Page 96 of Drawn Blue Lines

However, Brody waited for no one. “Is Ignacio Vergara your son?”

I glared at him, but he kept his eyes on Rosita, who shifted her attention toward him, transitioning into broken English. “Yes. But I haven’t seen him in many years. Not since…” She looked away, a sudden cloud shadowing her face.

“Not since what?” he pushed.

“Not since…” Her frail voice trailed off, and tilting her head, she narrowed an accusing gaze at me. “How do you know Esteban?”

I froze, the words stuck in my throat. Panicking, I looked at Brody, who gave an encouraging nod. “I’m his daughter,” I said.

She studied me. “His daughter is Marisol. You said your name was Adriana.” My name barely left her mouth before recognition sparked. Her eyes widened, and both hands wrapped around her cane as she flung herself out of the chair and snatched the crucifix off the wall. Holding it close to her chest, she dropped to her knees and closed her eyes, chanting a prayer in rapid Spanish.

Ave Maria. Hail Mary.

She knew who I was.

There was a harsh edge to Brody’s face, and his eyebrows pinched together in confusion. But I knew exactly what was going on, and if I was going to get answers out of her, it had to be woman to woman.

Victim to victim.

I fell to my knees beside her and wrapped my hand over hers. Raising my voice, I overpowered her chanting with rapid fire Spanish.

“You know who I am. You know Esteban murdered my mother and stole me from her arms. Now you tell me what Pablo Muñoz’s bastard son has to do with it!”

Without warning, her incessant chanting stopped, and her eyes flicked toward mine. “Esteban wasn’t the one who killed your mother, child. It was my son.”

I released her hand, falling backward as if I’d touched fire. “What? Why?”

“Adriana, what the hell is going on?” Brody shot off the couch, but I didn’t move. I never averted my eyes as the harsh truth spilled from Rosita’s parched lips.

“It was a test,” she said, her eyes locked on mine. “To prove his loyalty. All my boy wanted was to be accepted by his brother, and Esteban used him as a pawn.” She spat the words like poison. “Pablo refused to acknowledge Ignacio, so no one knew my son existed. Esteban used our shame to his advantage. He sent Ignacio away for months to make a trade alliance with promises to make him lieutenant of the new syndicate.”

“Let me guess, Esteban lied.”

She didn’t answer, pressing her lips in a thin, tight line. “He gave him one last task to complete. ‘All or nothing,’ he said. If he succeeded, the new territory was his, but if he failed…” She trailed off, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “The task was a revenge mission in Mexico City. I told him it was too dangerous, and Esteban couldn’t be trusted, but he wouldn’t listen. He was willing to risk everything to return to what he’d built. But I was right. Alejandro Carrera demanded justice, and that lying pendejo handed Ignacio over like a sacrificial lamb.”

“Obviously, he didn’t kill him.”

“No, Ignacio overheard the conversation and ran for his life.”

“You act like he was innocent!” I yelled. “This wasn’t a cartel hit, Rosita! Your son went after women and children. He killed my mother and my aunt. Had my brother not escaped, he would’ve been slaughtered too.”

I vaguely heard Brody’s voice, and when his firm hand landed on my shoulder, I knocked it off. I only hoped he didn’t try dragging me out by force. I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t turn on him.

Her cold eyes softened. “You still don’t know, do you?

“Know what?”

“Why you were taken. It wasn’t to punish Alejandro Carrera. It was to punish his wife.”

All the air whooshed out of my lungs. “What?”

“Alejandro didn’t want another child, so after you were born, he rarely came home. Liliana was a lonely woman, and Esteban was a very handsome and powerful man who saw an opportunity. They became lovers, and Esteban found himself so enamored with his rival’s wife, he would’ve left his own for her. However, she feared Alejandro’s wrath too much to risk the same.” She looked upon me with pity. “Jealousy has more power than love. Your mother ripped out his heart, so Esteban—”

“Took hers,” I whispered. “He ripped me out of her arms…”

“She rejected him,” she finished for me. “She wasn’t supposed to die, but she fought for you.”

As the words sank in, so did the surge of hatred. Climbing onto my knees, I clenched my fists, the accusation boiling on my tongue. “Your son has my mother’s blood on his hands.”

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