For as long as Esteban could remember, MaMaLu had been a fighter. She was proud and strong, and she never cried. But now big, fat tears quivered on the brink of her lashes. She held them back as long as she could, but when she blinked, they left wet trails down her cheeks.
And then MaMaLu wept—odd, stilted sobs that tore Esteban to pieces. He hadn’t been able to defend her. He didn’t know how to comfort her. So Esteban did the only thing that comforted him. He put her head on his lap and he sang to her.
Ay, yai, yai, yai,
Sing and do not cry . . .
ESTEBAN GOT INTO A LOT of trouble after that. He stayed late at the village, watching good guys fight bad guys in the first of the many western movies that he grew to love. He was Blondie, the professional gunslinger in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, except he wasn’t out to earn a few dollars. He was the hard-ass who would come to MaMaLu’s defense. There was just one problem. When he got home, he was the one that needed defending. From MaMaLu.
“Estebandido!” She only called him that when she was pissed. And when MaMaLu was pissed, she came after him with a broom.
Every time Esteban felt the stiff fibers scratching up against the back of his legs, he ran faster, until MaMaLu gave up. She would head back in, but leave the broom by the door. Esteban would wait a while before returning.
“MaMaLu, it’s me.” He would shuffle his feet at the entrance. “Your Estebandido is home.”
MaMaLu would open the door and stare him down. When he was sufficiently shriveled up under her death glare, she’d turn away and get back into bed. She always left him a plate of tostadas and a glass of horchata. He would eat in the dark and smile, dreaming of the day he would kick Victor’s ass.
When Esteban saw his first martial arts movie, he painted Victor’s face on a fence and kicked it in. That earned him a year’s worth of chores. MaMaLu did not believe in going easy. Of course, it didn’t help that Victor was always picking on him. It was a sure-fire way to get to MaMaLu, and Victor took great pleasure in tormenting her for having rejected him. When Esteban punched one of the kids at Skye’s birthday party, Victor could barely conceal his glee. He dragged Esteban out by the collar, hoping MaMaLu would follow, pleading for him to go easy, but she was too proud for that.
Ultimately, it didn’t turn out as satisfying as Victor had thought it would. Cutting the rough, weed-infested grass with a pair of scissors should have broken Esteban, but the boy didn’t complain. The satisfaction of knocking Gideon Benedict St. John’s tooth out made it worthwhile. That, plus the fact that Warren had invited him to attend classes with Skye had Esteban smiling, even though his knees and elbows were red and raw by the time he was done.
Victor wanted nothing more than to wipe the infuriating grin off Esteban’s face, but he had things to do. Big things. Warren was meeting with El Charro, the quasi-legendary drug lord who ran a profitable subsidiary of the Sinaloa cartel. This was Warren’s first face-to-face with the capo, and it was up to Victor to arrange for security.
El Charro traveled with his own bodyguards, but Victor had to ensure the grounds were swept clean that day, and that the staff steered clear of the main house. So far, no-one could attest to Warren’s connection with the cartel, and it was important to ensure there were no witnesses to the meeting.
On the day of the meeting, Victor had extra men stationed at the gate and around the perimeter. When it was almost time, he went inside and waited at the bottom of the stairs for Warren.
Warren took a deep breath as he peered at his reflection in the mirror. He’d waited six years for this day. He had to convince El Charro to release him from the organization, but it wasn’t going to be easy. No one got out squeaky clean, if at all. Warren picked up the photo of him and Adriana on their wedding day and traced his wife’s smile.
I miss you so much, babe.
He heard laughter from Skye’s room, and put the frame down.