Page 38

“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.”