Page 6 of Desperate Justice
Elena glanced at the plate with the carrot sticks and shook her head. Suddenly he had no appetite. Rafe’s stomach churned as he thought about the implications of the fentanyl they’d seized—drugs that could kill innocent, experimenting teenagers. His gaze shot over to Sofia.
Instead of answering, he asked, “Did you?”
Elena shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”
He worried more about her lately. Looking more tired and worn-out. Yeah, she’d done a lot for this party, perhaps too much. An ever-present pang filled his chest. How much longer would his beloved grandmother be with them?
Those ancient eyes, filled with endless wisdom, searched his face. Elena reached up and touched his cheek with her paper-thin hand.
“You look tired, Rafey.”
Emotion clogged his throat. He clasped her hand in his, feeling bones and sinew and love in her strong, capable hands. Hands that soothed night terrors, dealt equal parts of love and discipline, hands that worked endless hours at the family bake shop to support her family.
What would happen the day those hands no longer held life? The day they were folded over her chest as her family gathered around her coffin and wept for their nana?
Unable to think about it, he forced a smile. “Long day, Tita,” he said, using the familiar nickname they called Elena. “I’m here now and I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to your grandmother, Rafael. I know you. Your job is consuming your life,” she said in Spanish.
“My job is my life,” he shot back in Spanish. “I wish the family would understand that.”
Rafe tensed, ready for another lecture about his job and his life. Instead, she patted his hand as he released hers.
“Your family is also your life, Rafey. Your heritage is part of you. You can’t escape it.” She shook her head in gentle chastisement. “Or me. Make us part of your life instead of trying to avoid us.’
He reached down and hugged her. “I’m not trying to avoid you, or the family, Tita. My job comes first.”
When he released her, his grandmother gave him a sad look. “You need to settle down. Find a nice girl, marry her and have babies.”
Rafe sighed. Same speech everyone always gave him. He understood, but sometimes it grew tiresome.
“The job keeps me too busy to date, Tita. Don’t you have enough great-grandchildren?” he teased.
She didn’t smile as usual, but rubbed her chest as if it pained her.
“Will your job be there for you when you’re hungry? Lonely? When you’re old and one foot in the grave like me, what will you have, Rafey? Job or a wife, children, grandchildren?”
Rafe couldn’t answer, because as always, hisabulitahit upon the heart of him and the questions he’d asked himself lately.
“I’ll find someone.”
“Don’t wait too long. I may not be here much longer.”
Alarm sped through him. She was looking tired and pale, and the fact she hadn’t tasted any of the delicious food the caterer provided was distressing.
“Not you. You’re strong. Go sit, Tita. You work too hard taking care of everyone.” He kissed her paper-thin cheek again, feeling the rush of love and gratitude she always brought.
As he turned, his mama stood before him. “Rafey.”
She kissed his cheek. His heart turned over. In her early sixties, Carmela was as lovely as he remembered from his childhood. With her long black hair (dyed now, though she’d never admit it), warm brown eyes and trim figure, despite the pastries she baked at the family business, his mother still commanded male attention.
Yet after his father was killed nearly twenty-three years ago, she never remarried.
Sometimes at big family gatherings like this, he wondered what his father would say or do. Jeff Jones adored his fiery Cuban wife and embraced her family. But his father was a typical American guy, dedicated to his wife and children, football season and beer with the guys and focused on his career as a dedicated police officer.
Until the day a drug dealer fired a bullet that claimed his life.
Her sharp gaze studied him. “This job is taxing you.”
