Not Your Destiny: Chapter 32

Marked
Book 1: Not Your Destiny

Chapter 32

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In the morning, Hayley’s door is still closed by the time Ángel is done with his shower. Abuela looks out of her room long enough to nod at Ángel, then retreats. Joey steals the bathroom as soon as Ángel is done, and he can see that his parents’ room is empty when he passes by.

He makes his way downstairs, and Papi meets him at the kitchen door, a cup of coffee held out. Ángel takes it gratefully, takes a sip before he moves to the table and sits, not really caring about breakfast yet.

He’s early; Luca won’t be here for a while. More importantly, Papi hasn’t left yet.

Ángel nudges one of the chairs out with his foot. Papi glances at it, lowers himself slowly to sit. “Something on your mind, mijo?” Papi asks.

It’s too early for this, but Ángel knows it’s also his only chance to catch Papi today. Still, his brain hasn’t caught up yet, and he’s struggling to figure out the best way to put his questions. “I talked to Abuela last night,” he says slowly. “About Abuelo.”

“Ah.” Papi taps his fingers on the table. “About what, in particular?”

So many things, and even though Abuela said that Papi doesn’t know, Ángel doesn’t believe that. Papi notices things, and Ángel can’t think that he grew up with Abuelo and never had any idea.

Ángel bites his tongue, decides that Abuela’s extra soulmark is not a topic for discussion. “Our name,” he says slowly. “That we’re of the cross.”

“Ah. That.”

Yeah, that. Ángel could poke at Papi, but it won’t help. He needs Papi to talk when Papi’s ready, so Ángel sips at his coffee and waits.

“He wasn’t a bad man,” Papi says quietly, his hands curled around his own coffee.

“Abuela said.” Angel’s foot twitches; he taps it, then decides it’ll be easier to get up. Move around, get breakfast, be productive. “She also thinks you don’t know anything about it.”

Papi pushes the chair back, leans back in it with the coffee cradled in his hands. “She’s wrong, but you already guessed that. Abuelo gave me the choice, when I was fourteen.”

“You said no?” Ángel peers into the fridge, pulls out the eggs. The familiarity of an egg sandwich sounds good this morning, even without the thickly cut fresh bread of the Mollicone house.

A low, dry laugh. “I said yes, Ángel.”

One egg hits the floor, spreading in a bright yellow, sticky mess.

“Shit.” Ángel grabs for paper towels, does his best to clean it up, glad for the fact that it keeps his back to Papi. “Why the hell would you say yes?”

“It wasn’t about hunting down Clan and Lince—yes, I know who the Mollicones are—and killing them in cold blood,” Papi says quietly. “It was about protecting those who needed it. Whoever stepped out of line—Mage or Clan or anyone Talented who endangered those around him—we stepped in. We corrected their path, made sure that the people who live here are safe.”

“That’s not the impression I got.”

Silence.

It gives Ángel time to get the cracked egg in the trash and break two more into a heating pan. They sizzle softly, and he steps away to throw two slices of bread in the toaster.

“Not everyone was willing to let things lie,” Papi draws the words out, as if he’s choosing each one carefully. “Some didn’t want to wait for the problems to happen, they wanted to fix what wasn’t broken. Including some in the church. Some who came from our homelands, and who didn’t want to share space with demons.”

“They aren’t demons.” Ángel puts the tub of butter down too hard on the counter, the knife clattering next to it.

“I know, mijo.” Papi clears his throat, and Ángel turns around to meet his gaze. Papi points to the empty chair, and Ángel responds by gesturing at the eggs cooking on the stove. Papi nods, and Ángel hurries to finish making his egg sandwich.

The toast isn’t as dark as he’d like, the cheese isn’t melted enough. But it’s edible, and it’ll keep him going through the morning. He drops the plate on the table first, then sinks into the chair.

“So talk to me about it.” Ángel keeps his voice firm. “Obviously, you didn’t bring me up like that.”

“Your abuelo and I talked about it. I stopped,” Papi admits. “He stopped. Long ago, around the time you were born. We protected our own, yes, and if someone had come after you, he would have ensured they could never hurt you. But we are not a weapon of the church, not any more. The church has none, now. It’s there for all of us, welcoming Mage, Lince, and Clan alike.”

“So when Tony said look to the church—”

“He thinks we’re still there, that there are still protectors,” Papi agrees with what Ángel had been thinking. “But if there are, I don’t know about it. And it’s not us.”

“We have a tangled past with the Mollicones.” It’s the best way Ángel can think to say it, other than blurting out a question whether Papi knows how Abuela felt about Bonita.

Papi reaches across, covers Angel’s hand. “I know.” He pulls back at the knock on the door. “I think your ride is here, and that means I’m running later than I thought. Eat or pack it up.”

Ángel rises, moving to get a small stack of napkins for his sandwich while Papi gets the door. He expects Luca to come in, make himself at home the way he has been doing for the last several days. When no one comes up behind him, he turns while taking a bite, and stops in the middle. “Hi,” he says around a mouthful of bread and egg.

Tony raises one hand, not moving from the middle of the open doorway.

Papi claps a hand on Tony’s shoulder, ushers him and closes the door. “How are things at the shop?”

“The cleaners say they’ll be done by Sunday night.” Tony crosses his arms, body language stiff and tense. Defensive. “We’re paying out of pocket until we get the settlement from insurance. They’re not going to pay out until the case is closed on your side.”

“We’re working to get you a resolution as soon as we can. And in order to do that, I’d better get going.” Papi pulls the door open, edges past Tony to get out. “Ángel, I’ll see you here later tonight. Tony, good luck. Call me if you need anything.”

Tony nods once, and Papi is gone.

Ángel shoves the last two bites in his mouth at once, cleans his hands with the pile of napkins before washing up. He chews fast and swallows awkwardly, washing it down with a swallow of cold coffee, then digs through the cabinets for a travel mug. He finds two, and holds them up as he turns, stopping abruptly when Tony is right there, only inches away. “Oh. Hey.”

Tony’s mouth quirks. “You said that.”

Ángel licks his lips, not sure how to continue the conversation that had ended last night with Tony leaving, quickly, after they’d kissed. He lifts both mugs. “Coffee?”

“Sure.” Tony follows Ángel to the coffee pot, ends up leaning one hip against the counter, leaning into Angel’s space as Ángel fills both mugs.

When Ángel hands one to Tony, their fingers brush, Tony dragging his fingers slowly across the back of Angel’s hands. And Jesus, he feels like he’s fourteen again and trying to figure out the concept of attraction and what it means.

Tony smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Ángel leans in closer, fully intending to wipe that smirk off of Tony’s face, and jumps back when a horn honks outside. By the time he gets his equilibrium, and has made sure he didn’t spill coffee down his shirt, Tony has the door open and is waving.

“Luca’s getting impatient,” Tony points out.

“Right, because your car is—” Ángel cuts off, wincing. “Sorry. Sore subject, shouldn’t bring it up.”

Tony shrugs. “I can’t do anything about it now except shop for another car. In the meantime, Gabi and Luca are willing to give me rides, and I’ve got the Mustang in an emergency. As long as there’s no rain.”

“We should get the motor fixed.” Ángel ducks into the back seat of Luca’s car when Tony holds the door opened. He’s surprised that Tony hands his coffee in for Ángel to hold, then slides in to sit next to him.

“I’m not a chauffeur,” Luca mutters dryly.

Tony points at the road. “To the shop.” At Luca’s huff, he turns back to Ángel. “Getting Helga back on the road is more important. I don’t want to risk you breaking down halfway to New York.” He flicks his fingers against the back of Luca’s head, and Luca exhales.

“Wasn’t going to say anything,” Luca grumbles, pulling out of the driveway to get on the road.

Tony sits back, arms crossed, and drinks his coffee. Ángel takes it as a sign that quiet is okay right now, and tries to bring his thoughts back in line and steady his heart. “We can work on Helga outside,” he suggests when they pull into the parking lot.

“That’s what I was planning.” Tony unfolds himself from the backseat, gestures with the mug in his hand. “Go on back, and I’ll meet you there. I need to talk to Zita first.”

Ángel moves to follow him into the shop, planning to cut through to the back lot, but Luca grabs him and hauls him into a hug. Ángel gets his hands on Luca’s chest, pushes him back. “What? Do I reek?”

Luca shakes his head. “Not as much as usual. You’re settling.”

“Starting to smell like all of you?” It feels like an innocent question, but it makes Luca grin brightly as soon as Ángel asks.

“Yeah.” Luca ruffles his hair, rubs his cheek against Angel’s. “You are. You’re getting there, anyway.”

Bemused, Ángel walks away.

Helga is sitting next to the Mustang in the back, and Ángel runs his hand over her hood. He leans in and pops the hood, stares thoughtfully as if he knows what they still need to do. He doesn’t actually remember the original list Tony gave him and he isn’t sure what’s left.

The door opens, closes, and Ángel remains where he is until a hand falls on his back, the touch light and careful. Ángel looks over to see Tony staring into the engine as if he’s looking for answers there as well.

“It wasn’t us,” Ángel says quietly, when the silence draws out several beats too long. “The shop. Your parents. It wasn’t us. Abuelo, Papi—they wouldn’t. And I never—”

“I know.” Tony’s shoulders hunch. “It’s all I can think, though. Not your family, specifically, but that there’s someone out there who wants us dead just because of who we are.”

“Maritsa’s family?”

Tony shakes his head. “They’d curse us—curse Zita, probably. But I don’t think they’d try to hurt us, because that’d mean hurting Maritsa. And they love her. Even with how much they don’t approve of us, or of Cleto because he’s more us than them these days, they’ll be at the wedding. They’re still working with her on the traditions, on making sure she has the wedding she dreamed of, even though it won’t be how they originally thought it would be.”

“There were others,” Ángel says slowly. “Not just Abuela. Probably relatives. Or maybe others who were weapons—”

“I don’t want to think about it.” Tony cuts him off, leans against him, shoulder to shoulder. “We’ve got a car to finish repairing. Besides, it’s over and done.” He turns to lean back against the front of the car, his arms crossed. Ángel matches his stance, just so he can line up and lean against him, shoulder to shoulder, hip almost touching hip.

“Don’t you want to know what happened?” Ángel asks. “Who did it?”

The sound of a car out front, parking in front of the shop, locking with a quick two beeps.

He feels the shrug of Tony’s shoulder against his, and when Tony twists to face him, Ángel turns with him, meeting his gaze.

“I want to know what happened,” Tony agrees. “But I’m ready to move on.” He raises one hand, then drops it, abruptly stepping sideways, putting space between them moments before the back door opens. It slams against the wall with a thud.

Daphne stands in the doorway, lit from behind by a flickering light. She smiles sweetly and it doesn’t reach her eyes, lips thinly pressed. “I’d like to talk to you, Tony,” she says. Her steps are measured, even as she approaches.

Tony meets her halfway, before she can reach the cars. A hand on her side steers her to the other side of the back wall, away from the door. He motions from Ángel to the door.

“Yes,” Daphne echoes, as if Tony had spoken aloud. “Give us privacy. Please.”

Ángel hesitates. He wants to stop this conversation, to keep Tony from making another mistake. But he knows he shouldn’t approach them, shouldn’t somehow try to come between them physically. He considers his words carefully as he walks to the door, then pauses there and responds to Tony’s last words. “I think you’re right,” Ángel says. “And if you’re ready, then you should.”

He lets the door close behind him to put the period on his statement.

Gabi meets him inside the hall, touches a finger to her lips. The cleaners are nowhere to be seen; most of the floor has been gutted of debris already, and Zita and Ronnie Hamilton are standing out there, talking. Gabi touches her ear, drifts closer to where Zita stands, but stays out of sight.

Ángel doesn’t have nearly as good hearing as the Lince do, but he’s damned well going to try to eavesdrop anyway.

Besides, Zita’s furious snapped words make it easy. “What do you mean the investigation is over?”

“The case is inconclusive,” Ronnie says, his hands spread. It sounds apologetic—his body language attempts to look apologetic—but it doesn’t feel that way to Ángel. He can taste the lie in the air, and he knows Gabi hears it too, from her soft snarl in response.

“There’s no real evidence of arson,” Ronnie continues. “There’s nothing left to look into and our only recourse is to conclude that this was a tragic accident. Likely an interaction between chemicals used on site, that were sparked during the unauthorized Sunday work hours.”

“Tony is one of the owners,” Zita snaps. Her hands twitch at her sides, curling then flexing. “He defines his own hours. They weren’t unauthorized. They just weren’t hours that we’re open to the public. And trust me, Tony was safe. If he says there was an accelerant, then—”

“There was no sign of an accelerant, Ms. Mollicone,” Ronnie says, and Ángel wants to choke the words from him. They sound too slick. Too smooth.

Angel’s breath shudders in his chest, and he grips Gabi’s fingers when she takes his hand. A hand falls on his shoulder, and Luca is there behind them, holding on to both of them as he leans against them.

“I don’t like him,” Luca whispers. “And he’s lying.”

“Yeah,” Ángel exhales. “Even I can tell.”

The back door to the shop slams open, and Tony stalks in, Daphne close behind.

“Do not shut me out,” Daphne yells, as Tony pushes past the cluster standing in the hall on his way to the bathroom.

Tony stops in the bathroom doorway, looks at her. “We’re done,” he says simply. “I said it the other day, I said it outside, and I’m saying it now. This is it, Daphne. We’re done. Over. Don’t show up here again. Don’t call me. Don’t assume that the next time you feel like dragging me around that I’ll be ready to go. Don’t come to the wedding. I don’t want to see you again.”

Angel’s gaze flicks from Tony to Daphne, then out to the floor where Zita and Ronnie are watching.

Ronnie smiles. It’s gone as soon as Ángel spots it, replaced by a mask of concern. “Daphne,” he says.

She’s pale and shaking, hands curled into fists, tucked against her chest as her shoulders curl. “I want to leave,” she says.

“Good. Go,” Tony tells her, and disappears into the bathroom, closing the door with a heavy thunk.

Ronnie puts an arm around Daphne’s shoulders, guides her to the front of the shop. “We’re done here,” he says softly. “My case is closed; I don’t need to return. And you should be done with him. Don’t let him hurt you again.”

A soft hiccup, and Ángel doesn’t want to think of Daphne crying over this. She shouldn’t cry, not after the way she’s treated Tony.

He wonders if there’s something wrong inside her head, something twisted about how she feels for Tony. It’s nothing he can sort out, and he just watches them go.

Zita waits until the car doors slam outside, until the engine revs, then fades in the distance. She walks past Ángel and the others and taps lightly on the bathroom door. “Tony?”

“Tell Luca to meet me out back to work on Angel’s car.” Tony’s voice is clear, despite the door. “Ángel can help you inside.”

Gabi squeezes Angel’s fingers. “You don’t want to deal with Tony when he’s in a mood, anyway.”

“I heard that.”

She tugs and Ángel follows her down the hall. Gabi knocks once on the bathroom door on the way by, as if that’s a response to Tony’s snark. Then she pushes Ángel into the office, where the furniture’s been removed and the cleaners are scrubbing down the walls. “We need to make some phone calls,” she says, and the cleaners quickly exit.

There are buckets of primer waiting to be put up. The furniture is gone, the old desks disposed of and the filing cabinets sitting outside, waiting for a fresh coat of paint. Ángel leans against the window, blinking when Gabi hands him a piece of paper with a list of names and numbers.

“Call each one, let them know what our status is and that we plan to re-open on Monday the 15th, yes, even though it’s a holiday,” she says. She hesitates, then adds quietly, “And I think maybe he’s going to make it stick this time.”

The door down the hall opens, footsteps heading out the back of the shop. Ángel ducks his head when the sound is gone. “Yeah,” he agrees with her assessment. “Maybe he’s ready to move on.”

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