He nods and walks ahead silently, leading me up a path further into the woods.
I follow him, a million questions whizzing through my mind. The question is, do I have the guts to ask him any of them?
I’m not sure if it’s the fear of the answers he’ll give me or if he won’t answer me at all that is holding me back. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, watching him as he moves ahead of me.
Fuck it.
“Elias,” I say his name, my heart hammering hard and fast.
“Yeah,” he says, not glancing back at me.
“What made you hate me so much?” I ask, wishing my throat didn’t constrict with pain the moment I ask that question. It’s a question that has played on my mind since his first day in the cafeteria, when he turned my world upside down.
He stops walking, back as stiff as a board. And then he turns to look at me, eyes blazing with an emotion I can’t quite place. “It’s a complicated story,” he says, brow furrowing slightly. “I blamed your family for me being taken from my home.”
My brow furrows at that, as it was the last thing I expected him to say. “What?”
He shakes his head. “As I say, it’s a long and complicated story.”
I glance at my watch. “We have two hours to kill.”
He sighs heavily, glancing at his watch too. “Fine, but I’ll tell you while we walk.” His movements are stiff and unnatural as he turns his back to me, continuing along the path through the trees. “New year’s eve before I started at The Syndicate Academy, my father came home drunk and angry.” There’s a sadness in his tone as he speaks, and I wonder what he’s about to tell me. “He fought with my mother and I watched while he beat her to death.”
I gasp at that. “I’m sorry, Elias—”
“Save it. I don’t need your pity,” he snaps, glaring at me over his shoulder with those intense blue eyes.
I fall silent, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip.
“The next day, my family dragged me onto a jet and flew me to Chicago. Along with my uncle, my father and my cousins.” He draws in a deep breath, hesitating before saying, “They didn’t even let me go to my mother’s funeral.”
What kind of family doesn’t allow a son to attend his own mother’s funeral?
His footsteps hasten as if out of rage at reliving the time he’s talking about and I have to jog to keep up with him. “The Estrada Cartel had struck up a deal with the Gurin Bratva and we were to head up the operations north of the border.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “That is all they told me, and until recently, I’d believed that my father had killed my mother because she didn’t want him to take me to America. So, I blamed your family for her death and, subsequently, me being ripped away from everything I knew.”
I stare at him, almost shocked that there is a genuine reason behind his dislike of me, even if it’s utterly ridiculous. A twelve-year-old girl could never have had any knowledge or hand in what he’s talking about. But I understand now why he hated me. His rage over watching his mother beaten to death and then dragged to a new country where he had only a loose grasp on the language. Any boy would be angry, and my last name directed his anger at me.
He falls silent, trudging further into the forest. Once a few minutes have passed, I’m sure he isn’t going to continue the story.
“You say until recently. What changed?” I ask.
“Everything,” he murmurs, turning around so suddenly that I slam into his chest.
I try to take a step back, but he reaches for me and holds me close.
“My uncle explained why my father killed her. She betrayed the family and was sleeping with a member of the Vasquez Cartel.” A muscle at his temple contracts. “I blamed the deal with the Gurin Bratva, when it had been my mother’s foolish mistakes that led to her own death and the reason we had to leave Reynosa.” His jaw clenches. “She had sold the cartel out and Vasquez Cartel took over the territory within days. I’ll never forgive my father for taking her life, as he was a coward for not telling Don Pablo to fuck off and get someone else to do it.” Elias shrugs. “But I can’t lay the blame with the Gurin Bratva any longer.”
I nod in understanding, but I’m pretty sure if his father told the head of the Estrada Cartel to fuck off, he would be dead himself.
It’s hard to believe that all these years I thought he just took one look at me and instantly hated me. As if it were the opposite of love at first sight, hate at first sight.
All along he’s had this secret hatred for the Gurin Bratva and, in turn, me.
“So, why do you still torment me?” I ask, knowing that the answer to that question has the power to unravel me entirely.
His nostrils flare and he shrugs. “I only found out about my mother’s betrayal the day before New Year’s eve just passed.” He releases me and turns his back to me, walking further up the path. “My uncle took me to her grave in Reynosa for the first time.” The muscles in his back are knotted and tense as he talks. “And old habits die hard.”
Habits.