Page 43 of One Rule

“Of course. Give me a sec.” He leaves me long enough to run to the theater room on this floor, before rushing back. In his hand, he has water, Coke, and a bottled of iced coffee. Micah gives a shrug when I raise a brow. “Wasn’t sure which one you’d want.”

“I think the Coke for this one.”

“How much do you remember, Lili?” That’s how serious this is, he never calls me that. It’s very seldom the times he has, and each time it’s because something is wrong.

“Enough to know I lost my father.” Fuck, those words hurt to say. My throat feels as if pure acid had been poured down my esophagus and what’s been left behind is torn, destroyed flesh. “Is that what happened? Where’s Lionel?”

“Your brother’s unconscious but alive. He’ll be transferred later today from Orlando, but the attending there is just holding on until he wakes up. His injuries are minor.”

A relieved breath whooshes out of me, but the relief doesn’t last long. “How minor?”

“Can you sit up for me? Please?” I don’t respond right away, but after a long minute, nod. “Thank you.”

“How long have I been out?” I’m shifting, trying to pull myself up and against the headboard, but Micah slips in behind me. It surprises me at first, but then I’m thankful for the comfort. He tugs me between his parted legs, his broad chest against my back while a warm arm wraps around my waist. “Where’s my father’s—”

“Shhh, baby. I got you.” His warmth seeps into my skin, but I’m cold. Crying and lost inside my grief because Micah didn’t deny it. Instead, he confirms it a few agonizing minutes later when he whispers in my ear that they were ambushed in Orlando while on the way to meet him in Tampa.

How Lionel called him and he heard their car chase and then crash.

How this is tied to my father denying Rodolfo Diaz the land he wants for a touristy development. The man had sent people to intimidate my father but caused a fatal crash instead. Lionel will be okay. His injuries are considered minor: four broken ribs, a hairline laceration requiring stitches above his right eye, and he hasn’t regained consciousness.

My poor brother. How will he react when he wakes up?

When he realizes that Dad is gone.

“They won’t get away with this, Liliana.” His lips are against my ear, exhaling roughly as his own emotions come through. He doesn’t cry, but that doesn’t lessen how much pain Micah’s in. We all are. “Believe me, sweet girl. They’ll pay with their blood.”

And while I hear every word, I’m breaking apart in his arms all over again.

Cry and cry until I have nothing left, and then give in to my need for escape.

I fall asleep in his arms knowing when I wake again, I’ll face this new reality once more.

* * *

Devastation.

It’s how I feel. All I can understand as I lie here in one of the Royce’s guest bedroom after falling asleep a little while ago. Not that I stayed down for long, but when Micah moved me and slipped out of the room to take a phone call, I feigned my slumber.

It’s an odd sensation. Emotions that don’t make any sense.

I know I need to face this. Be there for Mom, but all I keep thinking about is our last conversation. How I denied him my help with his next campaign because a part of me has always hated his political dreams.

Sure, we’ve had a great life materialistically speaking, but I’ve always wanted more from my parents. A more active role in my daily life, and now it all feels so stupid. I feel ungrateful for not appreciating the sacrifices made to give us a better life.

That Spanish-style mini-mansion he bought a little after winning his first term as Miami’s mayor wasn’t about showing off. It wasn’t a victory trophy, but his attempt at normalcy—to give us a place that was just ours—even if we spent most of our time in the home provided for by the city. Those weekends spent grilling and swimming in the pool wasn’t about rubbing elbows with the wealthy, but giving us memories.

Joaquin Armas wasn’t making a point to his peers and constituents that he’s a self-made man with the perfect accessories to tie the look together, but teaching his kids that a man that came from nothing could be something. From escaping tyranny in Cuba to a respected member of society, even if he wasn’t always perfect.

I didn’t see that. I didn’t understand him.

It wasn’t all about money, greed, or power.

For so long, I thought what mattered most to him was having the gorgeous wife and two smart, well-connected children within our social circle. How good our academic achievements and sports trophies made him look, but in reality, he loved us in his own way.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“He could never be angry at you, Lili. You were the apple of that man’s eyes,” Mom says, her voice a nearly broken whisper and my head snaps in her direction. She’s standing by the doorway, face splotchy and body shaking, and I’m scrabbling toward her on my next breath. “Oh, Lili…baby, tell me this isn’t real.”

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