To Have & to Hurt by Morgan Bridges

Tristano

Seeing my mother after all these years is hard to process, despite knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt it’s her. I’ve never forgotten her voice and the way she spoke my name when I was a child, nor have I lost the memory of her face and how she gazed down at me with such adoration.

Now I tower over her in height and authority. How things have changed…

But no matter how angry I am—and I’m pretty fucking pissed—she’s still my mother.

A sharp pain slices through my chest as I replay our conversation over in my mind. Did she expect a different outcome other than me wanting to strangle her for being a coward and leaving her family to die? I don’t think so, or Father Diego wouldn’t have questioned me beforehand and gauged my responses.

Would I be just as upset right now if she were dead? What if I found this entire trip to be nothing other than a manipulation tactic from someone who’d learned of her past? It’s hard to say since that isn’t reality.

The truth is my mother moved on and started over, replacing her old family with a new one.

Octavia’s reaction to the news wasn’t rehearsed or I might’ve lost my mind. She didn’t experience the level of betrayal I did, but she was certainly gutted by my mother’s confession.

Ourmother’s confession.

I halt my pacing now that the initial burst of energy has subsided and lean against the jeep I arrived in earlier. The same vehicle I finger fucked Violetta in, as well as kissed her more than any other woman in my life prior to her.

And all without a single twinge of regret.

Which is vexing, but not enough to supersede my thoughts from the conversation that took place minutes ago. From where I stand I’m able to watch Father Diego, Aida, Benito, and Violetta exit the church and disappear behind the adjacent building. My eyes never stray from Violetta and not once does she glance in my direction.

She’s a complication I don’t need but can’t stop thinking about.

This situation with my mother reappearing after twenty-five years is one hell of a distraction. Although I’m not grateful for it, at least it’ll force me to keep my attention off of Violetta.

I’m less confident in that notion because I’m mentally counting down the hours until she turns eighteen. But why? I told myself nothing was going to happen with her, regardless of her age. However, my inner monologue doesn’t match the anticipation running through my veins. Nor does it mirror all the thoughts I had while caressing her body on the way here.

I’m so fucked, whether I have sex with her or not.

Shoving that aside, I straighten away from the vehicle when Octavia approaches me with a silver object in her hand. Her expression is fierce, and if I wasn’t angry I’d appreciate how much she resembles our mother.

My fingers are already inching toward my weapon while my mind runs through a number of outcomes if that item in her hand is a firearm. None of them are good. However, once she’s close enough to the exterior lights of the church and I’m able to make out the flask, I relax.

Other than lifting a brow in a silent inquiry, I say nothing. She is direct and will tell me her thoughts soon enough. Another trait she has in common with Aida.

“I think you’re the only one who can actually sympathize with me right now,” Octavia says, all but collapsing against the jeep. “No one else fucking gets it.”

“Gets what, exactly?”

She unscrews the lid and takes a long swallow from the flask. Then she clears her throat twice before she’s able to answer me.

“The feeling of betrayal.”

Her perception is accurate and surprising. It’s never been a question as to whether or not she’s intelligent because that was established within the first few minutes of meeting her. Emotional intelligence is what I wasn’t expecting her to have. Also, I haven’t bothered schooling my features, which is why she’s able to discern my thoughts somewhat.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re hurting,” she says. Ignoring the scowl that’s now present on my face, she holds up the flask instead. “Want some?”

It occurs to me to decline, but the irresponsible part of me—the selfishness I don’t allow to surface—encourages me to take it. The alcohol goes down as smoothly as bubbling, liquid tar and I find myself impressed she didn’t cough or gag after drinking it.

“It’s strong shit,” she says with a lopsided grin. Without a hard demeanor covering her in a veneer of seriousness, Octavia appears younger. “The first time I drank it, I thought my intestines were melting and I was going to die.”

“This would not be my drink of choice.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Me either, but I had to sneak what I was available, and unfortunately, this was it most of the time.”

“I never went through that phase. There was always work to do, of some type or another.”

“That’s because you’re the oldest, right?” When I nod she downs another healthy swig and continues. “I thought so, given the timeline I estimated.”

“How old are you?”

The grin on her face evolves into a sly smile. “You first.”

“Thirty-six.”

“Twenty-three.”

Octavia isn’t that much older than Violetta, but the differences in their worldviews are extremely noticeable. The woman beside me doesn’t exhibit the same amount of mistrust and deliberation when it comes to men or her surroundings. It’s in the confident way Octavia carries herself. She’s not intimidated by much, which I attribute to her lifestyle as someone who’s involved with drug trafficking.

However, I prefer the quiet strength Violetta has. In some ways it can be deadlier because you don’t see it coming. I know I didn’t.

I exhale and look up at the moon now overhead, wondering how I expected the day to have a good outcome. Did I really believe that knowing what happened to my mother would bring closure and set me free from the incessant theories that constantly streamed through my head? I must’ve or else I wouldn’t be here.

The question is: how much is it actually worth to me?

“What are your brothers’ names?”

Octavia’s question pulls me from my musings, as does her nudging me with the flask. I take it from her, give her a nod, and down more than the last time. The burning sensation travels down my throat and gathers in my stomach, yet it’s not as repugnant as before.

“Rafael is two years younger than me and Maximus is five years younger than me. And this,” I say, holding out the flask to her, “is like drinking gasoline.”

She shrugs. “If you don’t like it, I could always get you a line of coke. I mean, we’re standing on one of the largest coca farms in the country, so it’s not like there isn’t some available.”

When I shake my head she laughs softly. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d be down for that, especially not after the ‘I never went through that phase’ bullshit. Weren’t you a teenager like the rest of us or does being disciplined make up the entirety of your personality?”

“It’s hard to say.”

Octavia frowns at me. “Why is that?”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”

“Yup. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re uptight?”

My amusement from earlier returns. “Yes, on several occasions.” I pause for a moment, thinking over my next answer. “Aida left when I was around ten years old and after that I did nothing except things related to learning the family business in order to preserve our legacy. There wasn’t another choice really.”

Octavia averts her gaze and mumbles, “That’s too bad.”

“It is what it is.”

“That shit doesn’t make any sense.”

The side of my mouth tilts up. “Only to those who aren’t willing to accept the logic of the situation.”

She makes a face at me, looking every single one of those twenty-three years, and not a day more. Her age prompts me to ask for clarification on another trail of thought I’d had…

“In the church earlier,” I say, “you accused Aida ‘of having a family before us.’ Who were you referring to exactly?”

“That isn’t for me to tell.”

Octavia pushes away from the vehicle and I snatch her wrist when she tries to walk away. Her gaze snaps to mine and all the anger and pain that the alcohol had dulled returns with a vengeance, brightening her amber eyes. She glares at me, minimizing the now golden color.

“It’s not my story,” she says. “If you want to know, go ask Aida.” I squeeze Octavia’s wrist in warning and some of the hostility is wiped away from her features. “Look,” she says, her voice resigned, “if you don’t get the information you want, I’ll answer your questions, but for now, I have my own shit to deal with and so do you. Okay?”

I release her with a nod. “Very well.”

“And just so you know, you’re not leaving this property until all this…” She waves her hand in the air and purses her lips. “You know what I mean. Anyway, don’t try to leave because the guards will detain you, so it’s pointless.”

My mother is not only a liar but a jailer as well.

Fuck.

The mansion belonging to El Jefe, is as grand as anything found in The States. It’s a traditional Spanish design, complete with terracotta tiles and a veranda that sports tall and wide pillars with arches overhead. This is an architectural beauty and could easily be the home of some famous Hollywood actor.

If you ignore the fields of coca in the distance.

Or perhaps they add to the charm to the overall ambience of what a drug lord’s residence should be like?

Octavia waltzes through the front door, past the armed men, like she owns the place. Maybe I underestimated her importance? I should’ve asked her about my mother’s relationship to El Jefe, but I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. It wasn’t because of the alcohol either. Although that did help take some of the edge off.

“Soto, where are the guests?” Octavia asks.

The man in question frowns and she repeats the inquiry, but this time in Spanish. He’s quick to respond in kind and gestures to the hallway on our left.

“Gracias.” She jerks her head in the direction the man just pointed. “They’re in the dining room eating. Looks like we missed our first family dinner.”

I don’t respond to her barb since it’s not directed at me. Octavia is reeling as much as I am over the revelations earlier. Unlike her, I am not inebriated, nor am I going to display the theatrics that a lot of women do.

Unlike my mother, who could’ve been carved from marble, considering how emotionless she was when telling me her stipulations earlier in the church.

Of course, Violetta is nothing like Aida. I wouldn’t mind my ribelle showing some emotion, or an expression without either cynicism or poignancy. I think she has the capability, but she’s buried it or forgotten to connect with her deeper and possibly more volatile feelings.

The formal dining room comes into view and my gaze immediately shoots to where Violetta sits, between Benito and my mother. Father Diego is across from them, next to Carlos. Octavia isn’t discreet about our arrival, though I wish she had been. It would’ve allowed me to evaluate the dynamics in the room without the group noticing, giving me a clearer picture since they wouldn’t have been as guarded.

Octavia sits at the head of the table and then leans her forearms on the linen draped over the surface, her flask cradled in her hands. Aida shoots her a scathing look that would’ve had me sitting up straight and muttering an apology if I were decades younger. My mother brings her gaze to me after, and there’s a softening in it that removes some of the aging from her face.

“Please join us,” she says.

I give her a curt nod and occupy the empty chair next to Benito. “Where is the host this evening?”

Octavia scoffs. “Where indeed? That is a good question.”

“Enough.” Aida’s brusque command has her daughter rearing back. Interesting enough, Octavia becomes sullen, her features tight with repressed ire. My mother brings her gaze back to me and says, “El Jefe is not here at the moment, but he sends you his regards.”

I cock my head. “You represent him during his absence?”

“Not exactly,” she says slowly. “However, I can promise you he’d be glad you’re here.”

Out of my peripheral vision I watch Octavia’s reaction. If anyone is being authentic in their communication, it’s her. She glares at Aida and then fills the empty plate in front of her with a contemptuous expression pulling at her features.

Unsure what to make of that, I nod in response to Aida’s statement. “I was informed that my presence, which I now know is very welcomed,” I say, not bothering to cover my displeasure, “will be extended.”

Both Violetta and Benito turn to look at me, but I don’t meet their perplexed gazes because I’m preoccupied with watching how my mother reacts. Her skin pales just a bit, yet it’s hardly discernible given her calm demeanor.

She clears her throat. “This is true. We still have a number of things to discuss and, because time is a factor for everyone, I’ll be brief. However, I believe it would be best if we resume our conversation in the morning after we’ve all rested. Moreover, I promised you time to think over your decision and it hasn’t been very long.”

The rage simmering beneath the surface of my exterior rises in temperature, heating me all over. My hostile attitude, which never left, also rises to a dangerous level. This woman isn’t safe from me, whether or not she’s my mother.

I rise to my feet with five sets of eyes fastened to me. “I will be leaving sometime within the next forty-eight hours, regardless of your stipulations or expectations. That is non-negotiable.”

Aida’s mouth thins, yet she wisely stays quiet and dips her head in agreement. I can’t say if she’ll honor my directive, due to her proclivity for lying. But it doesn’t matter.

I’ll be leaving or people will be killed. It’s that simple.

Octavia raises the flask in a show of solidarity I find interesting. She’s a possible ally and if all else fails, I can enlist her help instead of calling for my brothers’ aid. I don’t want them near our mother with the way things are currently. She’ll only bring them suffering and I won’t allow it.

Better for me to endure it all, then to share that burden with them.