“No fucking clue.”
“Excellent,” he answers flatly.
I watch him openly, but the mask is up. He's pushing me away. In the fading dusk, I can see the scar that runs along his cheekbone, the remnant of the shit he endured for my sake. He's never talked about that time spent alone with his old mentor, getting beaten so close to death, or the weeks spent in a hospital bed with a spiderweb of fractures across his rib cage. Like any of his scars, he simply doesn't mention it.
“What's bothering you?” I ask. Just now, I can't stand the distance.
He glances at me. He's been caught. He ought to know better by now, he has to know I can feel him.
Now he's the one who lets the silence go on. He flips the blinker on, makes a smooth turn. He's doing what he does, internalizing the anger – at least I think it's anger. It usually is when he gets this quiet. But then, it could be desire.
He stares doggedly at the road, and says, “Abuela wants to move me.”
Every nerve in my body sings. My breath sticks in my throat, and the lights in my vision blur. I feel like I've been thrown off a cliff, with no idea when I'll hit bottom. Five words, and they shake me to my foundation.
“What?” I choke on the word.
He glances again, checking my stability, choosing his words carefully.
“She wants to put me under Mateo,” he says.
“Without a single word to me?” I cry, and it's nearly a scream.
He had to know the indignation that would come with this conversation. No wonder he didn't want to have it.
“And without a single word from you,” he answers, his words edged. Then, softer, “Please.”
My mouth snaps closed, and the sting of tears hits the bottom rims of my eyes. I look away, out the window, at my favorite city on earth. It doesn't do much to comfort me now. For all the way I've made it up the family tree, I'm still crying like a stupid bitch.
He says, “I don't want it. I shouldn't have to tell you that. But I don't see there being much of a fight in it. In the end, we do what she says.”
I bite down on my lip, and my reaction. The urge to bawl threatens every ticking second.
“She can't do that to us,” I say to the glass.
He laughs, and it's so bitter. He says, “Don't give me that bullshit. You chose that, remember? She can do whatever she wants. And she thinks I should be in security, instead of distribution.”
He has to know I'll fight it, no matter what he says to me. I'll wait, but I'm not going to quietly let my grandmother disassemble my crew. My crew. The remnants of my brother's crew.
What's she trying to pull by taking my right hand, and putting him with the son of some other prominent family within the cartel?
“Just tell me you won't roll in there, guns blazing, and start trouble,” he says.
For a long time, my voice is just a knot in my chest. He's saying he won't fight it. He's right, but it stings a little. We're almost to the house in the Garden District where we will meet Abuela.
Finally, quietly, I say, “Fine. Not a word.”
Chapter 5 Si, Señora
Maria
The house is ridiculous. No matter how many times we roll into the driveway, I'm surprised by how huge it is, every time. In this part of town, the houses occupy entire blocks. This one sits catty-corner on its lot, the driveway winding around a black fountain in the back, the yard shaded by magnolia trees. I've never been able to figure out who exactly owns the place, but we meet here from time to time.
It occurs to me that I could ask Frederick. He probably knows.
He's quiet beside me, as he has been since he broke his big news. I won't prod him farther, it would be terribly disrespectful. He's never demanded as much from me, and I can't afford to start thinking about losing him now. So I finger the braid out of my hair, run my hands through it a few times, and check myself in the visor mirror.
My aviators hide my tired eyes for now, but the sun is gone. There's no shield against a meeting with Abuela. Not even Freddy can save me here. And I didn't put on makeup.
We're silent as we step out of the car. There's no breeze, just heavy air hanging around us, pushing against us as we make our way toward the door. The sun's long gone by now, but the heat just radiates off of everything. It feels like we're moving in slow motion. My nerves stir, and I feel light-headed.
We're greeted at the door by a maid. She's white, I notice. Seems like my grandmother did the hiring. She leads us down a hallway with impossibly high ceilings, carved moldings, and a chandelier off in a verandah.
Deeper inside, we check our guns with security. I wonder, fleetingly, if Mateo is here. When the guard smiles at me, I just glare back. It's not his fault he's on my shit-list, he just happens to be in the way. I don't say a word, just follow him through some more rooms and hallways.
We stop at a tall door with an ornate handle. He knocks twice, then opens the door. He doesn't enter, only ushers us forward with the movement of his arm.
I can't quite banish the nerves as I cross the threshold first. I scan the room as I enter, the opulent library, with its rows of hard-backed books and antique furniture. Of course Mateo is here. I bite back a curse. Protocol demands that head
