“Rafael is two years younger than me and Maximus is five years younger than me. And this,” I say, holding out the flask to her, “is like drinking gasoline.”
She shrugs. “If you don’t like it, I could always get you a line of coke. I mean, we’re standing on one of the largest coca farms in the country, so it’s not like there isn’t some available.”
When I shake my head she laughs softly. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d be down for that, especially not after the ‘I never went through that phase’ bullshit. Weren’t you a teenager like the rest of us or does being disciplined make up the entirety of your personality?”
“It’s hard to say.”
Octavia frowns at me. “Why is that?”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”
“Yup. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re uptight?”
My amusement from earlier returns. “Yes, on several occasions.” I pause for a moment, thinking over my next answer. “Aida left when I was around ten years old and after that I did nothing except things related to learning the family business in order to preserve our legacy. There wasn’t another choice really.”
Octavia averts her gaze and mumbles, “That’s too bad.”
“It is what it is.”
“That shit doesn’t make any sense.”
The side of my mouth tilts up. “Only to those who aren’t willing to accept the logic of the situation.”
She makes a face at me, looking every single one of those twenty-three years, and not a day more. Her age prompts me to ask for clarification on another trail of thought I’d had…
“In the church earlier,” I say, “you accused Aida ‘of having a family beforeus.’ Who were you referring to exactly?”
“That isn’t for me to tell.”
Octavia pushes away from the vehicle and I snatch her wrist when she tries to walk away. Her gaze snaps to mine and all the anger and pain that the alcohol had dulled returns with a vengeance, brightening her amber eyes. She glares at me, minimizing the now golden color.
“It’s not my story,” she says. “If you want to know, go ask Aida.” I squeeze Octavia’s wrist in warning and some of the hostility is wiped away from her features. “Look,” she says, her voice resigned, “if you don’t get the information you want, I’ll answer your questions, but for now, I have my own shit to deal with and so do you. Okay?”
I release her with a nod. “Very well.”
“And just so you know, you’re not leaving this property until all this…” She waves her hand in the air and purses her lips. “You know what I mean. Anyway, don’t try to leave because the guards will detain you, so it’s pointless.”
My mother is not only a liar but a jailer as well.
Fuck.
The mansion belonging to El Jefe, is as grand as anything found in The States. It’s a traditional Spanish design, complete with terracotta tiles and a veranda that sports tall and wide pillars with arches overhead. This is an architectural beauty and could easily be the home of some famous Hollywood actor.
If you ignore the fields of coca in the distance.
Or perhaps they add to the charm to the overall ambience of what a drug lord’s residence should be like?
Octavia waltzes through the front door, past the armed men, like she owns the place. Maybe I underestimated her importance? I should’ve asked her about my mother’s relationship to El Jefe, but I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. It wasn’t because of the alcohol either. Although that did help take some of the edge off.
“Soto, where are the guests?” Octavia asks.
The man in question frowns and she repeats the inquiry, but this time in Spanish. He’s quick to respond in kind and gestures to the hallway on our left.
“Gracias.” She jerks her head in the direction the man just pointed. “They’re in the dining room eating. Looks like we missed our first family dinner.”
I don’t respond to her barb since it’s not directed at me. Octavia is reeling as much as I am over the revelations earlier. Unlike her, I am not inebriated, nor am I going to display the theatrics that a lot of women do.
Unlike my mother, who could’ve been carved from marble, considering how emotionless she was when telling me her stipulations earlier in the church.
