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“Yeah, okay,” he says softly. “Sure, man. Whatever you need.”
“Get Cruz to safety. Stay with him until you hear from me. Understood?”
“If Mari’s in trouble—” Cruz starts but I give him a look that shuts him up.
No more blood today. Not from my family, not if I can help it.
32
MARI
Uncle Nardo’s funeral should be well attended.
Everyone liked him. At least, people who aren’t related to him. Don Nardo was loud, outgoing, charming, funny, and kind to those who needed it.
That kindness was a mask.
I knew the real Nardo. Vicious, cruel, unflinching. The kind of man who could run a small cartel gang in Texas without going to prison. He shook hands, passed bribes, jabbed weapons into flesh, made people disappear. The world is better without him.
And yet the mourners are going to act like we lost a saint when he passed on.
That’s the irony of life. You can be a real dick—but if you’re powerful enough, people will pretend like you were the greatest guy ever.
It’s a half hour before the service and already a crowd is gathering. Mostly they’re Nardo’s generation: old and wealthy, probably players themselves in the waning days of their influence. Women in black studded with diamonds. Men in fancy suits that don’t quite fit. One of them comes toward me as I try to make a dash for the side entrance.
“Dear, you must be Marisol, I am so sorry for your loss.” She shows me big white teeth and I have no idea who she is. “Nardo was a great man.”
“Thank you, but I’m only sorry it didn’t happen sooner. If you’ll excuse me?”
Her eyes bug out in shock. Her hand drifts to her throat. “That’s not—that’s not funny!”
I don’t look back, but I’m grinning to myself.
Though I feel a little bad. If Graciela heard me talking that way, she’d be upset.
I reach the side entrance and try the handle, but it’s locked. I jiggle it, check my phone, and I’m about to make a call when it clicks and opens.
My aunt stands there in the most elaborate black mourning outfit I’ve ever seen.
She looks like a ghoul.
Black lace puffing down her body. Black heels. Black jewelry.
A damn black veil.
Like she’s about to marry the devil himself.
“Get inside,” she says, tugging my arm. “What are you wearing?”
I look down at myself. I’m in jeans and a big dark jacket even though it’s not too cold out. “Uh, clothes?” I’m too stunned by her absurd costume to inspect the irony of her question.
“It’ll do,” she huffs and pulls me in close. I can barely see her face through the black lace. “He’s already here.” Her voice drops to a whisper.
“Where?”
“In the back.” She squeezes my arm tight. “But he’s with people.”
“Who?”
