Page 40 of Spice and Revenge

“Do you know how worried I was when I couldn’t find you? I thought one of my enemies had kidnapped you. The only way I could believe that you ran from me was because your friend also went missing around that same time.”

He is referring to Maximo, and my heart lurches in my throat. If he was able to find me, then Maximo couldn’t be far off.

“How could you do that to your old man? How could you leave me like that? Did you plan on giving me a heart attack?”

I smile at him, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “You can’t die from a heart attack. You are above that.”

Uncle Pedro always told me how he would never die a shameful death. After years of ruling the Cuban mafia, he would die a powerful death, and legendary tales would be told about him.

He barks out a loud laugh. “You remember. Of course, you do. I taught you well.”

Again, that phrase. He didn't track me down out of paternal affection. He acts like he genuinely cares about me, but he can only keep that act on for a short time. His true intentions for seeking me out will be revealed soon.

We leave the warehouse and enter a black Escalade already open and waiting for us. The car leads us further into the compound, and that is when a large house comes into view.

“One of my most recent acquisitions,” he announces proudly.

The short drive comes to an end as the car stops in front of the building. We step down from the car, and he leads us into the house.

White walls with gold accents, dark wooden floors covered with red plush carpeting and a big chandelier hanging high above, invites us into the space. Soft lights illuminate the entire room, lighting up the extravagant paintings on the wall. A large fireplace is lit in one corner of the living room, creating a welcoming atmosphere. There are bookshelves lining all four sides of the room.

“Why did you buy and decorate a house in New York of all places?” I ask as he leads me to the dining room.

A long table with a white linen tablecloth is laid out in the middle of the dining room for dinner. A different assortment of dishes is already sitting on the table. A rich smell and mixture of aromas waft through the air. As we walk into the room, my stomach grumbles.

“I visit New York frequently for business meetings. Staying in hotels during every visit was getting old, you know,” he says with a smile playing on his lips.

We take our seats at the table, and Uncle Pedro quickly dives into his food. I watch him for a beat, and memories from years ago assault my memory.

We used to eat together, just like we are doing now, after each successful training. He would rain praises on me, telling me that I would grow to be the strongest assassin in Cuban empire history.

After my parents and sister were killed, Uncle Pedro, Dad’s younger brother, took over as the head of the Cuban empire. He also took me in to live with him. During our first few years of living together, I was a depressed and traumatized child. I had a series of nightmares from watching my family get killed, I was scared of guns, blood and anything that had to do with violence.

I grew from a traumatized child to a depressed teenager. The moment I turned thirteen, my training began. He trained me personally, teaching me how to fight, use weapons and eventually, how to kill. The sole purpose of my entire life became devoted to killing Uncle Pedro’s enemies. And after every successful mission, we would have dinners like this. While he praised me for being a prodigy, I sank further into depression. I had turned into the same people who had killed my family. I had become a murderer.

I was sixteen when I started planning my escape. Maximo and I became friends in our sophomore year of high school. We became closer, and along the line, we got to know each family’s secrets. That was when we realized that we both had something in common—we both wanted to run away.

“So, of all places to run to, why did you choose Sicily?” Uncle Pedro’s gruff voice brings me back to the present.

Because it was the one place I never thought you’d find me, I’m tempted to say.

“Culinary school,” I say instead, before taking a forkful of a savory meatball into my mouth.

He nods in approval. “Ah. How could I forget you’re a chef now? Running that anonymous page of yours. Very smart…”

I swear to God if he says he taught me well again…

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

It doesn’t shock me now that he knows about my anonymous page. If he was able to monitor my movements in Sicily and follow me all the way to New York, then he surely knows about the anonymous account.

“Why didn’t you fight the men that kidnapped you? If you wanted to escape them, you would have,” he says again, regarding me with an assessing look.

When I don’t reply immediately, he smirks.

“You needed to confirm who was trailing you,” he concludes, his tone both chilling and knowing.

I gulp. Even though those men outnumbered me, I could have still fought them if I wanted to. They hadn’t even drugged me, and yet I just let them take me.

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