by Sasha Leone
“It’s his bottle. He’s hungry.” Lady responds from the kitchen, obviously eavesdropping.
“Can I feed him?” I’m well aware of the fact that I shouldn’t have to ask whether or not I can feed my own son, but Lady is hard headed and there’s no way I’m bringing any conflict into this room.
The maid hesitates, before giving in. “You know where his bottle is.”
She’s right. It’s one of the few things I know about my son. He likes cold milk and playing with fingers; he can also say when he’s hungry—is that normal? Is he smart or should a one year old be able to say more?
“Here you go, buddy,” I say, handing him the chilled bottle of formula like you’d hand a buddy a beer.
Oscar just stares at me like I’m an alien. “You don’t want it?” I ask, confused.
“He wants you to feed him,” Lady interjects.
Despite her coldness towards me, I’m glad for her presence—without her, I’d be completely lost. I’ve been through so much in my life, but nothing has ever prepared me for this, for fatherhood. “Okay, uh, how does this work?” I pick Oscar up and sit down, setting him on my lap. I offer him the bottle again and he claps happily. A tiny chuckle escapes his little lips and a flutter of happiness grabs hold of my chest. “You like this stuff, huh?” I say, sniffing the bottle. It doesn’t smell particularly good. “I’ve never been a big fan of milk myself...”
“Boo-boo!” Oscar interrupts. He reaches out for the bottle and I draw it to his lips. He latches onto it like a starving gopher and starts sucking down the white liquid.
“Damn, you are hungry.”
“No swearing around the child!” Lady interjects from the kitchen. I flinch a little at her scolding.
“I didn’t swear,” I growl, turning around to glare at her. I may be glad for her help, but I don’t appreciate her tone. Only Cat has ever been able to speak to me so freely.
“Yes, you did,” Lady says quietly, her eyes quickly darting back to the kitchen.
“Whatever,” I grumble.
Oscar doesn’t seem to mind our little bout. He’s sucking away on his bottle, happy as a clam. Any anger in me quickly disappears.
He’s got his mother’s nose. It scrunches up as he fights back wet sniffles from his dinner—or is it breakfast? I’ve lost all track of time. I don’t bother to check my phone. Oscar’s meal going smoothly is more important than the time.
When my boy has drained the bottle, I draw it back and he lets out a hearty burp. Lady lets out an amused chuckle from behind me, and I can’t help but follow right behind her. Oscar burps again and I respond with a deep belch of my own.
“Excuse you!” Lady shouts through her giggles.
My burp seems to take Oscar by shock, but he quickly recovers and his big green eyes go wide as a big smile comes over his little face. His laugh is like heaven to my ears. My shattered heart suddenly feels so full...
I burp again and Oscar claps. His giggles fill the room, making it feel more cozy than stuffed. “You like burping, don’t you?” I tease, winding up for another one. Before I can get to it, Oscar let’s out a little one of his own.
For a quiet moment, we both sit in surprised shock, before breaking out in laughter. Oscar wriggles with joy on my lap and I slap my knee, completely hooked.
This is my kid, alright.
After some convincing, Lady finally gets me to put Oscar to bed.
I don’t want to spend a single second away from my boy ever again, but I know we could both go for some serious shut eye. A yawn escapes my lips as I place him down in his crib, and he mimics me, stretching out his stubby little arms before cuddling up with his blanket.
“Mama,” he says, so softly it nearly shatters me.
Sharp vines crawl over the lightness in my heart, puncturing the levity of this time spent alone with my son. Catalina’s still out there and in danger. Hell, I’m still in danger, too; so is Oscar. I can’t let anything happen to him; I can’t let anything more happen to his mother, but I need to keep myself safe, too.
I remember how much my father meant to me, and how much his death affected my childhood. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, let alone my own son. My mother’s death hit me just as hard and their sudden absence created a hole in my heart that I didn’t think I could ever re-fill... until now.
“I miss her too, buddy,” I whisper. Oscar rolls onto his side and seems to immediately pass out. “Sweet dreams.”
As if on cue, a buzz comes from my pocket. I make sure to step far away from Oscar’s slumber before I answer the phone.
“What?”
“Busy?” Juan sounds awfully calm for someone who just had a meeting with Dante.
I look back at my sleeping son. It feels like I am busy, but I know that I’m not. I can work. I need to work. “What do you have?”
“There’s a local leader that wants to meet with you. He’s community head of the Versalles district, very influential. A partnership would be good for the both of you.”
My eyes won’t leave Oscar’s crib. There isn’t anywhere else I want to be right now but by his side. “Give me his number, I’ll call him.” I can still work without leaving.
“It’s better if you meet him in person,” Juan insists.
I flex my sore fists. Sure, Oscar is sleeping; he wouldn’t miss me if I went out for a quick meeting, but I also desperately want to be here when he wakes up. “Can it wait?”
“... He says he has information on Catalina’s whereabouts.” Juan’s words snap me back to reality.
Mama.
“And you trust him?”
“I verified his inside source. It’s legit. He’s very useful, Angel. Not even I knew where Catalina was before this guy came to me.”
Oscar gurgles in his sleep and a heavy sigh escapes my lips. If I’m ever going to give him the life he deserves, I need to do what needs to be done. “Do you know where Cat is now, then?”
“I knew where she was a few hours ago, but she’s probably long gone by now. More importantly, though, is that this new source claims to know where and when Dante’s wedding will be taking place.”
“Fuck.” A tightness grips my chest. The thought of Dante getting his slimy hands on Catalina in a wedding dress makes me go nearly blind with envious rage. She’s supposed to be mine; I was supposed to marry her, even if it was all fake...
None of our feelings are fake anymore. Plus, we have a son.
“They didn’t tell you?” I grumble into the speaker.
“No, they wanted to meet you first—so, what do you say?”
I take one last look over at my baby boy before I rip my eyes away. “Where and when?”
Wilmar Fabros sits on his shanty throne like the king of a garbage dump. His entire house seems stitched together from junk he found on the side of the road, but he owns it proudly and I can’t help but immediately respect a man who’s made so much out of so little.
“Angel Montoya,” he says, almost like he’s thinking out loud, rather than greeting me.
“Wilmar Fabros,” I return. This guy is Juan’s inside source; even though I know I should, there isn’t any patience in me to make pleasantries. Cat’s still a hostage, and every second I waste puts her in more danger. Oscar distracted me from my mission to save her, but now that I’m far away from him again, I can see clearly. If I’m ever going to get his mom back, he’s going to have to stay in the shadows, even when I’m out in the sunlight. “I heard you know where my wife is.”
Wilmar studies me with wise, wrinkled eyes. Nothing he does is done in a hurry, and he slowly rises from his makeshift throne like a skinny leaf floating down from its branch. “I know no such thing,” he croaks. “I do, however, know where that devil Dante’s future wife is going to be tomorrow.”
My fists clench. The skin around my hands is still slightly crispy, but I’ve peeled away most of the pain. The fire that burns me comes from the inside now. “Where?” I growl.
Wilmar saunters up to me, un
afraid. “Do you think your little revolution will succeed?” he asks, ignoring my question.
I hold back my sneer and amuse him for a moment. If there is one thing I learned from all my otherwise useless board meetings and business calls, it’s that the older the man, the longer the detour... but also, the bigger the potential payout.
Wilmar can provide me two massive payouts. First, and most important, he can apparently tell me where Catalina will be wed—he’s already told me when, though I’m sure that was more a show of his knowledge than an accidental slip. Two, he can help me recruit revolutionaries. His district has the second biggest population in Cali, and by far the most men of fighting age. According to Dante, everyone in the Versalles district would die for this man—so, I’m assuming he can convince them to fight for me.
“We will win.” I answer.
Wilmar smiles. “Yes. That’s a good start. We will win. Not you, but we. I like the sound of that.”
I feel my brows furrow. “Did you believe that I had selfish intentions?”
Wilmar clears his throat and seems to consider his next words carefully. “I know who you are, Angel Montoya. Others may only know you as a mysterious savior, but I remember your name from when you were the devil himself.”
My nails dig into my palms. “I’ve changed.”
“Ah, yes. You’ve found love?”
“I’ve found a family.” The truth of the matter unclenches my fists. I’ve found a family... and now, it’s time to fight for them.
“Dante is your family,” Wilmar slyly points out.
“Not for long,” I growl.
“You plan on killing him?”
The reality of where this is all heading stops me in my tracks. For some reason, I tell Wilmar the truth. “I haven’t decided yet.”
The old man nods and turns away, scuffling back to his makeshift throne. “Where is the wedding?” I ask after him.
Wilmar sits down again and picks up a landline next to his chair. “Bring Anna in,” he says into the receiver, before hanging up.
“We will talk about the wedding,” he smiles. “I have the bride’s personal seamstress here to tell us all the juicy details. But first, we must gather our army.”
The men of the Versalles district aren’t much to look at. They’re all thin and wiry and stained with seemingly permanent dirt patches, but there’s enough of them to stop a wedding... and start a revolution.
“Who here has ever fought before?” I ask the crowd. Nearly every one of the men raises their hands. Good, they’re a scrappy bunch, but I feel the need to clarify. “I don’t mean a street brawl. I mean in a real war, with weapons of death. Guns, bombs, hellfire.”
Most of the raised hands are quickly lowered, but a few of the older ones remain high. That’s not necessarily a bad sign; the less these men know of the horrors of war, the less scared they should be. If only I was so ignorant, then I might believe in victory as unflinchingly as some of them seem to.
“Well,” I continue. “That’s what awaits us, a war, a real war—unless we can squash out the opposition in a surprise attack.”
A murmur washes over the crowd. I let them talk amongst themselves for a moment before raising my palm to the sky. Silence follows.
“We will crash a wedding, and when we are through, this city will be forever altered—”
“Catalina,” the shout sounds like a war cry; a cheer erupts behind it.
My chest rumbles with determination. Juan has done well. These people know the story, we might as well be rescuing a princess from an evil king—well, I guess we sort of are.
I decide to forgo the rest of my speech in favor of that very simple rallying cry. It seems to capture my feelings on the matter, too. If I could, I’d add Oscar right behind Cat’s name, but for now she alone will do. “Catalina!” I shout, with my fist raised.
“Catalina!” my makeshift army roars back. The grounds of the slum shake and I know that these men—while not trained soldiers—are sure ready to crash a fucking wedding.
14
Catalina
I haven’t felt this sick to my stomach since I was pregnant with Oscar.
This time, though, there’s no miracle behind my nausea, only dread.
“Are you ready?” Anna has just finished up the last alteration on my wedding dress. The scabs that grew over my cuts have all fallen off, but the dark marks they left behind aren’t going anywhere any time soon. I’m almost thankful for the sleeves, if only because it’s something more to hide behind.
I’ve been wearing my veil since sun-up for that very reason—anything to feel like I’m protected from what’s coming. Dante has been physically absent from my life since he left me in my cold dank cell, but the dread he induces in me hasn’t gone anywhere. My life rests on my ability to put on a happy face and marry that monster while the upper crust of Colombia watches on.
I don’t know if I can do it.
I’ve tried a million different methods; I’ve filled my head with thoughts of Ozzy and Angel and a future family together, but none of it can make me smile through the heavy foreboding of what’s ahead. All I can see is darkness, and not even my shining lights seem to be able to cut through—it’s almost enough to make me angry. Fuck Dante for being so evil that not even thoughts of my son can lift me up from under his cruelty.
“I’ll stay close by, don’t worry,” Anna says, patting the back of my hand. She pockets her long threading needle and takes a deep breath for me. “Come on, say something.”
Nothing comes to mind. My stomach is so tied up into knots that I can barely breathe. “Sorry...”
Anna huffs at my apology. “Sorry!? Don’t be sorry...” she suddenly squints and scans the room like a spy on the lookout for other spies. “Don’t be sorry...” she repeats, in a whisper this time. “Be ready.”
The sharpness of her words seem to cut through my sullen daze, because suddenly, I find my tongue again. “What does that mean?”
“It means what it means,” Anna says cryptically. “Put on a big smile and play by Dante’s rules—” she stops herself before she can go on. I can tell there’s more, but Anna seems to already be kicking herself for saying too much.
“Anna, please, tell me,” I beg. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” the young seamstress blurts out. “But, if something does happen, find me quick.” Her hand reaches down into the pocket where she just stashed her threading needle. “I won’t wander far, but it’s not like they’re going to let me escort you down the aisle.”
A sudden flash of hope catches in my throat.
I don’t dare consider it any further; I’m sure it will only lead to more devastating disappointment... but it might not.
Suddenly, the door to our bridal suite swings open and three huge body guards march in. I recognize them as Dante’s men. The hope in my throat fizzles out, and it’s in the pit of my gut by the time I’m being pushed to my feet.
“It’s time,” one the burly goons announces.
I take a deep breath of my own and claps my hands together as I’m shrouded in the shadows of my captors. They flank me on all sides, leading me from the privacy of my suite and down the hall of the twisted building.
This is no mansion or palace. I haven’t seen the outside yet—I was brought here in a blindfold—but the insides resemble more of an elegant state building than a home.
It only serves to make the whole ceremony seem all the colder and more oppressive. The whole country is involved in my captivity. Every government official, general and crooked chief of police; they’ve all come to see something they know is wrong, without any thought to stop it.
Our footsteps echo down the tall wide marble halls as I’m led across the building and then down an epic fantail staircase. A massive white chandelier glitters above my head and the opulence of it all only serves to make me all the sicker.
And to think, I once wanted to be a part of this dirty world—hell, I once desperately needed to be a
part of this sham. Now, I know better, but it’s too late. I’ve been caught, and now I’m about to be forced to go through something unthinkable...
I see the flashing lights of the cameras before I hear the low rumble of the large crowd gathered outside. For a split-second, I’m transported away from this gilded hell and back to simpler times. The memory of my first date with Angel fills me with a sorrowful nostalgia—would I go back in time if I could?
No, not if it meant giving up Ozzy.
Be strong, Catalina. For him. For your son.
The guards push open huge floor-to-ceiling glass doors and I’m nearly knocked off my feet.
A hot humid wind smacks me in the nose and lifts my wedding gown up so high that, for a moment, it feels like I might be lucky enough to float off and escape this whole hellish charade.
But my feet stay firmly planted on the ground and my vision quickly returns as my goonish escorts grab hold of my gown and pin it down.
Gale force winds swirl around the expansive hedged-in back lawn as I’m pushed forward. Around me, cameras flash and well-fitted socialites stand and stare. Despite the veritable hurricane that surrounds us, no one budges.
All these prim and proper people who would usually never be caught dead in such weather must be so afraid of Dante that they’re willing to brave the elements just to watch me be forced into his arms.
A little seed of anger finds its way up through my dread from the disgust I hold for them. Do something, you cowards! Don’t you know you’re all next!? Dante isn’t going to stop his cruelty with me, the more powerful you all allow him to get, the further this country will fall... and no revolution will be able to stop it.
I want to scream out loud, but it’s no use. No one would even be able to hear me over the chatter of the wind.
I sulk forward as servants crouch at the feet of the esteemed guests, holding table cloths down and catching any wayward cutlery. The onlookers let the workers worry about the wind; their eyes are only for me.