Hearts of Fauxbergé

The March snow was speckled with earthy tones, hovering in that spot between spring and winter. The sky thundered behind me, sounding somewhat childish in its fury. I knew I had to get home. Soon. Before they found me.

As if the sky agreed, gales of freezing wind whipped past me, untangling strands of my haphazardly strung together braid. Leaving me to enjoy the black mess of wavy tangles in my mouth.

I exhaled sharply, freeing the mess in my mouth, letting out some stress.

The rumors about junior year were true. The weight of my workload was crushing me more than the stack of books bundled in my arms and slung over my back.

“Estrella, dear.” A silky voice greeted me, curling around my bones, tightening until I couldn’t bear it.

I pasted on a smile and turned to assess Lorenzo, the soon-to-be leader of the Hunt—the most dangerous gang on the south side of Pesadilla, my infamous hometown of thugs, thieves, and brothels. His hair seemed non-threatening, languishing in black and bronze waves today. But the predatory gleam that lit his eyes? That was a wholly different matter.

A woman and man dressed in black head-to-toe flanked him. The woman was wearing ripped black jeans, unassuming, grubby sneakers, and a suspiciously lumpy black bikers’ jacket. Either her boobs were incredibly large, or she had ammo hidden underneath.

I bit my lip at the thought of the latter. The only weapon I had was my backpack. The thought of a twenty-something pound bag full of textbooks being Lorenzo’s demise comforted me. I must have smiled because the man next to Lorenzo growled and came forward.

“Somethin funny, little lady?” He had a toothpick in his mouth, and it moved up and down as he spoke.

I took a cautious step backward, assessing the string of metal chains adorning his neck. I could probably use those to choke him. “Just thinking about that physics test I have tomorrow. It’ll be the death of me.”

Lorenzo smiled broadly at that, the feature seemingly innocent against the sharp planes and jawline of his face.

“Imagine worrying about such mundane things.” His voice dripped with condescension. “Now, Estrella, my sweet girl, you know why we’re here.”

The woman next to him cleared her throat in affirmation, putting her hands on her hips. If she was trying to be intimidating, it wasn’t working.

I wasn’t scared of these fools. Just afraid of the things they could do to me. Papá used to say, “Estrella, mi hija, no hay nada to fear. El mundo is a scary place. But you battle it with your light. Nunca tengas miedo.”

Never be afraid.

Lorenzo crossed his arms over his chest, rucking his tight-fitting, collared white shirt up to his elbows till the numerous dips and swirls of ink on his copper forearms were visible. 

“I trust you have my money, mi dulce cosita.”

My sweet little thing.

My lips curled in revulsion. “Oye hombrecito, you only have a year on me. No necesito su condescendencia.” I’m impulsive, but even I should have kept my mouth in check.

Lorenzo wasn’t the leader of the Hunt, not yet. His father had to die or pass on the throne, the latter being unlikely in the near future. Lorenzo was many things, but he lacked the sharp wit under pressure and aplomb it took to lead a gang. That fact irked him, though he’d never admit it. I’d seen the tension that radiated from him when someone praised his father. Being reminded of his youth, especially by me, must infuriate him.

His coffee-colored eyes glittered with the sharp shine of the executioner’s ax. Subtle, but deadly. He was reining in his frustration, though just barely.

“You’re a mouthy niñita.” Too quickly for me to react, his index fingers twitched in unison at his sides.

The woman leaped forward with the grace of a deadly panther and let her fist fly into the back of my head.

I didn’t have time to land a punch on her. Instead, I stumbled forward and ate a chunk of dirty snow.

I rolled over, tears forming behind my eyes. Their faces blended into the same shade of brown, their features a mess of squiggles and lines. Coughing, I spat out blood.

The woman moved towards me again, and I backed away so quickly that I fell again.

Maybe it was the blow that still echoed in my head, that wooziness in my brain commanding my senses. But I saw something.

Glittering, gleaming, practically incandescent in the bleak landscape. Blinking away the blurriness, I looked.

It was an egg. Half-hidden within a melting snowbank, not four feet away from me. The only chance for survival.

“Wait,” I gasped, leaping to my feet, facing Lorenzo. “I have your money.”

“Care to show it to me, Estrella?”

“A Fabergé egg.” I walked to the snowbank and scooped the trinket up triumphantly. “Worth millions at the very least.” I was lying through my teeth, but a small smile appeared and disappeared on Lorenzo’s visage.

There was no way it was a Fabergé egg; the jeweled designs were a poor imitation at best, and it was unlikely anyone had decided to leave a multi-million-dollar egg behind. My rather ridiculous amount of artsy knowledge was useful for once.

Imitations, however, could be sold for tens of thousands, if not more. A little snake of shame slithered around my heart, soon replaced with wavering acceptance. Dishonoring the legacy of culturally rich, invaluable art was understandable if it was for good cause.

But looking at the egg in my bleeding, brown palm almost made me scoff out loud. Something so tiny shouldn’t have been enough to cover my father’s medical bills.

Anger pooled up in me. Lorenzo’s father, Emilio, paid the hospital every damn cent as my father writhed on a tiny hospital bed, coughing out more blood than was in him. My father left me with the house, which I’d never sell, and a meager college fund of three-thousand dollars.

I was angry at Papá, for dying so early and leaving me alone. At Mama for being part of the Hunt and for leaving our broken family to fend for ourselves. At Emilio for taking advantage of us when Papá was wracked with grief and willing to do anything to ensure I had a future. And at Lorenzo, for acting so cruelly on his father’s whims.

We used to be playmates. We grew up on the streets on Pesadilla, chasing after each other under the sweltering heat of the mid-July sun. He’d come to my house and Mama would make arroz con leche to cool our sweaty bodies.

When his father beat him up, he came crying to my place at eleven in the night. I made him sweet sopaipillas and hugged him as he sobbed, feeding him till his mouth was covered in powdered sugar.

Luis Lopez, notorious bully, read the poem about Lorenzo in my journal out to the entire neighborhood. When I jeered in retaliation at Luis, telling him he had no cojones for not asking out Ana María to the middle school spring dance, Lorenzo distracted him long enough so I could run.

As we raced through the streets of Pesadilla that afternoon, my heart soared high enough to touch the clouds, and I forgot the shame of Luis reading out my heart’s contents to the other kids and the boy I loved the most. I forgot as Lorenzo and I stole a kiss behind an alleyway, our sides burning with fire, and our lips with desperation and strawberry flavored Chapstick. The Chapstick was mine, but Lorenzo liked it enough that he secretly bought it for himself.

Now, no trace of the boy I knew remained. He obeyed his father without any second thoughts. As if he’d forgotten our history.

And perhaps it was because of the distance I put between us three weeks after our kiss when my mother abruptly left. Perhaps he’d tired of me, and that was why he stopped talking to me for five years, moving on to high school and college girls as he moved up the social ladder that age brought.

Whatever the reason, the greed that shone in Lorenzo’s eyes was frightening. This was not a boy. This was a monster.

“We’re going to a pawn shop to see if you’re lying. And then we’ll talk about the couple hundred thousand dollars you owe the Hunt.” He gripped my arm and pulled me forward, walking at a brisk pace.

Stones shot through my stomach at the thought. “Fabergé eggs are coveted by the world. Russian museums will be first in line. American museums will be vying for a spot as well. And the pawnshop dealer may try to lie to us so he can get a higher value from someone inclined to put the egg in a private collection.” I was babbling, but Lorenzo didn’t show a hint of annoyance.

“We’ll deal with the problems as they come, bonita.”

My head whipped around so fast it whacked him in the face.

He had just called me pretty.

Noticing his mistake, Lorenzo showed the first sign of genuine emotion today and paled, his cool, unaffected countenance slipping and shattering.

He quickly recovered. “Most of the time, the girls would line up for me to say that to them. It’s fairly routine for me.”

A sinking feeling tugged in my gut. Perhaps he had been driven away from me because the allure of “other girls” held more sway over Lorenzo than I ever could.

I mentally slapped myself. The boy I loved had ceased to exist. Greedily waiting for his attention was unlike me.

Lorenzo gently extricated the strands of hair that had made their way into his mouth.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

His dark eyes caught mine, and I felt like his gaze was the one thing holding me afloat in the mess of my life. Whenever he looked at me in the past, that was how it always was.

I hastily broke away from his gaze and continued walking.

Surprisingly, the pawnshop wasn’t too far away. After two blocks, we hit a little store that looked as if was an antique shop.

Sturdy, russet brick walls made its exterior. A few windows revealed walls cluttered with things like guitars, books, and other odd combinations of things people had left over the years.

The door made a pealing sound as we entered. A bald man with a scruffy white beard, perhaps in his late sixties, looked up from behind a glass table and a worn smile graced his features.

“How can I help you, folks?” His voice was smooth, yet coarse at the same time, reminding me of better times.

“We’re looking to assess the value of a very dear possession.” Lorenzo pried the egg out of my fingers, setting it down on the table.

The man put on thin, wide-rimmed silvery spectacles and turned the egg over. The outer surface was a pretty, light blue and in white enamel. The egg was inlaid with gold and ivory, boasting the decorations of diamonds. It was pretty enough. And it had the armorial bearings of the Danish Royal Family, so it was believable.

Maybe he’d think it’s a Fabergé egg. I held my breath.

When he spoke, his voice was resonant and clear. “This egg looks like it’s the lost Royal Danish Fabergé egg. I’ll have to take some measurements, check the opening.”

The man placed the egg on a scale and scribbled down the results in a logbook with yellowed sheets. He took out a measuring tape and held it to the egg with a glint of suspicion lingering in his eyes.

The minutes passed by slowly, almost trickling by.

After what seemed like an eternity, the man looked up. Cleared his throat.

“Exactly 229 millimeters. The diamonds are real. From my eye, the egg is of vitreous enamel. Most fakes would forget that detail. The weight corresponded to what you’d expect from a Fabergé egg. I opened the top, and the surprise was missing. That’ll diminish the value, if only by a little. What I’m interested in is how you,” he jutted his head out at our odd-looking group, “came to have it.”

I spoke up first. “It was passed down in my family for generations, sir. My great-grandfather found it at a flea market.”

How easily lies hissed through my teeth.

“Intriguing, my dear. I’ll put it to good use.” He wrote a price in his logbook and turns it to us.

The zeroes seemed to light up my future. They were shining before my eyes.

“Yes,” I crowed, “a sure yes!”

Lorenzo smiled a slow smile at me and nodded at the man. When we walked out of the shop, I savored a buoyancy that I hadn’t felt for a while.

We walked out with a fat check in my pocket. The wind blew, but more gently now. Like it knew this day was coming.

“Give us our fair cut once you cash it out at the bank.” A glimmer of happiness shone on Lorenzo’s face. “I suppose now you won’t have to work those ridiculous odd-jobs your entire life.”

Shocked, I turned to look him in the eye. He knew that I had been spending the past year working weekends and crazy night shifts to get by?

Lorenzo made a rapid movement and his guards, if that’s what they were, paced a few steps ahead of us.

“It’s not that hard to notice when I see you working every shop. Pesadillo would lose all their customers if not for you.” Seeing my hopeful face, Lorenzo muttered, “Mama is always talking about you, Estrella. Saying that the Garcia girl will run the town one day. That the best conversations she has are with you when she gets her morning coffee. Talking about your fast little hands at the register. Always compliments your fresh bread. You may not think I notice,” he paused, voice trembling, “but I do.”

“Why notice me now? Why not five years ago.” I was raging, drowning in his too-late admission, possibly on the verge of angry tears.

“Father said,” Lorenzo murmured, voice gravelly, “no distractions. That the Garcia girl would be the first he’d slaughter if that’s what it took for his heir to become strong. No vulnerabilities,” he choked, “makes a leader strong.” That broken loneliness, that pain in his eyes was soon reflected in my own.

“Why not tell me earlier?” I whispered.

He stepped towards me with purpose. “Any threat of you being taken was a risk I was not willing to take. So forgive me, Estrella,” he spat, “if I chose to safeguard your life all these years as my heart withered away. Forgive me if the shriveled black pit in my chest is incapable of loving you. There’s nothing I can do now. Or ever.”

He believed this horrible truth. It was evident in the haggard set of his face, the shaking of his fingers. I grabbed his hands and pulled towards me.

“Steal a kiss, amante.” Something unraveled in Lorenzo when I called him my lover, so I continued. “Or five. To make up for each year lost.”

His hands traveled up my face tentatively. As if he was afraid of touching me.

I was tired of waiting. So I grabbed him by his collar and pulled him to me.

And then, the kiss began, like a slow, languorous rhythm echoing from hollowed drums, slowly increasing its tempo.

He kissed me like the world was ending. As if our kiss was the one thing that wouldn’t implode with the chaos around us. His touch was rough, passionate, containing a fire that I had thought long extinguished.

Lorenzo’s hands were everywhere, roaming, searching, asking me questions I greedily answered with each touch.

“Dios mio.” A deep, masculine voice reverberated through the air, interrupting our reunion.

Lorenzo froze. Turned around. And saw he was facing his father.

“No weaknesses, Lorencito. No tangling in the Garcia girl’s sheets.”

Lorenzo’s eyes turned hard and cold. “Papá, you know me well. But did you know your heir likes toying with women?” He coiled strands of my hair around his finger and let them spring free. “Estrellecita is easy to play with. And I like my women wild.”

If he was pretending he was misogynistic to protect me, it seemed to be working—Emilio’s eyes were softening with understanding. If Lorenzo had changed over the years and truly believed every piece of garbage that spouted from his mouth, then I didn’t know what to say.

So I didn’t say anything. Instead, I walked forward, tears pooling and flowing down my cheeks.

“Emilio, I’m gone. Gone from your son’s life. You have nothing to worry about,” I said.

His lip curled in a sneer. “Here’s the thing, niña. I know my son. More than he lets on. And I know he will never forget you. Not during his rule. Not when he passes the throne to his child. Not ever. So I’ll give you a quick, merciful end.”

Emilio deftly drew a gun from his pocket and time slowed down. I could feel every heartbeat echoing in my ears.

I didn’t feel or hear anything. I just saw the blood blossoming on my chest. Lorenzo was cradling me. And then he was screaming, crying, lunging for his father.

The world was tilting, and I could feel pinpricks of pain easing my eyes shut.

And everything.

Went.

Black.