Because the music inside Patricio had gone silent. Ominously so.
“If you won’t let Alberto or me help you, who then? I’d suggest talking to your father—”
“No!” The denial burst from Patricio like a cannonball fired across a ship’s bow in warning.
He refused to show any sign of weakness to his father. With Vicente Galán there was always a risk of you becoming a punch line in one of his interviews or while he made small talk in the middle of a performance. Especially if it made him look good. Patricio hadn’t gone to his father for counsel or praise or comfort—or anything parental—in years. Their relationship consisted solely of making appearances together. Another facade for the media and the record company’s benefit.
The closest he had to a real father figure still hovered in the archway, one beefy hand stuffed in his pants pocket, the other now resting on his paunch. Alberto’s light-brown eyes brimmed with understanding and worry.
“I figured as much,” George murmured. He stared down at the glass cradled in his right hand, swirling the caramel-colored liquid. “You know that for me, this is about more than Padua. Or the damn album. I’m worried about you, güey. So, whatever it takes to get you feeling back on track, do it.”
“I will,” Patricio promised.
He had to. If not, this hollowness inside might consume him.
George’s cell phone started vibrating again, rattling against the surface of the rustic wood-and–burnished metal coffee table. Ignoring the call, he drained his glass, then thunked it down next to his cell. He pushed to a stand as he sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Hijole, that stuff’s good.”
“At two hundred and fifty a bottle, it damn well better be.”
They shared a chuckle, the tension between executive producer and talent dissipating under the warmth of their nearly twenty-year brotherhood. Relieved, Patricio crossed the living room, his boots scuffing on the dusky tile. They shook hands and leaned closer to bump shoulders.
“Gracias, compadre,” Patricio said.
“Look, güey, you gotta help me help you.” George cupped Patricio’s shoulder in a tight grip, giving it a good shake. “So temper this grumpy, overbearing attitude and play nice with Cat. I’m convinced that the two of you will be brilliant together. If you don’t kill each other first.”
Chapter Three
As her sisters busied themselves packing up their instruments after band practice, a wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over Cat. Warm and salty like the ocean water that tumbled onto the shore at Padre Island.
Moments ago, the strains of the last song in their set had filled the large music room at Casa Capuleta. In two weeks, they would take the stage as the opening act for Patricio Galán’s concert here in San Antonio and kick off the thirteen-city, seven-week West Coast leg of his tour. The one she would join him . . . bueno, his band, not only the singer himself . . . on now that she had signed the contract with Padua Records.
A strange jitteriness buzzed inside her—a mix of euphoria, madre-de-Dios disbelief, and revenge-inspired satisfaction.
She had been pushing herself and encouraging her sisters for years, dreaming of an opportunity exactly like the one Padua presented. Pero—that jittery sensation hummed louder—grabbing at this chance meant letting go of something else. Stepping out of the safe, secure world her parents had provided when she and Blanca had landed on their doorstep at the ages of ten and eight, wards of the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services. It meant fully venturing into a world she had cursed as a child.
Not anymore, though.
Now she was intent on proving her sinvergüenza of a birth father wrong.
Ha! “Shameless” didn’t even begin to describe the cabrón who had walked out on her, Blanca, and their birth mom all those years ago, intent on making it big as a mariachi—and obviously failing miserably, seeing as how she’d never heard of him again.
If Cat played her cards wisely, soon she’d be on her way to filling stadiums and amphitheaters. Bringing any of her sisters who wanted to come along with her. Providing financially for her familia.
They would see who “made it.” Who understood the responsibility of caring for loved ones. Those by blood, like her younger sister, Blanca, and those by choice, like Arturo and Berta, who had officially made her a Capuleta when they adopted her and Blanca, gifting her with six, soon to be seven, more sisters. She and Blanca weren’t alone anymore, thanks to the Capuletas.
The familia who believed in her. Who stood by her. The people she was determined to make proud.
Cat might be leaving Mariachi Las Nubes, her sisters, and her parents to pursue her dreams, but they would always be in her heart. Casa Capuleta would always be home. And she vowed to always take care of them.
Rather than slip her vihuela into the padded backpack she used to carry the small guitar-like instrument, she hugged it to her chest and sank back against the plastic chair, watching the others. The usual post-rehearsal chatter bounced off walls adorned with posters of famed musicians and inspirational messages in Spanish and English.
Off to one side, the three teens had gathered in a circle as Claudia shared something on her cell phone. At sixteen, she was the oldest of the “next generation” of Capuleta girls, a group that also included Nina, the newest Casa Capuleta resident, who hadn’t joined the band . . . yet . . . and was upstairs doing homework. Claudia and her two younger sisters jabbered away about the goings-on at school—so-and-so had said this and so-and-so had posted that. This papi chulo had been caught cheating on his girlfriend, leaving the poor girl heartbroken. An unfortunate reminder that being hot didn’t necessarily make a guy Prince Charming.
Cat shook her head, lamenting the drama of high school.
Her gaze shifted to the twins over in the far corner of the room. Sabrina put away her guitarron while Violeta snapped her guitar case closed as they bandied fast-food options to pick up on the way to their shared apartment. In their midtwenties already and those two were still joined at the hip. Probably always would be, in part because of the trauma they had experienced before coming here—a reality all the girls identified with.
Blanca sat in a nearby chair, her violin resting on her lap, goofy smiling at whatever she was busy reading on her cell screen. Her tan cheeks darkened with a blush at the same time her mauve-stained lips tipped in a secretive smile. She darted a furtive glance to the right and left as if making sure none of the other girls were peeking over her shoulder.
Interesting. If Cat didn’t know her shy sister better, she’d think the chica was sexting with someone. But fat chance of that happening, not with her straitlaced sis. Blanca hadn’t mentioned anything about a new guy lately. Plus, they’d been up-to-their-eyeballs busy with the Battle and some other familia concerns—when would Blanca have had time to meet someone anyway?
Blanca giggled, her blush deepening as she slipped her cell into her purse, then cupped her cheek and let out a besotted sigh. Cat frowned. Her big-sister intuition perked up like a prairie dog poking its head out of a hole, sensing trouble, and she made a mental note to do a little investigating. Her sister’s soft heart was easily broken, and if that happened again this time, Cat wouldn’t be around to help pick up the pieces and give her typical that-man’s-a-pendejo-if-he-can’t-see-what-a-prize-you-are speech.