Broken by Lies

by Rebecca Shea

  “What’s the plan, boss?”

  The BMW is gone, and there’s now no sign of Manuel. “Pull into the driveway and stay here. I’m going inside.” And finding out what the fuck is going on.

  He nods, and puts the truck in park. I pull out my phone and my gun, and head for the front door, which is wide open. Manuel is standing just inside, on the phone. I step to the side so he can’t see me, and I listen to his conversation. What I hear has me fucking furious.

  Without thinking, I slam the door closed behind me. “Manuel!”

  He drops the phone. “Alejandro!” He eyes the gun in my right hand.

  “Hang it up.” I nod toward the phone on the floor.

  He swallows hard and bends down to retrieve the phone, shoving it in his pocket.

  “Not so fast, hand it over.”

  “What?” He looks terrified.

  “The phone. Hand it over.”

  He pulls the phone from his pocket and hands it to me.

  “There’s only one way to do this, Manuel.”

  “Do what?” he barks at me, becoming agitated.

  “Find out what you’re up to. You can tell me the truth, or I can call whoever it was you were just on the phone with.”

  He rakes his hands over his face. “It’s nothing. Just a little side business.”

  “A little side business?” I see red and anger roils through my body.

  He glances over to the stacked bundles of marijuana, and I notice one is cut open. “So you’re funding your little side business with stolen weed?”

  He shifts nervously, his eyes never leaving my gun.

  “Answer me, goddammit!” I’m about to boil over with rage. I’ve never killed anyone in my life, but Manuel is damn close to becoming the first.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I just needed to bring in some extra cash…” He stands shorter than me, and sweat beads form along his forehead at his hairline. His dark eyes plead with me not to hurt him.

  “You don’t think we take care of you? You don’t think we would’ve helped you out? No? So you steal from me? You fucking steal from me?” I raise my gun and shove it into his chest, knocking him off balance.

  “I’m sorry, so fucking sorry, fuck, fuck,” he stutters. “It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re damn right, it won’t happen again.” Just then, I hear the crack. My ear rings as the gunshot echoes through the otherwise empty house, and warm blood hits me across the face, catching me off guard.

  Manuel falls to the ground and doesn’t move. Blood pools around him from the gaping hole in his neck.

  “Jesus Christ!” I swivel to see Saul standing behind me, his gun still pointed at Manuel. “Why did you shoot him?” I use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe the blood off my face.

  Saul shrugs, like it’s no big deal he just murdered someone. “He needed to be taken out. Your father would’ve wanted this.”

  “I am not my father,” I grind out. “I’m running this organization now. Not him!” I vowed to run my father’s business differently while he was in prison. I stalk over to the window and scan the area, hoping the shot and yelling hasn’t attracted any neighbors. “We need to get out of here. It wouldn’t surprise me if the police show up. Drop me off, and then come back and handle this.”

  I glance once at Manuel on the floor, lying in a pool of his own blood. My pulse quickens; I feel sick. The sight of blood always reminds me of my mother’s death.

  “Let’s go,” I bark at Saul.

  I hate death, and I hate violence, yet this is my world. This is what I’m surrounded by now. I’m no longer the business major behind the finances, sitting in my small home office, playing with money. I’m running a fucking violent criminal organization. My heart races all the way back to the condo. No words are exchanged between Saul and me. I presume my balled up fists and heavy breathing are signal enough that I am fucking pissed.

  “I want that cleaned up. And handle him appropriately,” I tell him firmly. He nods at me as he pulls into the parking garage. “And if you ever pull a stunt like that again, it’ll be me fucking blowing your head off. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” He grinds his jaw in annoyance with me.

  “You take orders from me now, not my father. Things are handled differently, and you need to accept that.”

  “I will.” I see his knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel. My father let Saul do whatever he wanted, and I won’t have that. He’s reckless and dangerous and a liability—but I have to keep him.

  I slam the truck door behind me as Saul steps on the gas and peels down the parking garage. Stepping into the elevator, I catch the first glimpse of myself in the polished, stainless steel doors. “Fuck,” I mutter at the blood splatter on my shirt and the blood that has dried on my face and neck.

  The elevator opens, and I pause just outside my condo. I need a moment to collect myself before going inside. My stomach turns and I shove down the nausea, taking three deep breaths. Turning the handle, I step inside and hear Rosa and Emilia laughing and talking in the kitchen. There’s no way to avoid them. Taking a deep breath, I enter the kitchen. Emilia is sitting on a stool at the island, eating dinner, and Rosa is across the counter, talking.

  Rosa’s face falls flat when she sees me, and I shake my head at her, telling her not to ask or say anything. Emilia must pick up on Rosa’s shock and turns around. When her eyes find mine, they drop to my neck, then to my chest. Her fork clatters to the glass plate, and she lunges off the stool, toward me.

  “Oh my God, what happened? Are you okay?” she cries.

  I grab her by the upper arms to stop her. I don’t want her touching me. “I’m fine.” My words are clipped, and I can see the worry on her face, but I gently move her to the side and walk past her.

  Rosa scurries around the kitchen counter and pulls Emilia to her as I make my way to my bedroom. I turn on the shower and strip my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. They need to be burned, along with my shoes. Steam begins to billow out of the shower, and I take deep breaths of the hot steamy air. The sting of hot water against my skin is nothing compared to the ache I feel inside. Today, I was the cause of someone’s death. I may as well have murdered him myself. With a washcloth doused with body wash, I scrub my skin, again and again. But no matter how hard I scrub, or how long I stand under this scalding water, I can still feel Manuel’s warm blood on me. I can still see his dead, unseeing eyes. I can still see the hole in his neck, the blood pooling beneath him.

  “Alex?” I hear her faint voice, although I can’t see her through the steam-covered glass.

  I press my forehead to the porcelain wall. I don’t want her to see me like this. “Em, now’s not a good time.”

  “I know,” she says, small and shakily. “I just want you to know I’m here for you.” She pauses. “When you’re ready.”

  But will I ever be ready to tell her who I really am?

  Shutting off the water, I pull a large towel from the rack. The cool air pricks at my skin as I step out of the steam and into the cool room. I dress in a pair of jeans and a light blue Polo t-shirt before fishing my cell phone out of the pocket of my other pants. It makes me sick to my stomach again just looking at them. They’re covered in sin.

  Hovering over the call button, I finally get the courage to press it.

  “Hello?” His voice is calm but cautious.

  “I need to see you… tonight.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” His voice is concerned, but I trust he’ll be waiting for me.

  The phone disconnects, and I sit at the edge of my bed, head bowed. It takes a few minutes before I’m ready to leave my room, but finally, I venture out. The house is quiet. Rosa is gone by now, and Emilia’s door is wide open, but she’s not inside. As I head down the hallway, I finally see her sitting in the middle of the living room floor. She’s perched on the plush throw rug that sits between the couch and a large wood table that I had made for this room.

  For a l
ong minute, I stand and watch her. She’s hunched over, painting her toes with slow, methodical strokes. Her long hair is tied, and her cheeks are flushed pink. Just the sight of her relaxes me. Amazing how she can do that. I don’t understand it, and I don’t understand how I’ve gone this long in my life without her as a sort of life source. I already feel my heart rate returning to normal, that sick feeling in my stomach dissipating.

  Everything about her is sweet. Pure. Innocent. She is why I want to change. She makes me want to be a man that she deserves, that she can find happiness with and give her the dreams she so badly deserves. Everything I’ve never felt for anyone else, I feel for her.

  I swallow hard as she blows a stray strand of hair from her face and rocks back on her butt, wiggling her toes as they dry. My lips pull into a small smile. I could watch her for hours, maybe days, and never be bored. She is perfection.

  Finally, she catches me watching and shoots a cautious smile at me. She remains rooted in place—no words exchanged between us—just a sympathetic look. She’s giving me the space I asked for, but all I want is to lose myself inside her.

  “Come with me,” I say quietly.

  “Where?” I see the hesitation in her eyes. The fear. Fuck, I came home covered in another man’s blood—she should be horrified—but yet, she’s still here. She watches me tentatively, but something passes between us—a look of trust.

  “Just walk with me.”

  She pushes herself up and slides her feet into a pair of flip-flops, setting the small bottle of nail polish on the table. I reach for her hand. She takes it, but not before pulling me into a hug. She holds on to me for dear life, yet I don’t have the courage to hug her back. She senses my tension and pulls away, her eyes cast downward at her feet. I hate that I push her away when I need her most, but mostly I hate that I can’t return the affection that she deserves.

  We walk hand in hand through the quiet downtown streets to the only place I seem to find myself when my life is falling apart. The church comes into view, and Em squeezes my hand as we turn the corner and make our way across the street.

  Standing in front, she suddenly pulls her hand from mine. “Go. I’ll be waiting right here.”

  Like hell. “No. I don’t like you out here by yourself.”

  “Alex.” Her tone is firm. “I said I’ll be fine. Go.”

  She’s fierce and independent and won’t be told no—a few of her qualities that I simultaneously love and hate. As much as I want to force her inside, I respect her confidence and ability to push back. After a moment, I nod and turn away from her, heading inside. By myself.

  Father Mark is in the front pew, his head bowed in prayer. The aisle is long and the church is mostly dark, with the exception of some dim lights that illuminate the Stations of the Cross lining the perimeter.

  At the sound of my shoes on the old wood floor, Father Mark turns around and gestures for me to come forward, and I slide into the pew next to him.

  “What’s bothering you, Alejandro?”

  Emotions bubble just under the surface. Emotions I’ve never felt comfortable dealing with, so I’ve shoved them down. Buried them beneath the hate, the anger, the sadness that is my life. But now they bubble, coming up so high that my throat tightens, and I feel tears begin to form in my eyes. The last time I cried was when I watched my mom be lowered into the ground and covered in dirt. I wasn’t allowed to cry after that. My dad wouldn’t allow tears. I sit quietly, not knowing where to even begin.

  “Take all the time you need, Alejandro,” Father Mark says, giving me the time I need to form words.

  I swallow hard against the lump in my throat and focus on the stained-glass window just behind Father Mark. I’m too much of a coward to look him in the eye.

  “I killed a man today.” I can almost hear him gasp, but he sits silently. “Not with my own hands, but indirectly.” He nods slowly, but doesn’t speak. “I can’t do this anymore—I never wanted to do it in the first place,” I choke out. A lone tear falls from the corner of my eye, and I quickly bat it away.

  “Alejandro…” He pauses. “You always have a choice.”

  I shake my head. I don’t have a choice. In this life, this business, there are no choices. Your choices are made for you. This is how the family business works.

  “They’ll kill me, Father. There is no choice. I stay or I die. That’s it.”

  He takes that in and stares up at the intricate peeks in the ceiling. “Do you remember when you first started to come and see me? After your mom passed?”

  “Yeah.” Father Mark was the only person in the world I could talk to. He listened and comforted me in the years after my mom passed. He doesn’t judge me, even though he knows I’m a horrible person.

  “You’d walk across the street from the school and come into the parish, and sit in the pew, and just stare at the altar.”

  Those days are so ingrained in my memory. I remember every detail. The wooden pews, the altar, the smell—this church has always brought me peace and comforted me. Nothing has changed here from twenty years ago. “I remember.”

  “I was so sad to see you here. As much I loved our time talking about your mother and your school, I hurt for you. Your brother got lucky, and you got the short end of the stick. I was so angry at your father for not letting you go with them. Your aunt and uncle were willing to take both of you, but your father marked you. He wanted you in the business, and there was no convincing him otherwise. I tried, Alex. I tried so hard to convince him to let them take you both.” Father Mark hangs his head in sorrow, a feeling I am very familiar with.

  Then he wrings his hands together and stares at the pulpit in front of us. “All I could do then was pray for you. Pray you’d continue to come and see me, and pray that God would watch over you and protect you. All these years, you’ve kept coming, and all these years, I’ve been guiding you and praying that one day you’d stop coming because you had made the conscious decision to get out, to get away from all of this. But every Sunday, you sit in that pew.” He points to the back of the church. “And every Saturday, you come for confession.”

  He leans forward and hangs both of his arms over the pew, lacing his fingers together. “I long for the day that I walk into this church and you’re not here… but not because you’ve become a victim to this life… but because you chose to get out.”

  As I listen to Father Mark, I suddenly realize that this is the only place I’ve ever felt safe.

  “Remember after mass on Sunday when I pulled you aside?” he continues, a desperate glint in his eyes. “I told you that you had to do right by Emilia. Be truthful with her. This is your opportunity to go. Take her and go. Get away from this.”

  I feel all of his words, and I want what he wants. I have wanted that for so long, but I feel so fucking helpless. “It’s not that easy.”

  “Nothing in life that matters is.” He stands up and looks at me. “Let’s not forget your penance, son. Two Hail Mary’s, and I want you to visit your mother. Talk to her.”

  “She’s dead.” My voice breaks as her memory floods my mind.

  “I know this. Visit her gravesite.” He begins to walk away. “And there’s someone waiting for you.” He gestures to the back of the church. I turn slowly to see Emilia sitting silently in the last pew.

  “Goodnight, Alejandro.”

  “Night, Father.”

  I compose myself before heading back to her.

  “Hi,” she says with a small, hopeful smile.

  “Hi.” God, she looks beautiful, and I want to hold her. I want to touch her. I want to let go and run away from this fucking horrible life and be with her and give her the world.

  “Feel better?”

  “A little.” I shrug and take her hand. Just her warm palm in mine clenches the walls around my heart. A small sense of hope finds its way inside of me and roots itself. As we leave, I turn back and see Father Mark watching us. He offers a tight smile and a nod before we disappear into the humid Phoeni
x night.

  I CHECK THE business accounts one last time to ensure today’s deposits were made, and I check emails to make sure tomorrow’s delivery from Mexico is still on schedule as planned. I make sure all the security cameras are on and working before shutting down for the evening.

  Emilia is sound asleep and curled up in a ball on the sectional in the game room, with the TV remote in her hand. Pulling a blanket from the back of the couch, I lay it over her body. “Buenos noches, mi amor,” slips from my lips as I kiss her forehead gently and turn off the TV. I’ve never called anyone “my love” before—until Emilia.

  For the next hour, I toss and turn until I feel the bed shift behind me. Emilia’s warm body slides under the covers, and she wraps herself around me. I pull her hand to my chest, and we lie in the silent dark. She’s comforting me the only way I’ll let her—without words. After a while, I feel her pulling away, but I hold on to her, not letting her go.

  “Alex, I need to go to bed. I have to work in the morning.”

  “Just stay for a minute. I need to talk to you.” I feel her body stiffen before she relaxes back into me. We’re both on our backs, our fingers laced tightly together in the pitch black room. I struggle with how to tell her who I am and what I do. I know she can sense my nervousness.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” Her voice is feeble.

  “It is,” I admit honestly.

  She squeezes my hand, urging me to begin. Lying next to her in the dark, I feel less vulnerable. Like if she can’t see me exposing myself, maybe it’ll hurt me less because I won’t be able to see her disappointment—her disgust.

  “Everything you think you know about me is a lie. I run the Estrada drug cartel.” I swear she stops breathing. There is no sound or movement coming from her. “Em? Say something.”

  “You sell drugs?” she whispers.

  Shit. “Well, I don’t sell them… but my family’s business imports them from Mexico, and we distribute them to people who do sell them.”

  She snorts and pulls away slightly, creating some distance between us on the bed, but I won’t let go of her hand. I’m not letting her run away from me. “Imports. I like how you put that little spin on it. These are drugs, Alex, not Persian rugs. You import drugs. You smuggle them into the country.”