Page 6 of Dom 3
I slowly nodded but the weight of it all still surrounded me. “Dom… are you sure it’s a good idea for everybody to show face? The funeral’s going to be crawling with people, and eyes everywhere. Hell, police, maybe Blanca’s people too. You really think the cartel should be there?”
Dom sat back with one arm stretched along the backside of the couch rest, as he cocked his head to the side. He had that killer look in his eyes again. “Carmen, listen to me. Ramon was one of ours. He was loyal and put his life on the line ‘cause he believed in me. He was loyal to the Royal. We don’t miss his funeral for shit. Not cops, not El Blanca, not nobody. If we ain’t there, it sends a message we don’t stand on our own. That’s weakness, and we don’t move weak.”
I exhaled allowing my fingers to trace the rim of the mug. “I’m not saying don’t honor him, Dom. I just…” I stopped myself, searching his face. “I just don’t want to see more bloodshed on a day that’s supposed to be about Ramon.”
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the muted screen where the news kept running the same footage. “There won’t be no chaos at the funeral. My people already know what to do. We gon’ show up, stand tall, and bury our young soldier properly. If anybody try somethin’ stupid?” He shook his head slow and deadly. “They won’t leave breathing. That’s a promise.”
The silence after that was more than words could say. I sipped what was left of my tea, allowing it to burn down my throat convincing myself that it could settle the nausea. “You’re stubborn,” I finally mumbled. No matter what, I had his back, and he knew it.
He gave me a half smirk with that cold, yet sexy look in his eyes. “And you love me for it,” he replied. I didn’t respond because I hated how right he was.
Dom reached for the remote, turned the TV off, then looked at me like he was already two steps ahead and knew what I was thinking. “You ate yet?”
I raised a brow. “Does saltines count?”
“Nah,” he said standing to his feet. “Get dressed, we not hidin’ out in here all day. You need a real meal.”
I closed the laptop, slid off the couch, and tied my robe tighter. “Where are you trying to take me?”
“Wherever you feel like, but of course I’m thinkin’ Cuban food. That’s what you like when your stomach don’t wanna cooperate.” He said. I knew his own appetite had been off since trying to fight that cold. Like now, he was trying to act like it didn’t exist. I didn’t know when he would realize that he was just human like everyone else.
The thought of Cuban food had me smiling, just a little. Us Miami folks loved some Cuban food. “Fine, but I’m picking the spot.”
A little while later, I was out of the robe and wearing a fitted sundress with a jean jacket tossed over my shoulders. My hair was twisted into a low bun, and a thin pair of hoops swung against my neck. I didn’t feel the need to do a suit today, because I’m a boss every single day but at this moment, I cared about my comfort. The last thing I did was strap my gun around my thigh underneath the dress and made sure the clip was full on the one in my purse. I slid my feet into a cute pair of Hermes sandals and was ready to go.
By the time we hit the elevator, security was already in position. Downstairs, the line of black trucks waited with the engines humming low. Two of Dom’s people covered the doors, with their eyes sweeping the lot before he guided me into the backseat of the lead Suburban. Another truck followed as soon as we pulled out, as the mirrors caught the Miami light. The city was alive outside the tinted glass with vendors on corners selling smoked sausages and hotdogs with the potato sticks and sauerkraut The palm trees were swaying against the afternoon breeze, and the sound of music filled the streets with bass from cars. However, inside the truck, it was quiet, and calm as I pulled the Chanel frames over my eyes while Dom had his hand rested on my thigh while using the other hand to send encrypted messages.
“Which spot?” he asked finally looking up again.
“La Carreta,” I answered without hesitation. “I want croquetas and a cortadito that don’t taste like hotel lobby coffee.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Say less.”
We hit Little Havana and slid into the back entrance of the restaurant where another two soldiers had already parked andchecked the alley. Inside, the staff knew who Dom and I were and didn’t blink twice about letting us inside. We sat tucked away in a corner booth, with the smell of garlic, onions, and slow cooked pork seeping through our nostrils.
I slowly tore into my croquetas, enjoying that crunch before finally reaching the steaming ham. Dom ordered lechón with rice and maduros and ate like a man who hadn’t touched food in days but still stopped to pour my cafecito first. For a second, it felt normal, like it was just us. Like a real husband and wife at lunch kind of situation… not a kingpin and his lawyer wife plotting survival between every bite.
That moment didn’t last. Halfway through the meal, one of Dom’s phones rang. He glanced at it, answered it, had a brief conversation, and then set it face down. “Before we head back, we makin’ a stop.”
I already knew just from his conversation. “Miss Twyla’s?”
He nodded his head. “Yeah, I have to see if she need anything else before the funeral. I can’t let her feel like she’s going through this shit alone despite all expenses being covered. It already took long enough for them to release his body just so we can even have this funeral.”
I exhaled, brushing crumbs off my lap. “You have to have a heart for that woman. Ramon died for you, Dom. You know that, right?”
He didn’t flinch. “I know, that’s why his mother won’t want for nothin’ while I’m breathing.”
When we slid back into the truck, the trucks pulled out in a line as we rolled past murals of Celia Cruz and Martí, and some Cuban kids running past us chasing soccer balls down the cracked up sidewalks. The closer we got to Overtown, the darker Dom’s expression became. By the time we turned onto Miss Twyla’s block, the air felt different. The modest houses sat side by side, with pastel colors of faded paint… porches were linedwith rocking chairs and potted plants. The neighbors lingered on the steps, with their eyes following the truck.
He leaned closer to me and spoke in a low tone. “You stay by my side in here. She gon’ be emotional, but I don’t want you feelin’ like you outta place. You handled the arrangements, you family to her now.”
I squeezed his hand and nod my head knowing what he really wanted to say was don’t allow my emotions to get involved and have his child all worked up. We stepped into the humid Miami air walking up the cracked walkway toward the woman who’d just lost her son. Just imagining that alone made me swallow a lump and unconsciously brush my hand across my flat stomach thinking about what I’d feel like if that had been my child. Dom was right, in our world, having children attached to us was a big risk.
The front door creaked open before we even hit the porch. Miss Twyla stood there, wrapped in a faded floral house dress with a scarf tied around her head. Her eyes were swollen, and she had dark circles and bags around her eyes like she hadn’t slept since the incident. She didn’t flinch at the sight of Dom either, if anything, her body looked weak like the strength she’d been holding onto finally just wanted to fall in the arms of someone she knew would be strong enough to catch her.
“Baby,” she whispered as her voice trembled while reaching for him.
Dom didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into his chest wrapping his arms around her small frame like he was holding and caring for his own mother or holding on to something fragile that might break if he let it go. She pressed her face into his shirt and began to sob those deep wailing sobs that sounded like howls. I could tell she had been needing to release that, and I felt so sorry for her.
