I reached over from the driver’s seat, enveloping her slender fingers in mine. “It’s real, corderita. You’re going home. We’re almost there.”
The three-hour drive from the nearest airport in Tuxtla Gutierrez had mostly passed in comfortable silence while Marisol drank in the sight of the changing terrain along the route to her hometown.
As we neared the outskirts of the city, passing the first few scattered, slightly ramshackle houses, tension began to build inside the SUV. Anxious energy radiated from her, and her teeth worried at her lower lip.
“What if things are different?” Her voice was little more than a strained whisper. “What if they’ve grown to hate me?”
I squeezed her hand, wishing I could hold her more closely. “Your family won’t hate you. They love you, just as much as I do.”
And if they dared to say a single cruel word to her, I’d make sure they regretted it. They would accept her, even if I had to do a little harsher convincing behind her back.
Marisol would be reunited with her family. I’d made a promise. They would cooperate.
Luckily, she was too entranced by the familiar scene outside the window to notice my ferocious expression. I took a breath and smoothed it away.
Of course, Marisol’s family still loved her. How could anyone not love her?
I wouldn’t have to take any unpleasant measures with them to ensure her happiness.
That fucker, Gehovany, was another matter. Unpleasant didn’t even begin to cover what I intended to do to him before I finally allowed him to die.
He couldn’t threaten Marisol’s family if he was dead. He couldn’t force her to stay separated from them if I ripped him to pieces and left his bones scattered in the jungle.
With my contacts in the cartel, I’d managed to obtain information on where the bastard was hiding. He’d joined Los Zetas, a particularly volatile cartel that terrorized the region around Marisol’s hometown. They weren’t a direct rival of our operation in this area, but slaughtering one of their members would’ve raised tensions.
Fortunately for me, Stefano Duarte was cunning enough to make even the most impossible deals happen. I didn’t know how he’d managed it, but he’d arranged for me to carry out my vendetta without any blowback on our cartel. No one would stop me from utterly eviscerating Gehovany.
I owed Stefano another favor, but I would gladly pay any price to reunite the woman I loved with her family.
Carmen’s attachment to Marisol had helped my cause. Once my little lamb had convinced her fiercely protective friend that she wanted to be with me, Carmen had thrown her full support behind my plan to eliminate Gehovany. I suspected Stefano’s commitment to making these arrangements had a great deal to do with his queen’s insistence.
That might lessen my debt, but it didn’t matter what Stefano would ask of me in the future.
For Marisol, I’d do anything.
By the time we’d driven deep enough into town that the houses grew closer together, her face was so close to the window that her nose almost pressed against it.
“Turn left ahead. Two streets up.” Her voice quavered with something between excitement and trepidation.
“They are going to be so happy to see you.” I squeezed her hand one more time and followed her directions.
We hadn’t called to give them advance warning of our arrival, just in case word reached Gehovany before I could get here to protect her family. Marisol’s sudden return would be a shock, but a good one.
I hoped.
“That’s it.” She pointed a trembling finger up the block. “The pink house on the right.”
I eased the SUV to a stop on the small, cracked concrete pad that served as the parking space directly in front of the tiny house. The simple, blocky construction of the single-story home would’ve been devoid of character were it not for the dusky pink paint that’d been liberally applied over the brick frontage. It was fading and peeling around the single window and the front door; signs of recent neglect.
From what Marisol had told me about her father’s unrelenting work ethic and her mother’s obsessive cleaning regimen, the slight disrepair indicated that the house had withered without her presence.
I looked over at her, but her wide-eyed stare was fixed on the house.
“Are you ready, corderita?” I asked gently, careful not to impose any directive. I’d give her all the time she needed to prepare herself, even if we had to sit out here all day.
Before she could respond, the lace curtain that covered the single window twitched aside, and a familiar face peeked out at us. Gabriela was Marisol in miniature, and I imagined her sister was nearly an exact copy of how she’d looked at the age of sixteen.
Something between a whimper and a moan of longing sounded in the back of Marisol’s throat, and she suddenly jumped out of the car. She reached the house in three bounding strides, but before she could knock on the front door, it flew open. Gabriela’s slight body barreled into hers, the two sisters colliding in a tangle of grasping arms.