Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
The rich, tender meat and crispy skin instantly transported me to my past. I’d eaten this before at my mother’s dinner table, right before she’d passed. “This is familiar.”
“I suspect you haven’t had it since childhood,” Cristiano said.
I looked up at him and took longer than necessary to chew so I wouldn’t have to admit I’d jumped to conclusions. Maybe he was taking me for a walk down memory lane—but why? Another mind game?
And to what end? To make me feel safe?
Even if it was a game, memories of my mother were more temptation than I could resist—they’d always been hard to come by. In the years following her death, my father had grieved fiercely but privately. At some point, that had changed, but it had always been rare to find him in a state that he could open up about her. Most other adults who’d known her weren’t the sort a young girl would pepper with questions.
How much did Cristiano remember? How much was he willing to share?
And what would each revelation cost me?
“She made this for you?” I asked.
“Everything Fisker will serve tonight, she made.” He looked down on me in a way that made me feel like he was imparting wise advice. “Who cooked for you in the years before you went to boarding school?”
“The staff or myself,” I said. “But Papá wasn’t this adventurous. We mostly stuck to regional dishes. Things he grew up on.”
“I figured as much.”
It was strange to think he’d figured anything at all. “You wonder about my diet?” I asked with a hint of a smile.
“Mostly how things were after her death. After I left,” he said. “What do you remember about her?”
I frowned at him. “What do I remember?” I asked. “A lot. More than I can say by dessert.”
“Then tell me about dinnertime.”
Studying him, I used a napkin to pat sauce from the corner of my mouth. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, but maybe my memories would trigger his. “She hummed when she plated the food. That’s how I could tell when it was time to eat.” I could still remember the tune, though I never hummed it aloud. It took me to a simple yet blissful point in time I’d never be able to get back to. “She always served herself last. I think she was lactose intolerant because I remember her getting stomachaches if we had cheesy meals, and she never liked ice cream.”
“Sometimes she brought queso fundido to the ranch,” Cristiano said.
“With chorizo.” I smiled sadly and took a sip of wine. I wanted these memories, but they were also little knives in my heart. What hurt the most was the time we’d lost. I would never completely know my mother, the kind of woman she was as an adult—the friend she would’ve been. Seeing her through others’ eyes was the best gift I could receive.
I hoped Cristiano understood I was grateful, even if I couldn’t bring myself to show it. I suspected he did. “Why did she like you so much?” I asked.
He paused as if caught off guard, and it took him a moment to answer. “I like to think she and your father were both great judges of character.”
“I like to think that, too, which is why their regard for you is so confusing.”
His mouth parted with surprise before he breathed a laugh. “Bianca took me in. I owed her my loyalty, and she knew she had it.”
“What kind of man turns his back on his own family to fight for their enemy?” I asked.
“Listen . . . I don’t pretend to be moral in any way. Much of what I’ve done is inexcusable. But some things are so vile, they can’t be forgiven.”
“I agree,” I said, raising my chin. If he had stopped his parents’ descent into human trafficking, how could he excuse himself for the same crimes?
“She trusted me,” he continued after a moment.
“But why?”
“It’s not hard to gain someone’s trust; it’s just too easy to lose it. I tried to be there when she needed me. I never lied. I was forthcoming. When she and your father disagreed, I didn’t automatically side with him. I told them what I thought was right. I always did with Costa, even if I knew he wouldn’t like the answer.”
I glanced toward the kitchen as Fisker brought Cristiano a plate. He dug in before the chef had even turned his back. “What did you and Papá disagree on?”
“Not a whole lot, but I remember once,” Cristiano said, gulping down a mouthful of fowl with wine, “he wanted us to light up a location. He thought it housed two gang members responsible for a drive-by that took out some of our men. He was trusting his gut, but I was trusting mine, too. Despite his order, I wouldn’t move until I had proof.”