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“I’m still not exactly sure, but somehow Enzo Barella got word to him about my wife and kids. My children go to school in America during the winter. As far as I can tell, that’s the only way he could have known.”
“Are they alright?” It’s all I can think to ask.
I desperately wait for good news, but I don’t expect to hear it.
Thankfully, Juan nods. “It was touch and go for a while there; I had to disappear to ensure their safety—but since then I’ve gotten them to a relatively safe spot... for now.”
“And you’re still helping me, even though they’re still at risk?”
“Yes.”
“And you warned me two years ago, too, through those texts, even though it meant risking your family?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
The right thing to do. “You’re a better man than I am, Juan.”
“I think you’ll find out soon enough that family makes better men of us all...” Juan stops outside a door that’s tucked into the tunnel wall and softly knocks three times.
In the distance, water drips from the damp tunnel ceiling; it’s the only sound besides my pounding heart.
For a moment, nothing moves, then I hear three soft knocks come from the other side of the door. Juan knocks back two more times and the doorknob starts to shake.
“Lady,” Juan nods, as the door opens.
“Mr. Arias.” The voice is soft and quiet and oddly familiar. I’m standing just off to the side of the doorway, but when I step forward and catch the eyes of a portly older woman, she immediately recoils.
“It’s okay, Lady. He’s on our side,” Juan assures her, stepping inside.
Lady dusts the fear off of her apron and I follow Juan in. “Where do I know you from?” I ask, the answer on the tip of my tongue.
Lady lifts her index finger up to her lips and shushes me, as though my voice is too loud. “I used to work for you, as a maid,” she whispers. Turning around, she waddles off towards a kitchen in the far corner of the little room. Steam rises from a boiling pot. Something smells delicious.
“She still works for you,” Juan whispers, careful to keep his voice low.
“What does she do?”
Juan gestures over to a crib by the kitchen top counter. The old maid isn’t concerned with whatever’s on the stove. Instead, her attention is entirely focused on what’s inside the crib.
A tiny gurgle wafts out from some unseen bundle and I find myself floating over to the precious package.
“This is Oscar Luis Alzate,” Lady whispers.
For the first time ever, I see my son. He sleeps like a chubby little cherub, bundled up in a white onesie. The last bits of lingering ice on my once completely frozen heart melt into steam.
I’m a father...
“Oscar Luis Alzate-Montoya,” I correct Lady.
She huffs, hardly withholding her disdain for me. I don’t care. Every problem in my life, both little and small, evaporates. My feet carry me closer to the little boy who carries my blood.
“Don’t wake him!” Lady hisses, but it’s too late. I’m already reaching down for Oscar when his green eyes blink open. Confusion scrunches his little features as I slip a hand under his tiny head. Before I can lift him off his sheets, an ear shattering wail escapes his lips.
I immediately draw back, leaving the infant to squirm in his crib. “What did I do?”