I fought the urge to shut my eyes as his fingers tickled beneath my hairline. “But this last year has been quiet,” I reminded him. “Nobody knows we’re here but Max. And nobody’s losing anybody.”
One year ago, Cristiano and I had died.
Incinerated along with the Badlands.
All of México knew it. For months, we’d holed up in tiny apartments throughout Europe, never staying in one place too long, keeping our faces from the public.
The resulting baby was no surprise considering, without much else to do, we’d had sex for days on end.
Officially, we were Joaquin and Jennifer Delgado now. Cristiano hated calling me by a fake name, so sometimes he used Lourdes in public. But always, in private, I was his Natalia.
Fortunately, though we’d been major news in our home country, the story had never really made it outside of México.
And I loved our new life, basking in each other every day, getting to know the very cores of ourselves, and of each other. But living a life indoors, under the radar, would never last for us—even if it meant we kept a little danger alive.
Opening a business had been risky. We owned and funded a traveling girls’ school that taught self-defense to any and all women—or people—who wanted to attend. Once the course was complete, we’d pick up and change locations so we were never in one place too long.
The little bit of risk suited us. We’d already survived the most dangerous situations possible.
One year ago, we’d descended into the belly of the beast, the mountainside rumbling with its impending explosion. There’d always been a good chance we wouldn’t make it out in time, so when I’d told Cristiano I was ready to die by his side, I’d meant it.
But fortunately, it hadn’t happened that way.
Cristiano had had every intention of dying the day he’d thought he’d lost me to Heaven’s stairway. But my revival had changed his plan back to the one he and Max had originally put in place many years ago in case of an emergency like this.
After Cristiano had pushed the button and we’d heard the underground roar, we’d passed through the tunnel system that led out of the Badlands, burrowing down into the mountain and under the ocean. We’d had to run. Fast. I’d never moved that quickly in my life, my hand locked in Cristiano’s as we’d pulled each other along.
But we’d made it to the end of the tunnel before the explosion could catch us, where a submarine had waited complete with the documents to support our new life and coordinates already programmed into the GPS. Only Max knew the truth. To everyone else, we were nothing more than ashes, gone in the wind.
I thanked Our Lady of Guadalupe every day that my love and I had survived, and that now, we’d finally form a family. And I thanked Cristiano, too, for the devil made his own destiny and crowned his own queen.
* * *
Date night, my favorite time of week.
Holding hands, Cristiano and I walked through the cobblestone streets of the small town in Greece where we’d chosen to settle for the next little while. Soon, either here or in our next spot, we’d have to stay put to have the baby.
The sun made its way toward the horizon, casting late-afternoon light on the white plaster walls that broke up buildings the colors of blush, pistachio, and melon. We made our lazy way through the labyrinth toward upbeat music in the town center. Every Saturday night, residents gathered for a street fair.
Cristiano bought a bottle of locally distilled single malt and some baklava, feeding me a bite before his animalistic appetite possessed him to take a chunk out of it.
We stopped by a wall to finish our pastries. One man had covered himself head to toe in gold spray-paint and stood still as a statue in front of a bowl for tips. Another played a hauntingly beautiful melody on the violin. A teen girl skulked around the booths in a skull-and-crossbones hoodie.
A cool breeze passed through the square for a perfect November evening.
Cristiano’s eyes roamed the area around us, and I knew he was thinking of his people in the Badlands, dispersed around the world now. I had complete faith they’d all made a home somewhere and were thriving, as did he.
I hoped that was true for my friends, Pilar and Alejandro, wherever they were.
For my father, I wished peace, though I knew he struggled with such an empty house. I shouldn’t have sent the rosary. Cristiano hadn’t wanted me to, but he hadn’t stopped me, either. I wasn’t sure if Papá would understand, but Cristiano had said Barto definitely would.
I slipped my hand in Cristiano’s, and he turned to smile down at me. “More fine, handmade clothing here than we’ve seen in a while. What do you need?” he asked. “Aren’t your pants getting too small?”