He was still fussing over the sheets when the bottled up sensation that had been building in his throat erupted. Damian had not cried for MaMaLu, not in Valdemoros when they’d told him she was dead, not when he placed sunflowers on her grave every year, and not when he opened her little Lucky Strike tin. His grief had been curtailed by rage. But now the rage was done. He had avenged her, made El Charro pay, made Warren Sedgewick pay. They were gone, and with them, his burning need for vengeance. Damian had nothing to hold on to, nothing to keep the storm of tears at bay. All the deep, dark emotions that had tormented him lay hollow and spent, like a pile of powdery skeletons. Hate was an illusion, rage was an illusion, vengeance was an illusion. They were all empty husks that he had watered and nurtured, and in the end, they bore no fruit.
Damian crawled into MaMaLu’s bed and rolled up into a ball. He was a boy when he’d left and he had returned a man. He had been alone then and he was alone now. The only difference, the only cruel, bitter difference, was that he had lost his one chance at redemption. He had been so busy holding on to hate, that he had let go of love.
Damian thought of the last time he had seen Skye.
You’re still filled with so much rage, she’d said.
He finally understood what she’d been trying to tell him.
THE TASK OF RESTORING CASA Paloma was colossal, but Damian had both the time and the resources. For eight years, he had run his company from prison. His direction was necessary, but his presence was optional. Damian had achieved what he had set out to do, but it had brought him no comfort. He found solace in gutting and painting and patching the main house. He ripped the vines off the facade, cleaned out the pumps so the fountains worked again, and hired a team of landscapers to restore the grounds. He had the roof replaced with terracotta tiles and gave the exterior stucco a fresh coat of white paint.
Slowly, the house started looking alive again. Flowers bloomed in the garden. Butterflies and hummingbirds returned. The place had been ransacked over the years, but a lot of the original furniture remained, along with the chandeliers. Skye’s mother, Adriana, had had a flair for drama. Damian wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep the velvet curtains in the dining room. He sat at the table where Warren had once convened with El Charro and his men, and considered the heavy crimson fabric. It added a touch of old world opulence, but it also blocked out much of the light.
A soft thud interrupted his thoughts. The renovation crew was gone for the day, but old houses made all kinds of noises. Damian ignored it and got up to examine the curtains.
There it was again. Another little thud. Damian spun around. It was coming from the antique hutch he used to hide in, the same hutch from where he’d spied Skye and MaMaLu interrupting Warren’s meeting. Damian stood before it and heard a distinct thump. Whatever was in there, possibly a bird or stray cat, had seen him. On the other hand, it could be something not quite as harmless, like a snake. Damian got on all fours and opened the door slowly.
She was a bony little thing with brown skin and a long, messy braid. Her knees were folded up to her chin and she peered at him with huge, cocoa eyes. She was wearing a white shirt with a school crest, and a navy skirt. Her socks were askew, one pulled up to her knees, the other at her ankle.
“It’s okay,” said Damian, as she eyed him warily. “You don’t need to hide.” He held out his hand, but she refused to take it.
The last thing he’d expected to find was a little girl hiding in the hutch. Perhaps her father was one of the workers he’d hired, and she’d come looking for him. Perhaps she walked by on her way to school and curiosity had drawn her into Casa Paloma—years of walking by an abandoned house that was suddenly ablaze with activity. The renovation crew had been in and out in muddy pick-up trucks, drilling, clanging, banging, hammering. Wheelbarrows of broken tiles and old flooring were lined up by the gates, but flowers spilled from the hedges and what was once dull and dead was now lush and green. Damian was surprised no one else had ventured in. The little girl was his first visitor, and she was obviously scared for getting caught.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He sat back on his heels and waited while she assessed him. He must have passed her threat level detection scan because she crawled out of the hutch and stood before him, fidgeting with her skirt.
Damian remembered all too well the feeling of knowing you were in trouble, but not knowing how you were going to be dealt with. In many ways, it was worse than the punishment itself.