Chapter 68 Chapter 68

Chapter 68 Chapter 68


The sedan stopped a block away from the warehouse.

Derek turned off the lights. The two sedans behind them parked parallel to the first, their lights off as well. Twelve men in all, still dressed in their waiter and wedding guest attire, got out silently.

“Derek.”

“Boss.”

“Plan A. Three through the front door. Three through the river exit. Two through the side windows. Four on standby outside. I’ll go in through the front door with the first three. Okay?”

“Yes, boss. What about the lady?”

Marcela was still sitting in the passenger seat.

“Mom, you stay in the car. Derek’s staying with you.”

“Son, I’m going with you.”

—Mom, no.

“Son, I’m coming with you.”

“Mom, listen to me for once in your life.”

“Son, you listen to me.”

Three-second pause.

“Mom, I’m warning you. My wife, my daughter, the three armed men, my brother. If you come in, I’ll have six people to look after. If you stay, I’ll have five. Okay?”

Marcela held his gaze through the rearview mirror.

“Son.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll wait ten minutes. If you don’t come out with Laura in ten minutes, I’m coming in.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Okay.”

Cavalier got out of the sedan and walked toward the warehouse with Derek and two men behind him.

The warehouse was an industrial building from the 1970s, with painted cinder block walls, two stories high, and windows boarded up. The main door was ajar. Two yellow lights were on inside; the rest were off.

Cavalier pulled the gun from his belt.

He pushed the door open slowly with his left hand. Four seconds of silence.

And then the shot.

It whizzed past his right shoulder by three centimeters and lodged in the doorframe. Cavalier didn’t even duck. He took two steps inside with his gun raised and his eyes searching for one thing only.

“Marcelo.”

“Little brother.”

He was standing in the center of the warehouse, next to an iron column. He had his left arm crossed in front of him, holding Laura by the neck. The pistol in his right hand was pressed against her left temple. Her white dress, with lace on the bodice, was stained with dust from the warehouse floor. Her short veil was askew over her shoulder. Her belly was visible beneath the silk. Laura’s two hands were clutching Marcelo’s arm.

“Cavalier.”

“Laura.”

“Cavalier, don’t listen to him.”

“Shut up.”

Marcelo squeezed her neck with his arm. Laura coughed.

“Little brother, put down the gun.”

“You first, Marcelo.”

“Little brother, drop the gun, or I’ll shoot your wife before your Derek walks through that door.”

Cavalier scanned the entire warehouse for three seconds. Two of Marcelo’s men flanked him—one on the left, one on the right. All three were armed. Derek’s six men, who should have already been coming in through the other door, hadn’t shown up yet. He was two minutes behind schedule.

“Marcelo.”

—Yes.

“Let my wife go. This is between you and me. She didn’t do anything to you.”

“Little brother, that’s not the question. The question is whether you’re going to put down the gun so you don’t have to watch the mother of your child die.”

“Marcelo.”

—Little brother.

Pause.

—Marcelo, listen to me.

—I’m listening.

—My mom is outside.

Marcelo stood there for three seconds without blinking.

“Little brother.”

—Yeah.

“I don’t believe you.”

“She’s in the sedan with Derek. She came with me from the mansion. She got in before I could stop her.”

“Little brother, that’s cheap blackmail.”

“It’s not blackmail, Marcelo. It’s the truth. She’s been waiting for ten minutes. If I don’t go out with Laura, she’ll come in. And that, brother, is going to be the worst part of the day.”

Marcelo clenched his jaw. His hand holding the gun trembled a millimeter.

“Little brother.”

“Yes.”

“Is my mother outside?”

“She’s outside, Marcelo. And if you stay there thirty more seconds with the gun to my wife’s head, she’s going to see you like that.”

A long pause.

And then the second shot rang out. But it wasn’t from Marcelo. It came from outside, from the river side, where Derek’s men were coming in. Three shots in a row.

Marcelo turned his head, without letting go of Laura.

The man on the left screamed. He’d been hit in the shoulder. He fell to the floor.

“Shit!”

Marcelo squeezed Laura’s neck even tighter. He pressed the gun against her temple with even more force.

“Freeze! Everyone back, or I’ll shoot!”

And then, while Cavalier tried to figure out if Derek was three seconds away or ten, while Laura tried to catch her breath as the baby kicked her in the stomach, and while Marcelo’s other man took cover behind a wooden crate, the service door at the back of the warehouse burst open.

And Marcela walked in.

“Marcelo.”

She shouted from the back.

“Son. No.”

Marcelo held his breath for three seconds.

“Mom?”

“Marcelo, look at me.”

“Mom.”

“Son, let her go.”

“Mom.”

Marcela took four steps to the center of the shed. No gun. No shield. Nothing. Wearing her dark blue dress, her hair tousled by the Bronx wind, and the face of a mother who for thirty-two years had been choosing one son over the other without wanting to admit it—and who that night had decided to choose both of them one last time.

“Son.”

—Mom.

“Let the woman go.”

Marcelo held her gaze for five seconds.

“Mom.”

“Yes.”

“Mom, don’t come any closer.”

Marcela took three more steps. She stood between Cavalier and Marcelo—between one son’s gun and the other’s—her arms outstretched at her sides, her head held high.

“My sons.”

—Mom.

Both of them at the same time.

“My sons. Tonight, this ends. But not with my daughter-in-law’s blood. And not with my granddaughter’s blood. Okay?”

“Mom, don’t get involved.”

—Marcelo.

“Mom, back off.”

“Marcelo.”

Marcelo squeezed the hand holding the gun.

Cavalier took a step toward him.

“Back off, little brother.”

Cavalier took another step.

“I told you to back off.”

Another step.

And then Marcelo, with the gun pressed against Laura’s temple, fired at the exact moment his grip slipped in surprise at seeing his mother.

Accidentally. Without aiming. Without knowing where it was going.

The bullet flew over Laura’s shoulder.

It flew across the shed in a straight line.

And it hit Marcela in the chest.

On the left side. Where Cavalier had his new heart—on the Cavalier side.

Marcela fell.

Slowly. Without a scream. Without holding onto anything. Both knees first, chest forward, then her head against the concrete floor.

“Mom!”

Cavalier shouted.

Marcelo stood motionless in the center of the shed with the gun dangling from his right hand and his left arm still wrapped around Laura’s neck.

Three seconds.

Four.

“Mommy.”

He spoke softly to her. Not to Cavalier. Not to Laura. To his mother, who was no longer answering him.

“Mommy.”

She let go of Laura’s neck.

Laura fell to her knees on the floor, coughing, with both hands on her stomach.

Marcelo took two steps toward Marcela’s body. He stood there beside her. He looked at her for five seconds.

Then he turned away. He looked at Cavalier. He held his gaze for three seconds.

“Little brother.”

“Marcelo.”

“I’m sorry.”

And he put the gun in his mouth.

And he pulled the trigger.

Marcelo’s body fell next to Marcela’s.

Cavalier stood motionless in the center of the shed.

Laura, still on her knees on the floor, crawled three meters toward Marcela’s body. She took her left hand. She squeezed it.

“Marcela.”

Marcela opened her eyes.

“My love.”

“Marcela, look at me. Look at me.”

“My love.”

“Marcela, Vargas will be here in three minutes. Marcela, look at me. Hold on for three minutes.”

“My love.”

—Marcela, don’t close your eyes.

—Sweetheart.

—Yes.

—Take care of her for me.

—Marcela.

—Take care of her. My granddaughter who’s on her way. Take care of both of them.

—Marcela.

—My love.

—No.

—Sweetheart.

“Marcela.”

Marcela closed her eyes.

And her left hand—the one Laura was holding—stopped squeezing.

Cavalier arrived two seconds later. He dropped to his knees beside Marcela. He checked her pulse on her neck with his left hand.

Nothing.

—Mom.

She touched his face with her right hand.

“Mom, no.”

“Cavalier.”

Laura spoke to him without letting go of Marcela’s hand.

“Cavalier, look at me.”

“Laura.”

“Cavalier, she’s gone. Look at me.”

Cavalier held her gaze for five seconds. Then his face broke down. The first tears Laura had seen in forty-nine days of marriage, in seventy-two days since she’d met him, in their entire time together. The tears of a man who’s lost his mother alongside his dead brother.

“Laura.”

“Cavalier.”

—Mom.

“I know.”

“My brother.”

—I know.

—My mom.

“I know, Cavalier.”

Laura took his left hand—the one he had resting on his mother’s neck—and pressed it against her belly.

“Cavalier, look at me.”

“Yes.”

“The baby’s fine. The baby’s fine. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“And we’ll bury your mom the way she deserves. And your brother, too. Okay?”

—Yes.

“And tomorrow, Cavalier, tomorrow the three of us are going to cry. You, me, and the baby. But today we have to get up and walk out of this cellar before the reporters get here.”

—Yes.

—Cavalier.

—Yes.

—Vargas will be here in two minutes.

—Yes.

—And Manuel.

—Manuel.

“Son.”

And at 1:20 a.m. on Sunday, in an abandoned warehouse in the Bronx, dressed as a bride with her eight-month-pregnant belly covered in dust from the floor and her left hand still clutching that of her dead mother-in-law, Laura Mendoza knew she was going to give birth to her daughter in less than six weeks, without the paternal grandmother after whom the child was to be named.

And that the bastard she’d married twice—once by contract and once in church—would mourn his mother once, his brother once, and himself once, for the rest of his life.