Page 4 of Knot Yours

That’s the first, second, and third strike against me. I’m the daughter of a Copa in the most powerful crime family in Puerto Rico. An unwilling mafia princess with no friends because merely associating with me is a hazard to one’s health.

My father's job in the family doesn’t involve the drugs, prostitution, or gambling prevalent in crime families. He runs the legitimate side of the family’s business, real estate. Apá makes money for El Gran as a real estate broker.

Though his deals are never strictly illegal, I imagine my father’s position in the Otero family has encouraged people to deal quickly with him. I assume people often agree to terms less than they would accept from someone else out of fear of the Otero name.

I don’t want to think this way about the loving father who raised me, but not to do so would be ignoring everything I know about the mafia. I love my father and know he loved all of us, but that doesn’t change who and what he is.

Still, despite knowing who he is, Cirilo Borrero will always be my Apá, the man who told me bedtime stories and carried me on his shoulders. All the times he served as my steed while I munched on Mallorca bread, he never complained about all the powdered sugar raining down on his head.

I may hate what he does at his desk, but the Copa isn’t my father. Apá is. And he’s the only family I have left. I miss him. More than a third of my life has been spent on the mainland, working to fulfill my promise. Throughout my studies, my father has never pressed me to return home. We’ve shared plenty of calls, and I’ve visited, but we’ve both seemed to accept that San Juan is no longer my home, even though it pains him.

My father has always tried to shield my mother, brother, and me from the family business. It worked until I became old enough to ask questions, most of which he skillfully evaded. The ruse failed when I reached thirteen. Between other kids in my school and TV, I learned all about the Otero family and my father’s role in it.

And it’s not a life he sought out, either. His father was the Copa before him, and Tata wanted his son to follow in his footsteps.

Many times over the years, I’ve wondered what would have happened to Cordero if he’d not gotten sick. Would Apá groom him to take over one day? Cordero would have done it to please our father, but he wouldn’t have been happy. Neither would my Apá.

He wanted something different for his children. After losing his son and later his wife, Apá has borne my absence, though I know it has been difficult for him. He did it because he wanted me away from that life as much as I wanted to be gone from it.

As much as I wanted to escape the Otero family, I also wanted my father to be free. Sighing, I think about all the tired arguments I used to make, begging him to pack up and leave with me. Apá would cup my cheek each time, saying, “Ah, Bebita, it is not so easy to leave this life. To walk away from El Gran would be seen as a betrayal.”

Apá always smiled as he explained, but his eyes were resigned. I was convinced that with Mom and Cordero gone and me safely on the mainland, he had no reason to leave the only life he’d ever known.

Knowing what that meant, I eventually stopped asking. Apá was happy that I was in school in California with a chance at a normal life. I chuckle at the misguided notion. Despite his best efforts, a normal life isn’t something I’ll ever have.

I can’t imagine having a boyfriend serious enough to warrant explaining who my father is, mostly because I don’t want to imagine their reaction. So, I’ll grow to be a lone wolf like my father with no family, stuck in a profession that chose me instead of the other way around.

My dismal musing is interrupted by thunderous applause. The grads around me stand and wait for their turn to march across the stage. I join them, receive my hood, shake hands with the dignitaries, and retake my seat.

The last congratulations are soon offered from the podium, and the graduating class erupts in vivacious celebration. I wish I could share in their enthusiasm. Instead of joining in, I sneak out, moving toward the exit and the predetermined meeting place to wait for my father.

I shed the regalia but recall the proud grin on Apá’s face. For his sake, I reposition the robe and hood, straightening the front just as he walks up. “Ruiz, take a picture of me with Doctor Marisol Borrero.”

Pasting on a fake smile, I portray happiness for my father’s sake. Ruiz snaps the photo and walks over to hug me. “I’m so proud of you, Cariña.”

“Thanks, Ruiz.”

The grounds fill in with families and smiling grads, making my father’s security detail antsy. We’re ushered back to the limo and drive to one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants for dinner.

Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place, but just this once, I’m glad to indulge my father’s penchant for extravagant dining. It’s virtually a guarantee that I won’t run into anyone I know from school.

Those who know me know I come from Puerto Rico, but no one knows about my upbringing. Even though I’ll be moving away from Richmond, I’d like to keep it that way.

When the second course was delivered, I realized the flaw in my plan. While so concerned about my face being recognized by classmates and colleagues, I failed to anticipate my father being the one to attract attention.

A heavily accented baritone voice draws my eyes from my plate. “Cirilo Borrero, as I live and breathe.”

My father greets the visitor cordially, though his smile lacks any warmth. “Belisario Pastrana. It’s been a long time.”

Ignoring me completely, Mr. Pastrana lowers his big frame into an empty seat at our table. “You are a long way from home, my friend. What brings you to my fair city?”

The words would sound friendly enough to a passerby, but I’ve seen too much in my lifetime to miss the undercurrent between the two men. The Pastranas share similar interests to the Otero family, running operations on the East Coast. They’re reportedly based out of Norfolk, but even nearly two hours away in Richmond, seeing my father in Pastrana territory must be rather unsettling.

My father keeps his body relaxed as though facing down the brutal leader of the Pastranas has no effect on him. “I’m here to celebrate my daughter’s graduation. She is now a doctor who will create medicines for diseases without a cure.”

The dangerous rival shifts his gaze to me, forcing my eyes from their perusal of the man and his entourage. “Your daughter is lovely. You must be proud of her to achieve such an accomplishment, but maybe she will cure people of their lack of addiction, no?”

Knowing but hating my place among these old-fashioned types, I keep my mouth shut, biting off the harsh words stinging my tongue. The same constraint doesn’t burden my father. He coolly replies, “She will create medicines to heal.”

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