“I’m so, so sorry. So sorry.”
Pablo pulls me fully against him and kisses my forehead. I’m so embarrassed right now. Mortified would be a better word.I want to sink into the floor. I can’t believe all that fortitude I believed I had just evaporated. I look like a weak ass bitch in front of his entire family. He’s going to bejefe de jefesone day. He’s been talking about me being his wife, yet the first time I encounter something hard, I burst into tears. Talk about humiliation.
It unnerves me when Luciana steps forward and places her hand on my left forearm. Her fingers tug a little and embolden me to step away from Pablo. She engulfs me in a hug, and her hand presses gently against the back of my head encouraging me to rest it on her shoulder.
“Florencia, none of this was ever your fault. If we could choose the family we were born into, none of us would want to have anything to do with a cartel. None of us would pick a life of loss and pain. But that’s what we’ve been given. I don’t blame you for your father’s actions. Whether or not you ever knew him, he was a man who did what he wanted, and that had nothing to do with you. None of us blame you for any of this.”
“Thank you, but I know I look a lot like my father. I hate that I’m a reminder to you.”
Luciana squeezes the outside of my shoulders and presses me back so our gazes lock.
“Florencia, I donotsee Domingo when I look at you. I see the woman my nephew chose. I see the woman who chose him. I trust Pablo. I’ve known him his entire life. I’ve watched him since he was a baby. He’s always been a natural leader, and not just because he’s the oldest of his generation. He doesn’t make choices lightly. He’s always considered how his decisions affect other people. He trusts you. That tells me more than enough. It might be hard in the beginning, but we’ll all figure it out eventually.”
I shift my gaze over her shoulder to two of her sons. My attention switches to the man in the back of the room who’snow standing with the woman tucked against his side. I’m not convinced they’re as accepting as their mother.
Maybe one day, but not today.
Luciana looks over her shoulders at her sons, gesturing them forward. “Florencia, this is Joaquin and Jorge.”
She points to the man on the left first. I see the third guy approach.
“This is my middle son, Javier, and his fiancée, Madeline.”
All four of them watch me with varying levels of suspicion before Madeline steps forward and offers me her hand. I force myself not to hesitate and take it. She comes closer and offers me a light embrace as she whispers in my ear.
“Don’t mind them. It’s not only women who can have resting bitch face. They don’t realize how much they scowl. It’s not you. I get those looks sometimes. Luciana’s forever reminding them not to look that way at family.”
I hear the humor in her voice, and it helps ease much of my apprehension. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll survive.
At least that’s what I thought until I’m introduced to Margherita. Pablo looks nothing like her at all except for their eyes. He shares the same brown and gold hazel his mother does. It’s only now that I realize he doesn’t have the same purely brown eyes Luis does. But besides that, the woman seems to have had no say in her son’s appearance. She’s a bit thinner than I expected. But I know she’s still pretty fresh off cancer treatments. I remember whatMamáwas like back then.
“Florencia, welcome. I’m so glad to finally meet you. Luis has told me how highly Pablo speaks of you, and you impressed my husband and nephew on the trip here.”
“Thank you,SeñoraDiaz.”
“Please, it’s Margherita. If you call meSeñoraDiaz, you’ll have far too many people answering.”
“Thank you.” I sound like an idiot repeating myself.
In non-Spanish-speaking cultures, it would be far easier to keep track. However, with the way a mother’s maiden names comes at the end, someone could have like six last names. That’s how I’m Florencia Aguilar Bautista. I know in the States they don’t do that as much.
Traditionally, in Colombia, if a woman changed her name after marriage, she would adddeand adopt their husband’s first name as their second last name. Not so much these days. Some now usedeand their husband’s surname. But if an unmarried woman only uses one of her last names, it’s her father’s. I can’t get away from being an Aguilar.
Since Margherita also grew up in Colombia, she may have kept her father’s surname and mother’s surname. I doubt that’s what she did. I think she conformed to what plenty of women do in the States. She took her husband’s name and simply goes by Diaz.
Luciana and Catalina still have Diaz somewhere in there, but I don’t know what Catalina’s husband’s surname is. All five younger men are Diaz. Pablo because of his father’s name and the other four because of their mothers’ maiden name. But for the sake of family unity, I know they all default to Diaz.
Another woman steps beside Margherita and looks similar to Luciana, Enrique, and Luis. Pablo makes the introductions.
“Flora, this is my othertíaand her husband.TíaCatalina andTíoMatáis.”
“Hola.”
I shake hands with the other couple. They appear the most easygoing of everyone in the room. I know they’re Alejandro’s parents. It’s hard to imagine Alejandro having the same personality as his father, despite what I’ve heard about their similarities. It’s when Matáis smiles and Alejandro steps between his parents that I realize the truth in that. Alejandro smiles genuinely for the first time since I met him. He’s the oneI’m sure most people consider the hottest in the family. But it’s almost too good to be true. I much prefer Pablo’s brooding sense of authority. It does things to me.
“Florencia.”
I turn toward Enrique as he walks over with an attractive woman who’s clearly not a Diaz by birth.
