fairy tales. When we thought good things could happen if you just wanted them badly enough. But who knows? Maybe it wasn’t what he wanted after all.
I slide onto one of the barstools at the counter as Montero steps out of the pantry with several items, then fires up the stove and begins to cook.
“Make some for me to,bato,” Damian tells him as he sits beside me. Montero glares over his shoulder, grunting a reply, but Damian ignores him. “So you remember me yet?”
“No,” I say. “Should I?”
“We’re good friends. In fact, I’m one of your favorite people here. Him,” he says, pointing toward Montero. “Not so much. He’s too grouchy.”
