The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(7)

Berriz stops speaking, his gaze cutting from the men to where I stand beneath the palm tree in front of our house.

To me.

That he makes no effort to hide the gleam in those awful green eyes, the slow unfurling of his smile, that flash of teeth beneath his dark whiskers, is as unsettling as the leisurely look he takes, his gaze starting at the top of my head and working its way down, lingering on the bodice of my gown with hunger, as though he is a wolf and I am an errant sheep that will soon become his evening meal.

I cannot help but wonder if the men acted on his orders earlier, if he told them to look for any opportunity to attack Emilio knowing he’s my fiancé.

I see a flash of something that looks a lot like satisfaction in Berriz’s eyes.

There is no question about it.

Berriz must go.



* * *



—

After much pleading, my father is released from prison once more, and hope fills me that things will improve, that I can continue to hold Berriz at bay.

But a few days later, the moon bright in the sky, the unthinkable happens.

It must be nearly midnight, but my father has yet to return home.

I walk over to the window for what feels like the hundredth time, parting the curtains, willing the image of my father walking toward our front door to appear.

Surely, I would know if they’d killed him, would feel something in my heart. He’s the only parent I have left now after losing my mother when I was a child, and with my other sisters scattered throughout Cuba, there’s only me, and Carmen, and our father.

I can’t lose him.

I stare out the window, searching for some sign. It’s impossible to imagine that my father left this world on a night such as this—still, calm, peaceful—the silver moon shining down on the Isle of Pines.

Surely, I would know if he’s dead.

Whispered prayers tumble from my lips, words I learned in childhood that have given me solace throughout my life. God cannot fail me now.

And then I see it—like a divine apparition slipping through the night—

A shadow, moving in and out of darkness.

A man.

I clutch the curtain, my knuckles white, hope beating through my breast.

He is safe. He is home.

Perhaps they questioned him again. Berriz is the sort of man who plays with his food, frightening it to death before he feasts. What better way to strike fear into my heart than to toy with my father’s life once more?

The shadow moves again, not with the speed of a desperate man racing for home, but with a languid, feline ease.

A sliver of moonlight illuminates him.

Gold lace adorns his shoulders and the cap on his head, gold stars on his collar, a gold braid on his breast. Between the moon’s glow and his golden uniform, it appears as though he has been gilded. The metal on his belt, the hilt of his sword, his spurs all shine.

For a moment, I cannot breathe.

Colonel Berriz.

Berriz walks toward our house, up to the veranda. He pauses, glancing up and down the little street where we live.

For him to visit in the middle of the night, dressed in full uniform . . .

A knock sounds, intruding on the quiet night.

There’s a moment of hesitation—a desire to stave off whatever bad news he has likely come to tell me, a fear of being confronted by him once more. But he’s an officer, a Spanish officer, and in this time, in this place, he might as well be king.

I stare at the latch that holds our door shut, little more than a defense against the wind that threatens to leave it banging against the frame, hardly a comfort or source of security in these times. Wishing I could ignore him altogether, I reach for the latch, but before I can make my fingers do the deed, the door flies open and Berriz stands over the threshold staring at me. I’m unable to gather my bearings, to reconcile the sight of our flimsy wooden door listing drunkenly to the side, when he strides forward, invading my space, closing the distance between us as though he has a right to it, one hand on his sword, the other grazing his mustache, his medals gleaming as though he has groomed himself for some special occasion, the elegant effect at odds with the barbaric manner in which he has broken into our home. I can do little more than gape at him while he stares back at me with a gleam in his eyes that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“You’re surprised to see me here,” he says.

I blink, the gold on his uniform nearly blinding in its wrongness, his words suggesting I have missed some vital moment that led us to this place.

“Do you—do you have news of my father?”

“I do. There are other matters that stand between us as well.”

“Has something happened to my father? Is he safe? Where is he?”

“Evangelina. Honestly. Perhaps the more prudent thing would be to ask if I’m comfortable, to offer me a seat.”

The instinct to be polite, to accommodate a guest in my home, is nearly second nature despite the strangeness of this entire evening, despite the urge to bristle at his heavy-handed tone.

“Would you—”

Before I can finish my sentence, Berriz slides into one of the chairs, positioning himself between me and the doorway.

My brain is sluggish, as though I am in a dream, or in this case, a nightmare, worries firing rapidly past me, my worry for my father, the irregularity of Berriz showing up like this, alone, without a care for propriety or my reputation, but each time I try to seize on one of the thoughts, they slip through my fingers like fine granules of sand.