Chapter 1
ARIADNA
I never used to be good at cooking but when you had no choice but to cook dinner every evening since the age of 12, you had no choice but to get good at it. Now, I cook regularly. I enjoyed it. But constantly having to come up with meals that both my little brother and very Mexican Papa would enjoy was getting increasingly difficult. One only wanted to eat things that were full of E-numbers while the other followed a strict, well-balanced diet. Did you even need to ask who was which?
Unfortunately, it was all at my expense since Papa couldn’t cook to save his life even though he ran the Mexican Cartel for a living, but my little brother helped sometimes.
“Do you need some help, sis?”
I glanced over my shoulder at my little brother.
“I’m nearly done here but I could do with a hand with the washing up.”
Isaiah, my little brother, pulled a face and begrudgingly rolled up his sleeves to get to work. He hated washing dishes but he always offered to help me when he could around his busy high school schedule.
“Is that salsa you’re making?” He asked.
“It is.”
“What are you pairing it with?”
“Enchiladas and a side salad.”
I didn’t need to glance over my shoulder to know that he had pulled a face at our dinner menu for this evening.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I made your enchiladas separately. No beans.”
Our Mama had passed when Isaiah was still a toddler so he didn’t get to experience Mexican food as much as I did. Mama loved cooking and I loved eating everything she made. After her passing, we had friends and family try to step in and help but Papa shut them all out, claiming the three of us were a family unit and we could look after ourselves. Growing up, it was difficult for me to comprehend but looking back now, I knew that Papa clinging onto us like that was his way of coping.
My Papa was a lot of things–mostly bad, heinous and horrible–but he loved my Mama with all my heart. He had kept all of her belongings, kept their bedroom the way it was when she was still alive and kept a picture of her in his wallet.
If that wasn’t love, then I didn’t know what was.
Isaiah was too young to remember, but after Mama’s passing, it was like Papa had shut down. All he did was work, work, and more work, leaving us with his guards and closest men. They were all nice as we were their Jefe’s kids, but none of them could cook to save their lives. Occasionally, their Mamas or wives would send food with them for us, but Isaiah never tried it.
Fast forward to high school when I discovered my passion for cooking like Mama and began experimenting in the kitchen. Papa was relieved because he didn’t have to eat takeout anymore and we made a habit of sitting down at the dinner table to have dinner together most nights like a family, but Isaiah still wasn’t any good with our cultural food. I found it funny, but Papa hated it. It was probably the only part of my brother that he wasn’t proud of.
“Thanks, sis.”
“Just don’t tell Papa, okay? He’ll have a go at me for cooking you separate meals. Remember last time?” I cringed just thinking back to a few months ago when Papa saw that I was cooking separately for Isaiah and force-fed him a whole pot of beans. There was sweat and tears shed, and the carpet was pointlessly ruined because, by the end, Isaiah only hated beans so much more.
“Don’t worry,” he chuckled. “I’ve learnt my lesson. I won’t make that mistake again.”
-
“These enchiladas are amazing. Almost as good as your Mama’s.” Papa leaned across the table to kiss my temple. “Thank you for making dinner, querida.”
My chest swelled with pride at the high compliment.
“You’re very welcome, Papa.”
“Papa’s right. These enchiladas really are amazing,” Isaiah said, sitting across from me at the table. He sat on Papa’s right while I sat on Papa’s left. Mama’s seat across from Papa lay empty, just as it had for the past 13 years.
We had a big dining table in the dining room we used on the rare occasion that the extended family or some of Papa’s men came by for dinner but most of the time, we ate at the small 4-seater table in our kitchen. Just like we used to do for family meals when Mama was still alive.
I beamed at him when Papa wasn’t looking.
“How was school, Isaiah?” I asked my brother.
“It was alright.” He shrugged. “There’s an English assignment I haven’t done yet.”
“When is it due?”
“Tomorrow,” he admitted sheepishly.
I shot him a glare, only half-serious. “Why do you always leave your assignments last minute?”
“I don’t know but can you help me with it after dinner? You know I’m no good when it comes to English. I’m barely passing as it is.” His eyes pleaded with me.
“Fine,” I sighed dramatically. Sure, it was annoying that Isaiah always left his homework last minute but I didn’t mind helping him. Isaiah and I were close, and we always enjoyed spending time together.
“Don’t worry about the assignment, nino. Do it whenever you can. If your teachers have an issue with it, tell them they can come and speak to me about it,” Papa said. “You’ll be working for me in the Cartel after high school, and homework isn’t going to help you with that.”
“Stop saying that, Papa,” I sighed but this time, I was annoyed. “Isaiah is going to college after high school. He’s already been accepted into NYU with early admission, remember?”
I was so proud when Isaiah received the email from NYU confirming that he had gotten in via early admission to study Business.
“What good is college to a Cartel Boss?”
“Isaiah isn’t going to be a Cartel Boss.”
“Not yet, he isn’t,” Papa grinned in that charming way he always did. “You have to wait for your old man to kick the bucket before you can take over as Boss, Isaiah.”
“I know, Papa,” Isaiah chuckled, but the sound was strained. He sent a panicked look when Papa wasn’t looking, but I merely pursed my lips and didn’t say anything else on the matter.
I went to NYU to study Marketing and currently work remotely for a start-up whose clientele mostly consists of influencers as well as a few growing artists and celebrities. I had a few very good offers in LA that were akin to my dream job, but I couldn’t stomach leaving my brother alone with my Papa and the rest of the Cartel. Not because I didn’t trust them, but because I knew what they were like.
It would break my heart to see my sweet, kind, loving little brother change under the influence of the Mexican Cartel. I feared that one day it was inevitable since Papa always planned for Isaiah to take over after him, but I would try to keep the good in him for as long as I possibly could.
Papa cleared his throat rather loudly. “There’s something I need to talk to you both about.” He finished off the last of his enchiladas and wiped his mouth on a napkin. “I should have told you both about it earlier, but I’ve been putting it off. Unfortunately, I can’t put it off any longer.”
Isaiah and I shared a look. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good.
-
Layla Knight
25.04.2024
querida – sweetheart
jefe – chief/boss
nino – son/child
