Page 75 of On The Edge

“He’s good at putting on the show, I’ll give him that,” I say.

“He’s just not good with emotion. Never has been.”

“Well, maybe he should figure it out before he loses the only legacy he has left—us.” I chuckle but it’s empty. “At least he’s not using el patriarca as a pawn with you.”

“I know.” It’s barely a whisper as she nods. Being a male in the Navarro family comes with added strings and expectations. Strings that strangle and expectations that cripple.

She smiles softly and then reaches out to squeeze my hand. “I know it’s hard on you and I’m here for you. Always.”

I nod but look away because there’s not much more to say. Especially when I look over to where the monthly Navarro family dinner is being set. A long, narrow table with thirty-two place settings is set up. It’s positioned beneath a trellis rich with vines, and with the view of the rolling fields of our family land stretched out into the horizon.

It looks like the setting for a picture-perfect family. Yet I stand here and bristle with everything that is and everything that isn’t.

Tradition. That is what the Navarro family was built on. What our reputation has been founded on. That and discipline. Well, at least when it comes to the men.

I open my mouth to say more but then see my grandfather being wheeled out onto the cobblestone patio by his nurse. His shock of white hair is styled to perfection and his custom-tailored shirt is impeccable as always. You’d never know that his eighty-nine-year-old body is failing him with how he presents himself.

He is the patriarch of this family in every sense of the word and the minute his wheels hit the patio, everyone’s attention shifts to vie for his attention.

But I’m the prized grandson, the one walking in his footsteps, and so make the most of the opportunity and approach him before anyone else can. My father will have to watch his step with how he handles that with so many eyes on us.

I’m sure I’ll piss off someone for greeting him out of pecking order.

“Patriarca,” I say and lean forward and kiss both of his cheeks.

He smells of sandalwood and mint. I’m immediately transported back to my youth when I’d sit on his lap, his fire suit itchy against my bare legs, and shop being talked around me. Tires and pit stops and swear words that made my eyes bulge and my lips twitch into a devilish smile. Other memories include the rough callouses on his palm as he’d hold my hand and we’d watch my dad race. My dad fail to finish near the top. And then the string of curse words that would follow.

“Cruz.” His voice is thready, but his dark brown eyes hold so much love as he reaches up with shaky hands and cups both sides of my cheeks. “You came.”

This. Him. He’s the only one who makes my heart feel anything.

“Always. For you, always,” I respond reflexively while wondering why I’m getting this reaction when I was told he didn’t want to see me.

“You’re racing strong. Your championship will come soon enough. We can all see it.” His smile showcases his trademark gap in his front teeth as he pats my cheek again. He shrugs ever so slightly. “It’s what us Navarros do.”

“I know.”

“Don’t question your instincts. Keep working as you are. You’ll only get better as everyone else plateaus. This is in your blood.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stares at me for a beat and for a few moments, the world around us carries on but it seems like it stops for him. He gets a distant look in his eyes and he goes somewhere else. It’s been happening more and more lately. And just when I glance up to his nurse with worry, he speaks.

“Is she here?” he asks, confusing me momentarily. “The American?”

Maddix. How does he know about her?

“No. This is for our family.”

Our eyes hold and he gives me the subtlest of nods. I swear to God he sees right through me and knows the whole thing with Maddix is a ruse.

“In time, perhaps.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She makes you smile.” When my eyes narrow, he lifts a crooked finger toward his nurse. “She shows me pictures of you.”

“She does. Yes.” I clear my throat. This is the only time I hate this lie—here. Now. To my grandfather. But my discord is softened by the fact that he’s right, she does make me smile. That is not a lie.