DAMIEN

 

 

“Are you okay?” Amira asked, glancing over at the side of my face from the backseat of our chauffeured SUV. “We don’t have to do this, Damien. The driver can turn around. It’s not too late to stop this. Just say the wo—”

Setting my hand on her leg, I silenced her before she was able to get the last word out. Her gaze fell to my ascending fingers when I started tugging the hem of her dress up, until her thigh was bare beneath my touch. Once again caressing the soft, silky skin of her inner thigh like I did on our way to the hotel. Giving her my final answer without having to say a word. She sighed in response, reluctantly giving in to the fact that this was actually going to happen, and there was nothing she could say or do to stop it.

“I would never let anything happen to you, Muñeca.”

“Don’t you think I already know that? I’m fully aware of the lengths you’re willing to go to keep me safe, and that was before you took a bullet for me. I’m just scared for you, that’s all.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, I’m fully aware of that too. Except, hopefully now you can get it through your thick skull that I’m here with you. I’m here for you. I won’t let anything happen to you either.”

I squeezed her thigh. “No more talking, Amira. That’s what I need from you right now.”

She reluctantly exhaled and placed her hand on top of mine. It wasn’t necessarily the reply she wanted, but the one she ultimately knew she’d receive nonetheless.

It was almost noon by the time we arrived at the wake in Havana. Crowds upon crowds of Emilio’s loyal diehard followers were standing outside the church, waving signs and banners with his face plastered all over them. ‘Fatherland or death, we shall win’ written on most, along with other infamous words Emilio had spewed. Making me remember that I was once among those men who idolized a man who didn’t deserve it.

“Compañeros, compañeros, queridos, compañeros,” Emilio announced, taking his place behind the podium on the stage. Silencing the large, open outdoor stadium where thousands upon thousands of his socialist countrymen were in attendance. Including my father—who was Salazar’s right-hand man—and myself.

I stood there with pride and honor, wearing military fatigues identical to the ones Salazar wore back on the day of his first monumental attack. Strategically placing my black combat boots in the same spot he stood when he began his revolutionary movement. I knew it then as much as I had known it in my last eighteen years of life. I wanted everything he had.

The respect.

The power.

The control.

“I wanted to write this speech to prevent the emotion stemming from this occasion,” Salazar professed in Spanish, glancing all around the vast space. Purposely making eye contact with people in the crowd, allowing them to feel like individuals instead of a sea of bodies. He created a profound connection no one could ever comprehend unless they understood that…

To his people.

To his men.

Especially me.

Emilio Salazar was God.

I watched and listened, feeling as though he was only talking to me. He entranced me in a way that only he always had.

I wanted it more.

I wanted it all.

I was that man.

Trained to be that solider. That warrior. The one who bled for my fatherland.

Died for my fucking leader.

My duty was to my country.

Serving Emilio Salazar in any way I could.

“Fatherland or death, we shall win!” Salazar shouted into the microphone for all to relish, but it felt like he was only truly speaking to me.

Because all I ever wanted was to be him…

I shook off the memories, witnessing all the grievers cry, mourn, and pray for the man who caused nothing but destruction wherever he went. Pure obedience like a fucking dog waiting for its owner’s direction and praise, the same way it had been for me. Looking back now, I couldn’t have been more fucking blind.

I guided the chauffeur to drive us around the back, away from everyone, and park beside the church, nodding to him when the coast was clear to open the door.

It was my moment of truth.

Now or never.  

The day had finally arrived when I could put an end to the man who deserved to fucking die. Physically and emotionally in my mind. However, that didn’t stop my heart from pounding out of my chest as I grabbed Amira’s hand to help her step out of the SUV, bringing it up to my lips and gently kissing it before we made our entrance. She knowingly smiled, placing her other hand over my rapidly beating heart, comforting me the only way she knew how. I kissed her hand one last time, still holding onto it as I spun to lead the way toward the back door of the cathedral. Protectively walking in front of her, shielding her from I didn’t know what, but would soon find out. Trying like hell to go unnoticed by the press, guards, and everything else in between.

I purposely dressed in a black suit and tie trying to blend in while Amira wore a tight black dress that slid down past her knees, hugging every delicious curve of her sinful fucking body. She would have preferred to wear a bright yellow spring dress, as she called it, wanting everyone to know she was celebrating Salazar’s death, not mourning him. But after I expressed that the less attention we drew to ourselves the safer the outcome would be, she decided against it and wore classic black dress instead. We were going into this situation blind and alone. Other than the guns we were strapped with, Amira and I were showing up to the viewing unprotected, and I would be lying if I said the thought alone didn’t make me nervous.

For unforeseen circumstances, I left word back in the U.S. with anyone of importance of where I was traveling to in detail. Informing them if I didn’t communicate within twenty-four hours between phone calls then they could assume shit went fucking south. I wasn’t just any tourist traveling to Cuba to pay my respects to Dictator Emilio Salazar, I was refugee District Attorney Damien Montero, and I had the U.S. on my fucking side. Anything happened to me, all ties between Cuba and America would be severed and this godforsaken communist country knew it too. They’d be fucking stupid to fuck with me, but there was no way I could be sure, so I simply took matters into my own hands. Hence, the backup support.

Once we made our way inside the cathedral, which happened to be where I married Evita, Amira subconsciously gripped my hand. The memories of that day came tumbling down on her as she was completely engrossed in the back of the church where I assumed she hid and watched me get married. I leaned into her ear, scanning the substantial open space, making sure no suspicious activity or people caught my eyes as I whispered, “Te amo, Muñeca.”

Startling her thoughts. Her glossy eyes instantly connected with mine, and she tenderly smiled. Squeezing my hand again, appreciating the sentiment and reasoning behind my statement. Silently letting me know she was now ready to continue on with our journey.

I checked every entrance, taking in account for every person who may be a possible threat. Salazar was constantly changing guards, and I highly doubted that changed after I left. If anything, it probably got worse. I didn’t recognize anyone, not even the visitors scattered around grieving. Some were sitting in pews, others were lighting candles, but there was no one surrounding the dark mahogany casket a few feet away from us.

I no longer paid any mind to the distressed mourners, too fixated on the deceased man lying in the coffin we were suddenly walking toward. It felt as if I was hesitantly stepping in a slow, steady rhythm on the marble floors, biding my time. Checking the emotions coursing through my heated veins with each step that yanked me closer toward my creator. With my free hand, I swiftly clutched onto my gun in its holster, ready to shoot a fucking bullet in between his eyes if this was some sort of sick joke or worse, a possible set-up. It didn’t take long until we were standing in front of his lifeless body, peering down at the son of a bitch who destroyed both our lives.

I expected to feel an intense, overpowering sense of rage for the man who was like a second father to me. Though I never imagined I’d feel an infinite amount of mixed emotions, each one conflicting the other in ways I wasn’t prepared for. You see, I hated Emilio Salazar with every breath in my body, but as I was standing there before him, I couldn’t help but feel a sudden loss for the fucking monster who did everything in his power to make me one too.

Making me exactly like him.

I was the spitting image of the man I despised, persecuting me to a life of murderous acts, defining who I was, who I’d become then and now, in every sense of the word. Thinking of the day he set my life in motion.

The day he fucking cursed me. 

I thought if I came back to Cuba, back to Salazar, back to a life I never wanted but had been condemned to. My own personal hell where no one else existed, but me. I was shackled to my past and present, and I’d be damned if I was going to be chained to my future as well. I wanted to put an end to all the memories, the good and the bad. Cutting the tethered ties that held us together through the blood on our hands.

There I was standing, praying in a church that I would no longer be the man with cold eyes and no soul. Who at the same time wished more than anything to have killed Emilio himself, with his bare hands. Ripping his life right out of him like he did with mine. With ours. It was the only illusion I craved in that moment. Imagining holding him down, pinning him to the floor by his throat, raced through my mind. The mere thought had me white knuckling the side of his casket. Physically feeling his windpipe constrict under my fingers, picturing the way I’d slowly choke the life from his body. How I’d savor his pain and anguish, his misery and torment as he took his last breaths. Envisioning his struggle and fight, flashing in front of my eyes as if I was murdering him right then and there.

I leaned forward, getting as close as I could to his ear, staring dead at his tightly closed eyes. Still feeling his presence with me, even though he was supposedly resting in fucking peace. His ghost was sitting on my shoulder next to all my demons.

The very same ones he enslaved me to.

“Damien,” Amira muttered so low I could barely hear her. She squeezed my hand, reassuring me she was still there, conscious I was lost in my mind between what was real or what was imaginary.

Between what was true or what was false.

What was yet another sin or just simply retribution.

She didn’t want to treat me like I was broken, only fueling the reality of how broken I essentially was.

Taking one last look at him, I ultimately decided to not give him another minute of our time because Amira was right, the motherfucker didn’t deserve it.

The rest of this confrontation would be short and oh, so fucking sweet.

“This woman you see standing beside me is Amira, Emilio. You remember Amira, don’t you? Of course, you do. You told me she was my responsibility. My daily reminder.” I smiled against his cold cheek. “I didn’t kill her, motherfucker. In fact, I’ve taken care of her, and it was all right under your fucking nose. I betrayed you from the second you revealed who you really were. And I traveled back to Cuba, back to this church to tell you one more thing.” Getting closer to his ear, I spoke with execution, “I hope you rot in Hell, you miserable piece of shit. And I will always regret that I didn’t send you there myself.”

Finally freeing that monster from inside of me.

Emilio Salazar. 

I whispered loud enough for Amira to hear every word that came out of my mouth, hopeful it would provide her with the closure she needed, channeled through me.

Maybe it was the way she abruptly tensed beside me, or it could have been the way she whimpered my name, “Damien…”

With desperation.

Unease.

Caution.

A familiar lifeline she was throwing out for me, praying I would actually take it. Use it for the first time since she started trying to fucking save me. As if it were her only mission in life to conquer. I knew the second I straightened back up and turned around, I’d see the man I still hated but loved in every way, would be standing there in front of me. With a deep breath I did exactly that, coming face to face.

With my father.