Thirty-Three

Cofre del Tesoro, Colombia
August 2009

Christina poked her bottom lip out and stared at the floor outside her father’s office.

“I don’t want to go in there,” she said quietly, her fingers twisting and burrowing themselves into the pink chiffon of her skirt. “And I don’t want to wear this dress.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes flooded with unshed tears. She was six and a half now and no longer wished to be her father’s doll.

Michael crouched in front of her and she looked down at her feet. This went beyond a simple tantrum. Something was going on. “What’s this about, Christina?” He unwound her fingers from her dress and held them. Christina just shrugged. He tucked his chin into his chest in order to catch her eye. “Are you worried we’ll miss the beach?” He left the rest unsaid. It was Sunday. The one day Lydia managed to sneak away and join them for a few hours.

“No—”

“Because I promised—”

“I know … you keep your promises. It’s not about that.” She looked up at him, chewing on her lip. “I don’t like him,” she said in a quiet rush.

That makes two of us. He let go of her hands and rocked back on his heels. “He’s your father.”

“I don’t want him to be.” She shook her head vigorously, and a curl escaped from the ruthlessly tight ponytail her maid had wrangled her hair into. It bounced and bobbed against her temple. “Not anymore.”

He reached for her again, this time grabbing her by her arm, pulling her a step or two closer. “What happened? Did he hurt you?’

Christina shook her head. “No. Not me.”

“What?” he said even though he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“My mama. He hit her. I saw him do it. This morning she was sitting in the garden and he found her. Yelled at her,” she said in a whisper, every other word getting hitched on a shaky breath. “She started to cry, and he hit her in the face.”

“Did you hear what he was saying to her?” he said as calmly as possible. Reyes always left his bruises behind closed doors. Never in the open and never in front of his daughter. Something had happened to provoke him.

Christina nodded her head, looking scared. “He called her bad names and said that if she didn’t follow his rules he would … ” Her eyes flooded with tears, her tiny fingers working the chiffon of her skirt into shredded knots. “He said he would kill her.”

Michael was suddenly sure Reyes knew he’d allowed Lydia to visit Christina unsupervised. Looking down at the little girl, something close to panic settled into his bones. He could leave. Just pack his shit and walk out

But he wouldn’t. And Reyes knew it.

“Christina, listen to me—”

She shook her head. “I hate him. Why can’t you be—”

His heart did a quick flip-flop in his chest. “Don’t. Don’t say it.” He looked around to make sure no guards or servants were lurking. Listening. He took her by the arm and pulled her a bit closer. “I’m not the kind of guy any kid should be wishing was her father, so … ”Michael stood, shoving the carefully wrapped box into her hand and stood. “Go give your father his gift and wish him a happy birthday so we can go to the beach.” He said it roughly, took a step back, and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from pulling her away from the door.

Tears spilled over her bottom lids and she swiped at them as if they annoyed her. Turning toward the door, she wiped her face again before giving it a soft rap with her knuckles. They waited only seconds for the door to open, finding Reyes on the other side, a young man standing beside him.

“Happy birthday, Papa,” Christina said. Michael knew she was smiling, but the lift of her mouth didn’t quite ease the rigid set of her shoulders. If Reyes noticed, he said nothing. He gave her a smile, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“I was sure you’d be at the beach by now, Christina.” Reyes looked up and over the girl’s head and found Michael’s gaze. “I know how much you like to build sandcastles.” The last was said directly to him. The kid next to Reyes made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and gave him a look to match.

Michael’s fists balled in the front pocket of his jeans and he stared back until the kid looked away. Reyes, who’d caught the split-second exchange, laughed. “Don’t be fooled into thinking he’s gone soft, Estefan. He may have developed a taste for sandcastles and tea parties, but Michael is a killer. He would slit your throat in the space of a few seconds without even thinking about it—isn’t that right, Cartero?”

Christina looked at him over her shoulder, but Michael stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the little girl in front of him.

His gaze settled on the boy again. This time he noticed the tat that stretched from his nape to his collarbone. It was new—the black ink puffy and edged in red. A scorpion, pincers raised, tail curled against his neck, poised to strike.

“Nice brand,” he said, and the kid visibly stiffened at the barely veiled insult.

“I wear it proudly.” Estefan tipped his chin at a defiant angle before looking at Reyes. “My father is a great man.”

Father? Michael shot a look at Reyes, who just smiled without acknowledging the boy’s claim. He looked to be in his early twenties—at least fifteen years older than Christina. If Reyes was his father, he’d been young when this kid had been born.

“Now that you two have met, I’d like to ask you a small favor, Cartero,” Reyes said, his words instantly stiffening the back of Michael’s neck.

“Not sure I have time for a favor—my schedule’s pretty packed, what with all my sandcastles and tea parties,” he replied, doing his level best to keep his voice light and casual. He had a feeling that whatever it was that Reyes wanted from him, it was something he wouldn’t want to give.

Reyes smiled, trying to hide his reaction to the veiled refusal. “I’m sure you can make time for this. It’s time Estefan received training, and I’d like you to be the one to teach him.”

Michael cocked his head, letting his gaze travel the length of the boy beside Reyes. Teaching this kid to use a knife would be a mistake. “Combat training? Are you serious?”

“Think of it as self-defense. I was thinking a few hours in the evenings to start—after your sandcastles and tea parties,” Reyes said to him before looking down at Christina. “Someday it will be Estefan’s job to look after her.” He looked up again; this time his gaze was as sharp as a blade. “You won’t be here forever, Cartero.”

Christina’s hand found Michael’s, her small fingers curled around his own, and she squeezed.

She turned to her father and thrust the package into his hands. “Happy birthday,” she said again before turning to pull Michael down the hall. He could feel Reyes’s eyes drilling into his back.

She was quiet for a moment, kept walking down the long stretch of hall between her father’s study and the foyer. Finally she looked at him. “Mama’s not coming today, is she?”

His first instinct was to lie, but in the end he simply shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Is he going to kill her?” She sounded different. He didn’t want to look at her, suddenly sure it was an old woman standing next to him and not the little girl he knew.

He swallowed hard, the lump in throat making it difficult for him to breath. He shook his head again, looking down at her. “No.”

She squeezed his hand, gazing up at him with eyes that seemed to have seen and understood more than could possibly fit into the tiny span of her lifetime. “Do you promise?”

He looked away. “I promise.”