STRINGS OF THE PAST (A Song we will play)

CHAPTER 11

Catherina’s Dinner with the Mafias

It was in the middle of a typical Tuesday night when Catherina first spotted the cracks.

Junior had left the dining table in order to answer a call. She initially disregarded it, twirling her fork in the cooked noodles while she was preoccupied with the song that kept playing in her head. She froze, however, when his piercing, poisonous voice sounded from behind the closed study door.

“Do whatever it takes, I don't care. We will send a message if they do not pay by Friday. Can you hear me? If necessary, burn the shipment. Inform them that we don't bargain with rats”. Junior uttered those words over a phone conversation.

Her hand became cold around the fork. Burn? Shipment? Send a message? None of it sounded like the polished, Harvard-educated lawyer she imagined he was.

She tiptoed closer to the door, her heart pounding, till she heard footsteps and scurried back to her seat. Junior emerged moments later, his smile as flawless as always, but his knuckles were white around his glass.

“Its everything okay?” she asked softly.

He stared at her for too long, then forced a smile. "This is just business. There's nothing to worry about." He replied.

But she was worried.

Over the next two weeks, the façade deteriorated considerably.

At strange hours, she saw guys in black suits loitering outside the flat, their hawk-like gazes sweeping the street. She saw how Junior's wallet was constantly stuffed with unmarked banknotes even though he never paid for anything with cash. She also saw how his tone changed when he spoke in Spanish on the phone; it was now clipped and authoritative, far different from the endearing classmate who had once held her hand across the university lawn.

The breaking point occurred one night when she arrived home from class earlier than expected.

She pushed open the flat door and came to a standstill.

Three guys sat in the living room, their body calm but their gaze threatening. A table was covered with documents, cash, and what appeared to be designs for the city ports. Junior stood at the head of the table, waving sharply and barking directions in fast Spanish.

When he saw her, silence fell. The men exchanged glances before slowly gathering their belongings and departing. Junior tightened his jaw as he closed the door behind them.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said quietly.

Catherina’s throat tightened. “Junior… who are you?” She questioned.

For a long time, he simply stared at her, as if evaluating whether she was worth the truth. Finally, he moved closer, his voice low and deliberate.

"My name is Rafael Cortez Junior. I come from one of the most influential families in New York. I don't only practice law, Catherina. My family has authority over it. The courts, the streets, the money—you name it. Everything you see out there is the result of our efforts." He answered.

Her stomach dropped. “You mean… the mafia.” She said.

His eyes shone with pride rather than embarrassment . “We don’t call it that. But yes, if that’s the word you want. My father is the head, and I’m his heir. One day, all of it will be mine.” Junior said with great sense of accomplishment.

She shook her head and retreated. "This isn't real, You cannot expect me to put up with this.” Catherina said.

Junior's smile faded. He reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could retreat. His hold was tight and uncompromising.

"You do not realize, Catherina. This is not a choice. You are already a part of it. You reside here. You eat here. Everyone knows you are with me. That makes you mine." He said.

Her breath hitched, fear crawling up her spine.

“Mine.” The word felt like a chain.

That night, she was unable to sleep. She laid in bed, staring at the ceiling and replaying his words over and over.

She considered the shadows in the corridor, the men in suits, and the mounds of money. She remembered how Junior's eyes flared with desire when she spoke another name in her dreams.

And then, almost involuntarily, she remembered Bruno.

That name was her sole anchor, and the mafia couldn't take it away from her. The song stayed in her chest, telling her that there was a life outside these confines, one where she wasn't held captive by a stranger's hand.

Junior pretended nothing had occurred the following morning. He gave her a coffee greeting, a forehead kiss, and a ride in his sleek black car to class. However, he had a fixed jaw and an excessively strong hold on the driving wheel.

He said halfway through the drive, "Catherina, I need you to understand something. People envy what we have. They will try to turn you against me. But don't listen to them. I am the only one you should trust and, who can protect you."

She turned to face the window, trying to hide the tears in her eyes. His protection felt more like captivity.

At Harvard, gossip followed her. She watched how some students cringed when Junior's name was mentioned, and how professors avoided pressing him too hard during debates.

One afternoon, she overheard two classmates conversing near their lockers;

"Half the port are said to belong to his father."

"And he is owed money by the other half."

“His father is a major contributor to the school's fundraising efforts. As a result, they gave him good grades and appointed him as the basketball team's captain”.

“Can you imagine ? Being his girlfriend? The poor girl is most likely trapped.”

They both said while gossiping, when she quietly passed.

Her cheeks burned. She hurried past them, clutching her books to her chest.

Trapped. That word echoed in her mind.

Junior's idea of protection was broken one evening when he invited her to "a family dinner."

The restaurant was darkly lit, and the air was thick with cigar smoke. A man with cold, keen eyes sat at the head of the long table, his presence silencing the entire room—Rafael Cortez Sr.

He had apparently been released from prison a few years after for the murder of Mrs. Maria Sanchez, in which he was sentenced to life imprisonment. He had his methods, of course. It's true that the government was corrupt. He didn't recognize her, and Catherina didn't remember his face because of memory loss.

"Catherina," he said with a silky but menacing tone. "So, this is the girl that my son is interested in."

She mustered a pleasant grin, despite her sweaty palms. "It's an honor, sir." She said.

Throughout the dinner, deals were whispered across the table, laughing covering threats, wine glasses clinking over discussions of shipments and debts. Catherina scarcely touched her food as her heart raced.

When she excused herself to use the restroom, she overheard two men in the hall.

“Junior’s too soft with her. She’ll be his weakness.” They said.

“His father won’t allow it. You know how this ends if she steps out of line.” They continued.

Her stomach turned. She rushed back to the table, yearning for fresh air.

That night, as Junior drove her home, she finally spoke.

“I can’t do this. Your world… it isn’t mine. I don’t belong here.” She said with great fear.

His hands tightened on the wheel. “You belong with me. Don’t ever say otherwise.” He said in a controlling tone.

“I love you, Catherina. And I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take you from me.” He said.

His comments were not a promise. They were a warning.

Back in the apartment, she sat on the balcony like always, staring at the city lights. Somewhere out there, beyond the shadows of mafia power, someone was calling to her. Someone who once made her laugh, who once made her feel free.

The melody rose in her chest again, unbidden and unstoppable.

His name lingered in her heart into the night, not knowing that across the city, he was on stage at a small café, playing the very song she dreamed of.

***

Bruno's destiny had become clearer since the day he lost her.

What started as grief-driven open-mic nights grew into something bigger. Café proprietors referred him to nightclubs. Clubs led to tiny festivals. His raw and agonizing compositions drew people in— not just for the music, but also for the emotion that flowed through each note.

Nonetheless, every standing ovation felt empty without her in the audience.

One night, after an encore, a manager approached him backstage. “Kid, you’ve got fire. Have you ever thought about recording?” He questioned.

Bruno shook his head, sweat dripping down his face. “I don’t think I’m ready.” He said.

But in reality, he was scared. Because every song he created belonged to Catherina, and he wasn't sure if sharing them with the public would honor or erase her.

So he kept playing, night after night, whispering her name in between lyrics, hoping that the music would reach her.

And, though he didn't realize it, it did.

With each passing day, Catherina was drawn closer to two worlds: one bound by violence, the other by music.

Catherina, stuck in the middle, recognized the stranger's hand she was holding could one day be close around her neck.

For Junior was no average man. He was the mafia's heir.

And even though Bruno was far away, he was still the kid whose songs tormented her spirit—the boy who was already battling to win her back without her realizing it.