Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
But perhaps I’d been looking at the wrong side of the coin.
He could sabotage the deal instead.
If it failed . . . the Maldonados would see to my demise quickly and swiftly. Cristiano wouldn’t even have to get his hands dirty.
And I’d be removed from the picture entirely.
Natalia
Art belonged to my mother. Trying to read brushstrokes or create my own wasn’t something I understood. I learned about the world from books or travel, found nature by cantering a horse, and studied history by passing on legends through corridos—Mexican ballads.
Art, to me, was living in the world, not observing it. Floating on my back in the ocean on a hot day, finding shapes in the clouds. My aunt’s laugh when my nephew took a bite straight out of his birthday cake and came up with a face full of icing. Art lived in people.
It was the way one look from Diego could warm me to my core.
My mom’s studio spanned the top floor of the house. With a glass dome in the center and large corner windows facing southwest, it had the best light.
When I was younger, I’d hide in here to see how long it would take Diego to find me. We’d dip our hands in paint and make colorful prints on the tarp Mamá had put down. But most commonly, we’d look at the constellations with a telescope, our own private planetarium.
All the paint and easels had been removed, but the telescope sat on the deck. Tonight, I opened the doors and windows and watched the sun set while I waited for Diego.
When tires crunched dirt, I jumped up and leaned over the rail. A convoy of three cars kicked up dust as they wound up the driveway and parked out front. Cristiano and Diego got out, moving almost lethargically up the walk until my father stepped out of the house to meet them. It was strange, after all this time, to see Cristiano and Diego casually standing next to each other. I leaned out farther to try to piece together their conversation.
“. . . forty-eight hours.”
“No word . . . Maldonado.”
“Antes de que salgas . . .”
Before you leave? My heart dropped at the thought of Diego disappearing again when I hadn’t seen him in three days. As if sensing my anguish, he looked up, met my eyes, and winked discreetly. I watched until they moved inside. As tempted as I was to run downstairs, I waited where I was, knowing Diego would come to me.
Paciencia should’ve been my second name—it was all I seemed to do. Wait. Bide my time. Bite my tongue. A sitting duck, as Americans said.
I killed time by peering through the telescope, but it wasn’t dark enough to see much yet. Eventually, the door to the studio opened. I sprang to my feet, hurrying across the wood floors to meet Diego. He caught me in his arms and lifted me for a kiss.
“Why have you stayed away so long?” I rushed out in a whisper, even though we were alone. “I’m set to fly home in a week.”
“I’m sorry, Talia. I haven’t had such a bad week in recent history. I shouldn’t be up here, but I texted because I needed to see you, even for a moment, to get me through.” He set me on my feet and gripped my waist. “But if your father catches me here, he’ll put you on the next flight out of México.”
“He wouldn’t. Easter is Sunday.”
“Believe me, he would.”
Papá wouldn’t ruin our holiday for that reason. I touched the brown, coarse stubble on Diego’s face. He stank of alcohol, sweat, and cigars, but I was comforted just to be in his presence. “Where have you been? Have you even slept?”
“No.” He loosened his already sagging tie. “We went to the city for dinner last night, then flew back. Cristiano and I worked through to just now.”
To hear about cartel life over the phone was one thing, but the evidence of its non-stop demands stood in front of me. I hated to think of Diego overworking himself. “You need rest. Come. Sit and tell me everything.”
“I can’t stay, Tali. If Costa finds me here after dark—”
“He won’t.” I pulled him to the deck by his hand. Even his palm seemed rougher. “He never comes up here.”
“Your father’s serious about keeping us apart.” Diego sat in an Adirondack chair, following me with his eyes as I went to the linen closet. “It wasn’t an idle threat,” he said. “At dinner, Costa said he’s thinking of sending you back early.”
I stopped short, clutching a blanket. “But I’ve barely spent any time with you! I see you for a few hours, and then you disappear for a few days.”
He stood to take the wool throw from me. “Sit down,” he said.