“Es un chiste,” Adán yelled at Bartolo as Roman drank his coffee in the kitchen doorway of his sister-in-law’s vacation home and watched the kid from under his eyelids. “There are people I need to stay in touch with.”
The twelve-year-old was long and skinny, growing into his adult shape, but still swimming in Mateo’s track pants and T-shirt. Right now, with twin spots of color in his too-pale cheeks, he looked on the verge of a full-on tantrum.
After a day and night of resting and recovering in this lake-house-on-steroids just outside of Roxanne’s hometown of Freedom, Kansas, Bartolo was planning a trip to Wal-Mart to pick up clothes for him and Adán. Right now, the big man was barely holding on to his patience.
“I’ve told you, repeatedly, that no one’s getting a phone,” he said, rubbing his hand over his dark, shaved head. “We’ve all got to stay offline.”
“I thought you were kidding,” the kid accused.
Roman wondered if Adán was getting a wink of sleep.
Roxanne’s lake home of rock and cedar planks, rag rugs and rocking chairs, wide windows and a big stone fireplace was tucked into the woods right up against the steely grey Big Lake, which was good for boating and bass fishing. Roman had designed the security, and the home was off the grid. When he’d called Roxanne from the side of a desolate airstrip in Mexico asking for the use of her plane and home, his brother had asked him to come to the Monte instead.
But Roman was determined not to bring his fuck up down on his family’s heads.
Only Roman, Cenobia, Daniel, Cenobia’s security, and Roman’s team had known they were visiting the compound that morning. One of them had shared that info with the bad guys. If it was one of her people, he’d fucked up by not finding them after a week of looking. If it was one of his people that was compromised...
The only way he could protect Cenobia and her little brother was by taking them entirely off the board. Not even Sheppard Security knew about this place. He was communicating with Glori using their black box system, which also allowed Cenobia to send and receive notes from her staff.
His second-in-command was doing a yeoman’s level of work keeping Daniel safe, overseeing the team, and conducting a secret investigation into the leak while Cenobia was sitting here with her hands essentially tied.
All because Roman had wandered off the path he’d stayed on all these years—do what you’re good at, keep people safe, Ranger up, remain tactical—and allowed himself to be distracted by daydreams of her. He’d gone into the weeds and failed at his job. Failed at keeping her and her family safe.
The brazen daylight attack on one of Mexico’s most important families was being covered 24/7 by the international press. On the now-muted TV over the crackling fireplace, Roman kept track of the updates. Daniel was stable and steadily improving. The attackers, who’d been trapped behind the compound walls while the family escaped, had unfortunately gotten away before the Federales descended. No one among the staff had been hurt, to Cenobia’s relief. And yesterday, an ashen-faced Barbara Benitez had decried the assault and offered a reward for information about the attackers.
Clearly, Pemex wanted the Trujillos to know that the government entity was not involved.
It’s good to know my little car did not inspire state-sponsored terrorism, Cenobia had said archly from the couch.
She sat there now in Roxanne’s borrowed rolled up jeans, a red-and-white flannel shirt she’d tied at the hips, and a red bandana holding back her long hair, looking like his own Rosie the Riveter. Her bare toenails were painted a candy cane red.
“Maybe we can get you one of those games,” Cenobia offered Adán. “Como PlayStation?”
Adán shot her a furious look. “Stop talking to me like I’m a baby!” he shouted.
Bartolo immediately snapped his fingers. “Cálmate,” he demanded, the scar on his lip making his mouth more daunting. “You’ve been through a lot but so have we all. You’re not getting a phone and that’s it. Now apologize to your sister.”
Adán stared stubbornly at the floor, his lank medium-brown curls falling in front of his face.
“No hay bronco,” Cenobia said, brushing off the insult. “You’re just hungry, es cierto, mi amor. Why don’t you get a bowl of cereal?”
As Adán stomped out of the room, Bartolo rolled his eyes with an Are you kidding me? expression.
The boy had refused to accept a drop of comfort from his sister since they’d raced from his home, holding himself away from her even when he’d been drooping into an exhausted sleep on the plane. Cenobia obviously adored him, but this woman who was sincere and tactile with gordita vendors and society’s elite and assault victims and American auto executives was surprisingly awkward with her little brother. She would jump into cooing or pacifying rather than really talking to him.
Maybe she just didn’t know him well; she’d been in school or living in a different city for most of his life.
“What were you going to discuss with your father and Adán?” Roman asked Cenobia once he could hear her brother slamming down a cereal bowl.
Every line of her went rigid. She looked at the muted television. “I don’t know. My father had called to say Adán wanted to speak to me.”
Bartolo shot her a surprised look.
“Do you know what he wanted to talk about?” Roman asked him.
Bartolo shook his head, still eyeing Cenobia. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“How often did you visit during the week?” Roman asked her.
“Seldom,” Cenobia replied at the same time Bartolo said, “Never.”
Bartolo had already shared with them the little that he’d gotten out of an attacker with the help of his now-bandaged knuckles; they’d infiltrated and hid in the compound with plans to target Cenobia, and the plan would have worked if someone hadn’t tried to grab Adán, who’d pushed a panic button. Roman needed more details, but right now was obviously not the time.
After Bartolo left to run errands, Roman hauled Cenobia into the kitchen where Adán sat at the butcher block island finishing his cereal. The boy looked at him suspiciously as Roman began to pull out ingredients from the fridge and pantry. Roman’s mama, who was always good at getting people to set down their worries, used to say there was no problem that couldn’t be solved over a slice of peach pie.
He hoped to be as successful with Texas chili.
“As much I’d love to do all the cooking while we’re here, I don’t want to do all the cooking,” he said as he dumped an armful of ingredients from the fridge on the island. “I’m teaching y’all how to make chili, which is impossible to screw up as long as you don’t do one thing: don’t add beans. What do you stay away from?”
When no one said anything, he looked at Adán, who was glaring down into his empty cereal bowl. “Man, I’m talking to you.”
“Beans,” Adán muttered.
Cenobia sat on a stool on the other end of the island. Without a drop of makeup and her wavy hair held back by the bandana and trailing down her back, she looked so young. Her eyes wandered over him, and Roman suddenly had a sense of how different he must look; instead of bespoke suits and hair gel, he was barefoot in old, faded jeans, a soft grey Henley, and a two-day old beard. Being here meant family and relaxing—he maintained a bedroom here with clothes and weapons—and he’d slipped into the creature comforts of this place without considering the hazards.
Like the hazard of Cenobia’s velvety eyes traveling over him while rain hit the windows and a fire crackled in the fireplace and twelve-year-old boy who’d be relieved to be sent to his room serving as their only observer.
“Beans,” Cenobia said.
Roman swallowed before he looked away. “Right.” What had he been doing?
“Right...okay, now everyone knows all good meals start with bacon...” He diced bacon slices and then dumped them into a large Dutch oven he’d set on one of the six burners.
He showed them how to cut top round against the grain into chunks. The across-the-island stand-off didn’t make his instruction easy. He added the meat to the sizzling pot, then picked up a bell pepper. Because it was easier to focus on Adán, he showed him how to cut off the stem, clean out the pith and seeds, then break the pepper down in strips then bits. Roman was being showy with his knife work—you could hold a knife one way and kill a man, hold it another way and impress a twelve-year-old boy—but he wanted to help this kid forget, at least for the moment, the terror he’d been through.
Terror that was Roman’s fault.
He handed a cored green pepper and a much smaller knife to Adán. “Now you,” he said.
Adán halved the pepper, but the cut was ragged.
“Okay, it’s going to go a lot easier if you turn the knife over,” Roman said, twisting the handle in Adán’s hand.
The thin sleek knife didn’t have the easily identifiable serrated edge. But Adán flushed an instant red and let his hair hang in front of his face. “This is stupid,” he muttered. “I don’t—”
“No, dude, don’t be embarrassed,” Roman said, nudging him with an elbow. “The first time I cleaned an M-16 in basic, I was so nervous about the other guys watching I tried to jam in the bolt carrier the wrong way. My sergeant asked me why I thought it was going to work ass end up.” He looked at Adán from under his heavy lashes. “Guess what became my nickname ’til I went to Ranger School.’”
Adán replied like he couldn’t help himself. “Ass end up?”
Roman leaned back. “It’s got a nice flow to it if you say it all together. New guys just thought it was my last name.” He fanned his hand in the air. “Assendup.”
A surprised laugh huffed out of Adán, and Roman felt it like a Cenobia smile.
Roman picked up the butcher knife and began chopping an onion. “Trying and getting it wrong takes guts.” He nodded at Adán’s pepper. “It’s not even tryin’ that’s embarassin’.”
Pushing his curls out of his face, Adán began to cut the pepper just as Roman had shown him, much slower, but ending up with nicely sized pieces.
Cenobia had stayed quiet on her stool. Roman could lead a horse to water but he couldn’t make the beauty drink. So, he was pretty darned thrilled when she came around the island to stand next to Adán.
“The closest I’ve come to cooking is building an engine that runs on used fry oil,” she said, picking up a knife. “I don’t know how to cut a pepper either. What would you like me to do?”
Cenobia Trujillo had never and would never have to cook her own meals. She hadn’t shopped once a week with her mom on payday, then stretched out the cheap meat and canned veggies and unending bowls of off-brand mac ‘n’ cheese until the next paycheck.
But she stood ready to learn with her small, dimpled smile. Good Lord, she was pretty.
Adán’s thin shoulders stiffened up.
She reached for her ear lobe. “Or I could just watch and—”
“Do you know how to cut a jalapeño?” Roman asked.
She shook her head.
Adán kept his head down, chopping another pepper as he stood between them, and Roman showed her how to slice open a jalapeño, scrape away the seeds and membrane, and then mince it into tiny pieces.
Cenobia worked on a couple of chilis while Roman turned to flip the browning meat.
“If I threw your peppers up in the air, it would look like confetti para el Día de la Independencia,” she said to Adán.
The kid stayed silent.
“Cenobia, don’t touch your face until you’ve scrubbed your hands good,” Roman said, prying up a stuck meat cube with his tongs. “My lips once swelled up to peach-slice size after cutting chilis.”
“Has Cenobia told you about her Pinterest page?” Adán asked.
When Roman looked at them, Adán was still and Cenobia stood liked she’d been freeze rayed.
He put down the tongs. “Nope,” he answered. “Maybe you should let her...”
“It’s called The Prince’s Dirty Mouth. Do you have a picture of your swollen lips she could add to it?”
Cenobia looked over her shoulder at Roman and her face—eyes wide, mouth slightly open, brow miserable—was a dictionary’s example of mortification.
Roman kept his face blank. It would be his death if he smiled. It would be even worse if he leaned close and showed her what he could do with this prince’s dirty mouth.
Daniel had praised their Guachichil blood for giving the Trujillos a perceptive sixth sense about what made people tick. Adán knew exactly where to cut.
“My mouth used to get me punched a lot,” Roman said as he turned back to the pot and started scooping meat cubes into a bowl. “’Bout the time girls started noticing my mouth, the boys did too. I was on the small side, quiet, with big green eyes and a purdy mouth that made a good target. And, whoo, it sucked until I punched back.”
He put down the spoon and came around the island, motioned for Adán to put the bell peppers in the pot. The fat at the bottom popped and hissed. Cenobía scraped in the jalapeños from her cutting board, and Roman dumped in chopped onions and garlic.
He topped the vegetables with a good pinch of salt and black pepper, stirred it, then handed the spoon to Adán.
Adán moved closer to the stove while Roman leaned back on the island, crossing his legs at the ankle.
“When I punched back, I realized I was good at punching,” Roman continued. “And I liked it. I liked it a lot. I started hittin’ more guys and kissing more girls.”
He pointed at Adán, who stood at the stove, rain-sky eyes wide and mesmerized. “Don’t let that burn,” Roman said. “You gotta stir it.”
He thought about that time, when his talents were running wild, untethered, and powerful for the very first time. That feeling had been a narcotic for a poor, runty kid who lived in a trailer park in Odessa, who’d been at the bottom of every ladder he’d ever encountered except the one that measured how much his mama loved him.
“I was on the verge of getting kicked outta school, and girls kept callin’ and cryin’, and finally, my mama sat me down. Here’s the thing: my mama was a great lady.”
He didn’t talk about her much. He gave single-word answers when the press asked; he didn’t want them speculating about a domestic flight attendant with big dreams. Her training run working an international flight between Houston and Madrid had ended with her spending the weekend with a king, missing her flight, and losing her job. Ended with her pregnant, unemployed, and unable to get a response from the man who’d sworn love at first sight.
With his family...he didn’t talk about her much.
“She was beautiful,” he went on, resting the heels of his palms back on the island. “I mean, drop-you-dead-in-the-street beautiful. And kind. She worked so damn hard; all that kindness and hard work sapped her after a while but she was always beautiful to me.”
He wanted to bring her to life for these two.
“My mama sits me down and tells me that with great gifts come great responsibility. That my looks, my ability to fight, those were gifts—they came natural, I really didn’t have anything to do with them but I was responsible for how I used ’em. I could use ’em to hurt people or help people. She coulda used her looks to get us out of Odessa, but knew it wasn’t good for me, so she didn’t. I found out later my biological dad used his gifts to make his people poor and seduce women with promises he never intended to keep.”
Although his mother never shared with him who his biological father was, already understanding the man’s greedy nature, she had written the man a number of times looking for a small amount of child support. The son of a bitch had ignored all her letters. Had ignored Roman until he wanted to use him.
“So, I had to decide. What was I gonna do with my gifts?”
He pushed off the island and looked into the pot, putting his hand on Adan’s thin shoulder. “Looks good. Real good,” he said. The steam from the vegetables was wafting over the boy’s face. He looked straight at Roman for the first time with his unusual slate-grey eyes. The kid was going to be a lady killer.
“Roman,” Adán said hesitantly. It was the first time he’d heard his voice without anger since they’d arrived. “I think your mom might have borrowed that line from Spider-Man.”
Roman chuckled, and it had been too long since he’d done so. His laughter sounded like pop rocks in his chest. He squeezed Adán’s shoulder with his burned hand, the rain making the skin tight. “Caught that, did you?”
He let go of Adán and turned the burner down to low. “Point is, kiddo, you’re smart, rich and loved.” He spoke while he pulled cans of tomatoes and broth from a cabinet. “You got gifts and a lot of power, although I know it doesn’t seem like it sometimes. You’re gonna have crappy days. You’re gonna have awful days.” Roman squinted to find spices in the rack. “It’s up to you to figure out whether you’re going to use your gifts to take those crappy days out on people or find something better to do with all that power.”
He set the cans and spices on the counter, then glanced at Adán. “You get me?”
He didn’t want to embarrass the kid. He wasn’t Bartolo or Daniel. Or Cenobia. He had no right to impart life lessons. Adán could have stormed out or just acted like he didn’t “get him.”
But he didn’t storm out or act clueless. The dude nodded, a thought-filled notch between his flyaway eyebrows.
And for once, Cenobia didn’t jump in to baby him.
“What was your mom’s name?” Adán asked gently. From the corner of his eye, he watched Cenobia turn her head away and blink quickly.
Roman really dug this kid. He smiled, missing his mom something fierce and wishing she was here to meet these two. “Madeline,” he said. “Everyone called her Maddie.”
When Adán repeated it, it was like he blessed the room with her name.
He turned and glanced guiltily at Cenobia. “Sorry, Cici,” he croaked.
Roman could see Cenobia fighting her discomfort. But she put her hand on Adán’s shoulder, just like Roman had. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry, too.”
That thick, cloudy air between them felt like it was clearing.
“Will Papá be okay?” Adán asked.
“Yes,” Cenobia said, instantly.
Adán breathed and smiled, full and relieved, and Roman recognized that smile. It was Cenobia’s. Adán looked at her as if her assurance—more than the reporter’s or the doctor’s or Bartolo’s—was what he needed to stop the rain and bring out the sun.
“Adán,” Roman said. “Why’d you ask Cenobia to come to the compound? What were you gonna tell her?”
Cenobia shot him a furrowed glare.
If part of doing his job was pissing her off, then so be it.
“Just that I was tired of her treating me like a baby.” Adán looked guiltily at Cenobia. “I’m good enough to be included in company stuff just like you were at my age.”
“Of course, you are,” she said, her eyes wide and surprised. “I hadn’t realized... I’m sorry I made you think differently.”
“Did you tell anyone she was coming?” Roman asked.
She scowled at him again.
“No!” Adán declared.
Roman watched him for a beat longer before he glanced at Cenobia, then put his hands up and laughed. “Whoa, okay, I gotta ask. Y’all put away the eye lasers.”
She and Adán glanced at each other, and Roman watched them give each other the same smirk.
“Okay,” he said, picking up a teaspoon. “We’re gonna throw in a heap of spices, then let them cook in while we get these cans opened up.”
As they finished off the chili then made cornbread, Adán’s laughter grew easier. Bartolo looked at Roman like he was a miracle worker when he came in carting bags. When they all sat down to eat, Cenobia gave Roman the softest, sweetest smile.
Good. Today he’d done his job. They were fed, warm, comfy, and breaking the knot of fear and worry that bound them. Cenobia and Adán were clearing the air between them.
Today, he’d done what he was good at and seen to the health and welfare of his clients.
He’d also effectively reminded himself of what he’d sacrificed to fully embrace his gifts. He wouldn’t again let Cenobia’s sweet smile distract him from the path he’d chosen or the memory of what choosing this path cost the person he loved most.