Porto Alegre was my home. I never wanted to go to Seattle, but I followed my father’s wishes. Now, I felt sick to my stomach as I returned to my homeland. As my Avianca flight descended on final approach toward Salgado Filho Airport, I had to chuckle under my breath at the irony. Then, I'd have given anything to be back in Porto Alegre. Now, I felt the same way about Seattle.

I was met at the gate by my brother, Vincente, who was the middle of my three brothers. There was Mateus, the youngest of the whole family, who was the military nut, and then there was Eduardo, the oldest of us all, although only four months older than me. That was the way my father had relationships with women, and something that I never liked.

"Luisa. Back safely, I see," Vincente said nonchalantly. "Your ass didn't get too fat, at least."

"Fuck off, Vincente. I'm not in the mood for your shit," I retorted. There was a reason I was such a bitch to men when I met them at first. My brothers were all brought up to think that they were superior to any woman and that they could order us around at will. It had been twenty-two long, hard years of fighting that perception that had, in addition to my heartbreak, caused me to be that way. It was either be a bitch and hold my own, or get trampled on. Vincente was the worst, but Eduardo wasn’t much better. "Where's your truck?"

"I got it, I got it. Shit, I thought spending some time with the Americans would have mellowed you out. Come on."

I rode in Vincente's truck back to our family home in Tres Figuerias, one of the neighborhoods of Porto Alegre. It's the family city-based home, with our larger home out in the countryside nearby. It was convenient for use when we were inside the city and had been in the family since the late nineteen sixties. Vincente pulled up to the house and parked, getting out and walking off, probably to go play video games or something. "Father's inside."

I watched him go and sighed. Vincente always had been the laziest of all of us. All he wanted to be was a gangster, and not in the good way, having watched far too many movies for his own good.

I got out of the truck and walked inside. “Father, I'm home," I greeted after knocking.

"My darling, so good to have you back!" he said, getting out of his seat and coming over, kissing me on both cheeks. "I missed having you around."

It was perhaps the only reason I didn't join my mother in Rio, the need my father had for me. He may not have ever seen me as the man to take his place, but he did value my work and my input, even with his machismo.

"Thank you, Father. But I see the city hasn't burned without me, and nobody seems to be in jail. You must be trying to flatter me."

He laughed and shook his head. "Hardly. But you look tired. I’m sure you must be exhausted."

"I am a bit worn out," I said, not admitting that I'd slept most of the way from Seattle to Sao Paulo, where I'd gotten on the Avianca flight for the last leg of my journey home. I just didn't want to be home, that was all. “But I'm sure you have many questions."

"Oh, they can wait," he said dismissively. “We can talk about it tomorrow over lunch. I’d like to hear more about these Bertolis that we now call our friends."

“Yes, father,” I said, knowing that what he really wanted was all the little gossip and dirt I could spew. The sad part was, I had more than plenty, but that could cut both ways. “For now, I think I'll just rest in my room."

"Of course. Do you need anything?”

"No, Father. I ate on the plane, and my stomach is a little . . . queasy still," I said. "Thank you, though."

"All right, then. Well, good night, Luisa. It's good to have you home. I’ll be going out later. There is some business I need to attend to in the Centro district," he said, going back to his chair and sitting down. The Mendosas controlled all of the vice in the Centro district of Porto Alegre, which was the nighttime hub of the city. Of course, for my father, business could have also been sampling the wares of the ladies who worked in the Centro, or actually doing real business—it was never quite clear.

Up in my room, I turned on my computer, waiting the interminable time it took for it to connect to the Internet. I’d gotten spoiled by American standards, where fast Wi-Fi was available at nearly every street corner coffee shop with nearly instant connections. In Porto Alegre, that wasn't the case, and even the expensive line my father paid for paled in comparison to what I'd gotten used to in Seattle.

Finally, I opened my email, hoping to see a message from Tomasso. I waited while my system checked for new messages and smiled when I saw an unread message.

I read the letter twice and smiled as I hit the button to reply.

* * *

For the next month, life fell back into a boring, if comfortable, routine. Tomasso and I would exchange emails on a daily basis unless our schedules had us going out of contact for some reason or another. My father, after picking my brain as best he could for insight on his new business partner—he came away with a warier respect for Carlo Bertoli than he had before—had sent me back to the legitimate side of the family business, which often involved me spending large amounts of time at our home outside Porto Alegre.

My brothers thought that being sent to the countryside was punishment, but for me, it was what I needed. It got me away from my brothers and their shenanigans. Eduardo fancied himself the next leader of our family, and as such, he was even more insufferable than Vincente in his own arrogance, while Mateus was away at private school and too busy to get up to too much trouble. Still, not having to deal with them was nice, and the extra added bit of privacy was exactly what I needed. Tomasso and I were able to video chat about once a week, and I was able to get back into my work.

My main responsibility was to check in with the various rancheros and the gauchos who worked for the Mendosa family.

I’d just gotten back from my most far-flung drive when I turned on my computer and saw that a major storm was coming in, expecting to hit within a few hours. I fired up my email, hoping to get one last message out.

I shut down my computer, unplugging it and setting it aside. It was always a prudent measure to take, especially since the electrical systems were nowhere near as well set up as typical American houses. I’d learned my lesson several times in the past.

Heading downstairs, I gathered the house staff that was still on the property, tasking them out for securing the house for the storm. Not a minute too soon, either, as the first terrible bolts of lightning shattered the sky just as the last of the storm shutters were closed and the few animals that were kept on the grounds were secured.

Suddenly, I felt like someone had taken my stomach and twisted it in knots, and I had to leave, barely making it to the kitchen sink before I threw up.

"Are you all right?" One of the staff members asked me.

"Yes," I said, taking a dishtowel and wiping my lips with it. “I’ve been feeling a little queasy the last few days, but I’ve held it in until now—guess it’s the storm."

"You have looked a little pale, Señorita. You know, when my Consuela was sick like that last time, it was because she was pregnant with our daughter." He laughed and shook his head. "But that can’t be what’s wrong with you, right?"

"No," I said, smiling back weakly. "I'm sure it must just be the weather, and maybe my stomach is readjusting to Brazil."

He nodded, and I went back to the dining room and watched as an unholy display of power rent the heavens asunder, only pausing for a moment before torrents of rain sheeted the entire world, lending a nearly impenetrable veil to even the lightning, which continued.

For hours, I stayed there, my stomach roiling while the storm raged, and a slowly creeping fear grew inside me. I did the math in my head as the rain slowly gave way to hail, which clattered down on the roof of the house with such a racket, it was hard to think.

"Oh no," I whispered, thinking. "It can't be . . .”

I had to know for sure, and the burning inside me didn’t want to wait until the storm was clear. I thought and realized there was one place I could check. The house had a small medical room. After two of the maids had been found hiding their pregnancies in fear of being fired, my father had insisted that all the female staff take tests once a month. I think the fear was more about my father suddenly ending up with a new son or daughter instead of having to deal with a pregnant staffer, but what would his reaction be if he found out he was going to be a grandfather?

I made my way to the little medical closet-room just as the lights went out. I waited a few seconds to see if they’d come back on, then I fumbled around for the penlight that was in the medical kit. I found it and squeezed the little button on the side, a weak but adequate glow coming out.

Shining the light around, I saw the box of pregnancy kits and grabbed one, tucking it inside my shirt. Wasting no time, I went to my private bathroom, locking the door behind me. Lowering my pants, I held the stick in the stream that came out, capped it and set the kit on the sink edge, and waited. I looked down and took a deep breath.

A plus sign. Oh hell.