by Edie Harris
“You slept with another woman.”
“A mistake, Ilda. How long will you punish me for this?” His phone vibrated against the hardwood tabletop, but he ignored it in favor of staying at her feet, suit jacket open and collar unbuttoned in a way that just screamed Money and Power. At age forty-four, combined with his lean swimmer’s build and his darker mestizo coloring, if he hadn’t been a criminal, he would most certainly be listed as one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. She wasn’t the least bit surprised that he’d surrendered to temptation and had drunken sex with one of the desperate young things that swarmed the cartel-owned clubs like flies.
That didn’t mean she had to tolerate it, though. “I’m not trying to punish you,” Ilda murmured, honestly. “I just keep wondering if you wouldn’t be happier as a free man.”
“Never.” He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips, his thumb toying with the engagement ring. “You and Arlo are my happiness.” There was something so earnest in his gaze. “I want to come back to you, Ilda. You know I won’t stray again.”
She didn’t know that, and in all honesty, she doubted he’d stay faithful if they married. She was a placeholder, a poor substitute for the woman he would have promised his everlasting fidelity to. Théa. “Let’s get through this dinner first?” And perhaps by that time, she’d know what she planned to do about Casí—Casey—too.
“That I can do.” Pipe smiled up at her, pleased. “What are your plans for the day, querida?”
“A meeting with the Ladies Auxiliary at the church.” That she was dreading, but her feelings, positive or otherwise, had nothing to do with why she chaired the event committee with Medellín’s nosiest wives. “The Ascension Day charity auction is Friday night. Black tie—don’t forget.”
“I won’t.” He squeezed her hand. “How would you feel about a few days on the islands when this week is over? I’ll call Renata, have her open up the villa. Just the three of us, family time—you, me, Arlo.”
The Islas del Rosario were the first place Pipe had taken Ilda after Arlo was born, the first time he’d told her he loved her. She found herself nodding. “That sounds nice.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” He stood to plant another kiss on her, this one deeper, with a lick of heat...and she strove not to tense at the intimacy that was nothing at all like what she’d so illicitly shared yesterday with—
A throat cleared from the interior doorway separating the dining room from the hall. Pipe ended the kiss with a leisurely lift of his head, but all relaxation left his body as he took in their visitors. Immediately, he placed himself between her and the newcomers, but Ilda didn’t need to see his face to know who’d just walked in and destroyed their peaceful morning.
“Why the hell did you bring him in here?” Pipe demanded through gritted teeth.
“You said to text when he arrived.” The voice belonged to one of the newer brigadiers, Eddy Jimenez—one of the newer, and one of the dumber. “I texted but you didn’t answer, so...”
Even as unease descended, Ilda spared a pitying thought for poor, dumb Eddy and his short-lived career in the Marin cartel.
“Out,” Pipe snapped. “Wait for me in the courtyard.” He shifted then, only slightly, but it was enough. Enough for her to glimpse the two men standing at the opposite end of the table, one appearing properly chastened and one her dead husband.
Panic. That’s what this horrible frozen stiffness was, turning her limbs to stone and making Arlo squirm uncomfortably within her embrace. She was torn between grabbing her daughter and making a mad dash into the kitchen or staying so still in her seat she might never attract notice, like a wild animal who knows it’s about to lose its freedom by evolving, unwillingly, into prey.
She suddenly regretted every bite of breakfast, terror churning in her stomach. None of which was helped along any by Arlo’s bony, bandaged knee jabbing into her side as she fidgeted, obviously having sensed the skyrocketing tension. Don’t make a sound, baby girl. Don’t make him look.
Though, to Casey’s credit—and no doubt due to his spy training—he didn’t take his eyes off of Pipe. “Señor Marin.” His voice, so different from Pipe’s and so jarring to actually hear aloud after years of believing she’d never hear it again, stayed deferent and neutral.
Good. He was smarter than Dumb Eddy, it seemed.
He’d shown deference to Pipe back in the day, of course, but in no memory did she recall hearing him refer to his boss as señor. Pipe was Pipe, whether you respected him or not, and the man himself hardly expected to be called otherwise. His name inspired fear, and awe, and sometimes a little disbelief.
On a global scale, Pipe’s criminality was a stark thing, easily labeled by various governments and law enforcement agencies. Here in the city, however, it was different. Pipe took care of the people under his protection. He helped them find work. He made sure they received medical care. He kept petty crime at bay and imposed harsh consequences for those who committed assault, rape or murder. He had the policia in his pocket, which benefitted not only him but the community as a whole. Cartel life was neither safe nor happy, but everyone knew it would be far worse if the Orras family had remained in charge.
So, no, Pipe wasn’t a good man, but he operated by a code. Respecting that code was synonymous with respecting him, which was why he’d never demanded a weighty honorific from his brigadiers, past or present. That Casey offered him a señor meant he knew how badly he’d messed up.
Except not even Pipe knew how badly Casey had messed up. Hell, he still believed his name to be—
“Cortez. You’re empty-handed.”
“I left it outside.”
“Then outside we shall go.” Pipe gestured toward the hall, to the foyer and open-air courtyard that lay beyond, and both Casey and Eddy turned to go, neither of them daring to glance past Pipe to where she sat.
CRASH.
Ilda’s grapefruit juice went flying. In her panic, she’d stopped paying attention to Arlo and hadn’t noticed her sneaky hands reaching for the table—and for the tempting glass of pretty pink juice.
The burst of sound stopped all three men in their tracks. Pipe frowned, concerned. “Querida?”
Ilda snapped into mother mode. “It’s nothing. Just a spill.” Rising, she settled Arlo in her abandoned seat and handed the girl a cloth napkin, miming wiping her hands with it. Having set her to her task, Ilda began locating bits of broken glass scattered across the tabletop and dropping the shards safely onto her plate. Soon enough, the staff was there, shooing her away, and she turned and knelt to help her daughter clean the last of the stickiness from her fingers.
“A new addition to your family, Pipe?” Casey’s casual question reached her ears, and her spine stiffened with dread.
Pipe answered, paternal pride in every syllable. “My daughter, Arlo Beatrìz.”
Casey cleared his throat. “Hola, Arlo.”
Arlo didn’t look in his direction.
A beat passed. “Shy, is she?”
“Not shy,” Ilda said, cursing her mouth with every word, because hell if she knew why she couldn’t keep quiet at this, the most vital of moments in which her silence mattered. “Deaf.” Patting Arlo’s knee, she pointed to Casey and mimed waving hello.
A few slick strands of dark hair escaped to brush her round cheeks as Arlo turned in the seat of the chair to lift both arms in a happy hello to the big man who’d gone pale the second she faced him.
Ilda’s heart stuttered in her chest. That was her beautiful baby—trusting and friendly to everyone with whom she came into contact. But while she might not be able to hear tone of voice, Arlo could certainly read expression, and her innocent smile faded the longer she looked at Casey.
“Arlo,” he said, rough, and his eyes flicked to hers before snapping back to Arlo. “That’s a pretty name.”
Ilda swallowed. “Thank you.” A full-body shiver wracked her, but she held it together, still kneeling in front of the chair, one hand on Arlo�
��s leg. She noticed Pipe’s gaze on her, questioning, and shook her head. She was fine. She was absolutely fine.
“Congratulations.” Shock and fury, wonder and hunger sprinted across Casey’s face before he managed to school his expression, a split second before Pipe looked at him again. “A child is a blessing.”
“Indeed. Now, come,” Pipe demanded, his tone brooking no disobedience, and the men went, one by one into the hall, and she swore she neither noticed nor cared that Casey’s gaze as he turned from her screamed bloody murder.
As soon as they left the room, Ilda shot to her feet, gasping, eyes blurring with the sting of unshed tears. Snatching Arlo from the chair, she strode to the wall of glass doors and out onto the patio, gulping in the fresh morning air and letting it soothe her seizing lungs. “Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God.” Every inch of her body shook, hurt, the tears now slipping down her cheeks burning like acid over her skin.
Small hands patted her face, wiping at the wetness, and Ilda turned her head to offer Arlo a watery smile. Even knowing Arlo couldn’t hear, she spoke, seeing how her baby focused on her lips, and she knew that starting classes at the newly opened Escuela Infantil para Sordos was the right thing to do. “It’s okay, darling girl. It’s all going to be okay.” She stroked a calming hand up and down Arlo’s back, swaying back and forth as she’d done when Arlo was a screaming, colicky infant. “We are going to be okay.”
But who was she trying to convince here? Arlo wouldn’t care, didn’t know, but Ilda was, officially, terrified. Her walls were shaking in their foundations.
He’d seen her. Casey had seen Arlo, and he had known.
Ilda thought she might vomit.
“Isobel!” Sticking her head through the door, she called again for the nanny. “Isobel, I need you!” Shifting Arlo’s weight to one arm, Ilda swiped away her tears and focused on her breathing. The view from the patio, high atop the hill and overlooking the rolling wooded acres Pipe owned as part of this massive, sprawling property, was as stunning as ever, and after several moments, Ilda finally saw it clearly. A shame that clarity didn’t extend to her chaotic, fear-driven thoughts.
Finally, Arlo’s nanny appeared. Isobel Garcia had been a childhood friend of Ilda and Théa growing up in the 13, a comuna overrun by gang activity. Ilda and Théa had lost their parents to gang violence in their teens and moved away from the district to live with an uncle who taught guitar through one of the Musica de Medellín city programs, but they had stayed in touch with Isobel. When the sisters had formed Almángel, they’d hired Isobel as an assistant, pulling the young woman out of a life dictated by neighborhood violence and bloodshed. While Théa’s murder had been the death knell for Almángel and Ilda’s professional music career, Isobel had stayed on to help Ilda through her pregnancy, eventually becoming Arlo’s nanny.
Isobel was the only person on the hacienda whose loyalty was first to Ilda and not to Pipe. Though Pipe now paid her salary, it was Ilda who had safeguarded her future through a series of investments made when Isobel had first started working for the Almeidas. No matter what happened to Ilda, Isobel would never need to return to the 13, nor depend on cartel benevolence.
Gathering Arlo in her arms, Isobel gave Ilda a hard stare. “You look awful.”
“You’re wonderful for my ego.”
Isobel snorted a laugh before sobering again. “It’s because that man is back.”
Ilda didn’t pretend not to know whom Isobel meant. “How do you know about him?”
“Passed him in the courtyard on my way here.” A shrug lifted Isobel’s sturdy shoulders. “I remember how you were with him, back in the day. Except...didn’t he die?”
“Apparently not.”
Dropping kisses all over Arlo’s face—much to the little girl’s giggling delight—Isobel digested that statement before coming to a conclusion. “You need to stay far away from him, chica,” she said in a serious tone Ilda hadn’t heard from her friend since Théa’s funeral. “I know you, I know your big soft heart, but he isn’t worth the trouble he’ll bring you if you open up that heart to him again.” Then she brightened, like a flipped switch, and dipped Arlo as though they tangoed. Arlo squealed happily. “Come on, bebita. We’ve got a city of building blocks with your name on it in need of renovation.” And then with a wave to Ilda, her daughter and her nanny disappeared into the house.
Again, Ilda turned to stare out over the vista, hands propped on her hips as she took the time she needed to craft a mask over her emotions, but it was harder than she remembered. She hadn’t needed a mask in so long—not once in four years.
Dios, but she hated him.
Smoothing her hands over the flounces of her demure amethyst cotton sundress, Ilda took one last breath and entered the dining room, skirting the table to head down the hall toward the grand foyer. Her purse sat on a decorative escritoire, and she slung the bag over her shoulder, sliding on a pair of sunglasses before stepping out into the sunshine of the southern courtyard. She knew Pipe and Casey would congregate in the larger courtyard to the north of the main entrance, so she ran no risk of crossing paths with them, for which she was forever grateful.
She headed for the garage and her armed guard of a chauffeur. Franco had been driving her anywhere she wished to go since the incident at the chapel four years ago. He was in his mid-fifties and had been Pipe’s own driver for nearly two decades, until Pipe had decided Ilda needed Franco more. “Señora,” he said now with a kindly smile that belied the fact that he reported her every movement to her fiancé. “To the Ladies Auxiliary meeting?”
“You know my schedule better than I do, Franco,” she responded lightly, climbing into the back of the armored Escalade through the door he held open for her. “Want to take my place with the gossiping biddies today?”
He laughed and closed the door on her, then climbed into the driver’s seat. “You could not pay me enough, señora.”
“I figured.”
They said nothing more as he drove her through the hacienda’s steel-enforced gates and steered the SUV down the winding road that quickly gave way to the poverty-stricken outskirts of Medellín’s mountainside districts. Located in the heart of the city, the church at which Ilda attended mass every Wednesday and Sunday was a solid forty-five-minute drive from the hacienda. Nuestra Señora del Sangrado Corazón had been the spiritual home of the Almeida family for generations, and despite Ilda’s complaints about the other women on the committee, she loved her church and the community it had always provided her.
Pulling around to the rear entrance, Franco hopped out to open her door. “Two hours, señora?”
Ilda glanced at the slender gold bracelet watch latched around her wrist and sighed. “Better make it three. No doubt Eloisa Flores has a catered luncheon planned.”
With an understanding smile—because Franco’s wife had been subject to the manicured whirlwind that was Eloisa Flores on more than one occasion—Franco walked Ilda to the steps of the church and saw her inside before bidding her a quiet adios. Quickly, Ilda moved through the tiled side hall toward the front of the building to the entrance of the sanctuary. She paused long enough to genuflect beneath the cross before walking past the pews to the confessional.
It didn’t matter that Father Ranier wasn’t taking confession today; someone besides the elderly priest was waiting inside to hear her sins.
Closing the booth’s wooden panel behind her, she knelt before the grille and listened for the steady breathing signaling a presence on the priest’s side of the box. He was there, and she exhaled slowly, shuddering relief flooding her as she made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. It has been three days since my last confession.”
“Three days?” The melodic baritone was friendly, amused. “How could you have sinned in only three days’ time, my child?”
“You’d be surprised, Father.” And she launched into the details surrounding the upcoming dinner with the Orras cartel, something she had
n’t been able to share with her DEA handler when they’d last met, two weeks prior. The church provided them the perfect cover in which to meet on a regular basis, since Ilda had scheduled events with the Ladies Auxiliary committees here all the time.
But she paused halfway through, linking her fingers through the pattern of the grille and letting the iron bite into her flesh. “Can...can I offer a real confession?”
Her handler chuckled. “So long as you remember I’m not a real priest. There’ll be no absolution coming from me.”
“But you will keep my secrets.”
“Always.” His vow was low, intense and based on two years of trust between handler and informant.
Ilda took a deep breath. “Then I need to tell you about a ghost. I need to tell you about Casímiro Cortez.”
Chapter Seven
Fucking hell. Casey was a father.
A dad.
Pain unlike any he’d ever before experienced had shredded his chest the moment he saw Ilda hovering over the little girl, tending to her with obvious maternal concern, and heard Pipe claim the child as his daughter. His daughter with Ilda. Judging by her age, Ilda must’ve waited all of, what, a month before falling into Pipe’s arms? Rage had choked him, then faded into something resembling pity when the girl’s deafness was revealed.
But it wasn’t pity because their child suffered from a disability. It was pity because that poor child would never hear her mama’s gorgeous voice. Even in the midst of his turmoil, Casey had been able to recognize what a tragedy that was. Instinctively, he knew it must pain Ilda terribly, to sing her baby to sleep to no effect, and he was desperate with the need to comfort her. She was his wife, damn it, and that meant she was his to hold, to protect, to soothe away her tears.
Worse than the chest pain, though, was the heartbreaking wonder the moment the girl—Arlo Beatrìz—turned and looked at him. And he’d died. He’d just straight-up died on the spot.
