Running From My Mafia Family

Little Havana felt scorched by the blazing sun, the kind of hot that made the air itself suffocatingly thick and heavy, like when you were trying to breathe through some hot syrup. A melange of roasted coffee bean scent fused with street food savoring, and they weren't playing pretend to the passersby. Parking my rusted and dented, dirt-poor Honda Civic in front of our rundown duplex, I hoped this would be one of those days when everything just fell into place. I was about to go to the door, but I noticed something was off. Under my front door was wedged a cream-coloured envelope, its crisp edges and formal design a stark contrast to the worn and weathered surroundings. I knew it could only bring more bad news, and my heart sank. I heard Lily’s giggles from the living room. Her little arms flung wide, her curls bouncing with every turn on the faded rug, she was spinning in tight circles. "Mama, look! I’m a ballerina!" I picked up the envelope, my voice faltering, "Beautiful, Mija." Bold, deliberate letters scrawled at me: “Emma Ortiz.” No return address. No stamp. It was just a message that screamed importance. I hesitated before tearing the seal with my fingers. A single card slid out. On the stark black background, the words read, In Loving Memory of Agustin Vega, and were embossed in silver. Beneath that: the date, time, and location of the funeral. My stomach sank. Agustin. I could still hear the nickname in my head; like a far-off echo, it brought me back to childhood, days when I was happy. Bloody Knuckles Vega. He was a name that caused fear and respect to those that knew of him. He was practically my father's best friend, his shadow. The one who subtly slipped me a piragua on sweltering afternoons when my mom wasn't looking, that man. He'd vanished from my life the same time my dad did, vanishing like a ghost into the world of the Ruby Pista. And now he was dead. Taken away from this world without warning or reason, just like that. I couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing him again, ever hearing his booming laughter or feeling his strong embrace. His absence left a void, an ever-present ache in my soul that I couldn’t shake from me. We remembered things, bringing back colours and images in pulses of memory and an unbreakable bond over even this death. Never forgotten, gone forever now, but a legend among men. I’d spent years erecting a fortress around the memories of my father and the syndicate he chose over his family. This invitation was a battering ram, threatening to tear it all down. "Mama?" Her big brown eyes were fixed on me, and Lily had stopped spinning. "What’s wrong?" I lied, tucking the card into my purse. "Nothing, baby." "Just grown-up stuff. Are you hungry? Let’s make lunch." Her mention of food melted her concern into delight, and she bound into the kitchen. I tried to focus on the mundane—peanut butter sandwiches and apple slices—and followed. I sliced the fruit, but my hands trembled as they did, and the weight of the invitation clung to me. Why now? Why me? And most importantly, why did it feel like this wasn’t just about Agustin? The house was quiet by the time Lily was down for her nap, except for the faint hum of the AC unit fighting the Miami heat. The card sat in front of me at the kitchen table, as if it might explode. It had been almost twenty years since I had seen my father, Alfredo Ortiz. It wasn’t since he’d kissed me on the forehead one morning and promised he’d be back by dinner. He never was. My mother tried to explain it as best she could, but how do you tell a seven-year-old that her father loves her but loves danger and adrenaline more? I’d spent years telling myself I didn’t care. I knew he was a chapter in my life that I’d already closed. Yet, here I was, looking at an invitation that could rip open every wound I’d sewn up. I was so startled by the knock at the door that I almost tipped over my chair. I opened it and discovered my neighbour, Mrs. Alvarez, there with her perpetual worried expression and a basket of guava pastries. “You look pale, Emma. Are you eating enough?” “I’m fine, Mrs. Alvarez. Just a long day.” She said, “Mmm,” not convinced. “Well, here. I made too many. She left and headed back for her car, and to tell Lily that I have some new books for her when she visits next.” “Thank you. I’ll tell her.” Her sharp eyes bore into me, as if she could look straight through my turmoil and see the smile I pasted on it painted over it with a shiny coat of liar. She patted my arm mercifully and left. Lily was sleeping soundly in her room, which was the only sound in the house. My eyes fixed on the glowing screen of my phone, and I sank into the couch. Tomorrow was Agustin’s funeral, and my mind was a mess. If I went, would it reopen old wounds and force me to face a past that I had worked so diligently to escape? Or would shunning anything not actually be cowardly, fleeing something that I knew in my inner self that I desired to battle? A pale light danced from moonlight coming through the window in the living room; it was dancing over the decision I was making. Was I ready to do this, or would I regret it for years to come if I didn’t go? I heard Danny Barnes’ sarcastic voice in my mind. ‘Leaning into the chaos,’ he’d once said to me, ‘Sometimes you gotta,’ Emma. Either way, it’s going to find you.” Fuck it. I pulled up the Uber app. A vast building, looming on the fringe of Downtown Miami, was the Ruby Pista headquarters. Neon to glow from a sprawling auto garage out in the night. I remembered being here before, a wide-eyed child, and holding onto my father's hand, marvelling at the shiny cars and loud music that was everywhere. Yet, as I walked up to the entrance of the car, I couldn't get the idea out of my head that I was strolling into a lion's den: defenceless and surrounded by nothing but danger. Gasoline and rubber filled the air I breathed; engine hum in my ears. I knew I had to tread carefully if I wanted to survive; this was a place of power and privilege. Rust-coloured oil darkened the air, mixed with burnt rubber, and the faint thump of reggaeton music seeped from inside the garage. Striding out of the car, I realised how ridiculous I must have looked in sensible flats and plain dress. I was spotted first by Danny Barnes. He was leaning against a toolbox, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. His face lit up with surprise, and was that amusement? He grinned, “Well, well, if it isn’t Emma f*****g Ortiz.” “You thought I was too good for this place.” I shot back, my tone sharper than I meant to be, “Nice to see you too, Danny.” He threw the rag onto the workbench and chuckled. "Relax. "I just didn't think you'd show your face here again." “Yeah, I’m full of surprises,” he said. He softened his expression, and for a moment, he almost looked serious. "You here for him? Or for... other reasons?" I didn't know how much to say, so I hesitated. “Maybe a little of both.” He nodded, as if he understood more than I’d said, and pointed to the main office. “They’re in there. Don’t let ‘em scare you off.” The air in the office was heavy with cigarette smoke, as the office itself was still dimly lit. Behind a large desk sat my father, looking every bit the kingpin he’d become. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back, and his suit was expensive enough to pay my rent for a year.