He pinches the bridge of his nose. “My brothers and I are competitive when it comes to target practice.” Wicked lashes lower as he takes a balancing breath. “You best get into bed and stay there.”
Tomás nods to his roguish sibling, a silent gesture of approval for him to usher me out of the room. I swallow the temptation to hug Tomás close and seek sanctuary by his side. Instead, I obediently traipse behind André. Glancing over my shoulder, I witness his nostrils flare and his eyes follow my departure.
“So your name is Carina,” André saunters ahead, grabs an unopened bottle of booze and swaggers between a set of twin pillars. “Where are you from?” he says over his shoulder. “You must be... what... eighteen?”
“I’m nearly twenty and I live in Bogotá,” I offer a reply without fully answering his question. He doesn't need to know where I was born or anything else about me, for that matter. The less he knows, the better. Once I’ve served Tomás, I'd disappear.
“Right. And how did you meet each other?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” He swivels and stops by the sculpted bust with golden tears and waits for me to catch up.
I pad closer to him, the scent of lavender emanating from the robe I’ve now tied at the waist. “I’m sure Tomás will answer your questions if you ask him.”
André chuckles, wipes the back of his hand beneath his nostrils, checks it’s clean of blood, and pulls out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from his jeans pocket. “I can see why he might trust you.” He exhales a swell of smoke. “I’m just confused, that’s all. It’s out of character for him…” His shoulders bounce. “To bring a stranger here, or even a woman.”
We climb the stairs side by side, him in the center and me trapped against the handrail.
“You didn’t bring anyone?” I ask, the sensation of my self-hug offering little comfort in this unusual set up.
“None of us did, except for him.” His eyes drill into my side profile. “You can understand why I was suspicious.” He hesitates for a beat to unscrew the bottle cap and takes a swig. “And what happened back there wasn’t normal.”
“Normal?”
“How he heard your voice when he was blipping out. The Tommy I know has been a slave to that fucking mind mess forever. And along comes a pretty little thing like you…” He sucks in a lungful of smoke and mouths out a few rings, each one floating into the atmosphere as vaporous lifebuoys as he sizes me up. “I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.” My fingers skim the handrail to steady me, my feet tingling beneath me. André reaches the landing before me, swivels in his boots to greet me and offers a large, tattooed hand for the last step. “How much is he paying you? I only ask, because that whole show was priceless... and sexy as fuck.”
Whether it's intentional or not, the implied undertone crawls over me like he just dumped a nest of spiders onto my scalp. My unorthodox relationship with Tomás is purely contractual, no matter the unlawful feelings sprouting within me. He’s using my services to heal himself, and once he’s done, I’d be paid, banished, and watched over by his goons.
I choose silence rather than implicate myself in any financial or sexual wrongdoing. When my hand settles into his, there’s no sexual appetite or surge of adrenaline. Although his husky voice is masculine and gritty, dozens of thick lashes frame mischievous earthy brown eyes and his muscular build is attractive, the deep ache I feel in my core for Tomás is absent. I’m uncomfortably numb.
Once the soles of my bare feet find their place next to his boots, I tug my hand away, slide my fingertips across my upper lip, and contemplate the desire in my belly for this man's older brother. I hoped it was simply the age-old fable.
How a man’s forbidden urges can awaken an untouched girl, but when I look back on the men I’ve encountered to date, none of them have captured my curiosity for sex. Not the way Tomás does.
“Tomorrow is a big day for our family. He'll be preoccupied with the funeral arrangements.” André’s casual strides continue to eat up the carpet. “If you need anything, I’ll be around.”
“I’ll be fine,” I reply, my pace slower than his by a purposeful few steps.
He chuckles, the aroma of liquor and tobacco heavy on his breath when he turns into me and sets his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Carina. You’re his medicine, not mine. I have a thing for busty blondes with deep throats.” His cheek dimples as a roguish grin dances over his lips. “I love my brother with all of my fucking heart. Stealing his mistress isn’t on my agenda. To be honest, I’ll be relieved when this shit show is over. I’ve been planning Papá’s funeral since I was your age.”
21
TOMÁS
Throughout my entire life, Teresa Souza has been my one true constant.
The woman who tried her best to be a stable parent when my father was busy proving to the outside world thathewas the best. Although my parents were married, my mother had a degree of independence, a life she led outside of this illusion—beyond the grand dwelling he referred to as the family home. We didn’t.
It was meant to be the one place where we would all come together and celebrate the extravagant Souza lifestyle. In reality, it was my father’s asylum and his mental penitentiary. A safehouse for his unstable mind and the only fitting place on earth where he would eventually be entombed.
I visited him here in person when there were important business discussions to talk over. Whereas my brothers reluctantly arrived as and when they were summoned. Aside from that, throughout the years, it was filled with more armed soldiers than family members.
With Carina out of the room, my mother puts her hands over the sickly blood dirtying my skin. The gentle act stops my hands from wringing in the absence of washing them. Where Papá saw a weakness that threatened his organization, mother recognized the weight of my distorted mind. She’d sought out professionals from every spectrum of the mental health discipline. Yet none of them could fix me.
She leads me onto the terrace, to a statue of a freakish bronze warrior in his natural born state, embroiled in a fight with a grisly beast. The ugly fountain spews water from the splayed throat of the wild animal, sprinkling the expansive pond lit up by a sheen of moonlight.
At the age of thirty-two, I still get comfort from her motherly compassion, from a woman who’d endured more than she should over the years. What my father offered to us as tyrannical lessons in discord and brutality; my mother replenished with affection.