𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 ✓ [𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐍𝐄]

✎chapter twenty × secrecy in cienfuegos

ᴇɴ ʀᴏᴜᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ
ᴄɪᴇɴғᴜᴇɢᴏs, ᴄᴜʙᴀ
ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴘᴍ

━─━────༺༻────━─━

"Shhhh!" I hush. Angelo and Armando cease their laughter. The two sit in the frontmost cabin of the plane. It's only three and they are already drinking.

I point an accusatory finger at Armando. "Your son was woken up at four AM and he's exhausted so if you could kindly pipe the fuck down so he can sleep."

He holds his hands up in surrender, silently mouthing a 'sorry'.

With a sigh, I collapse in a heap onto my seat. It's been almost sixteen hours since we left Italy. Something told me the flight wouldn't be that long. Maybe since my past trips from New York to Cuba had averaged in at around three and a half hours

But, we're going to Cuba from Italy. An eleven hour flight, not including the 6 hours it took to drive to Rome to pick up Santos.

"What are we even going to do when we get there?" I ask, inductively pouring myself a glass of wine.

"We," Angelo waves a hand between himself and Armando, "Are going to upturn Delafonse's ports. You'll be staying in the villa with Santos."

"I told you I'm not babysitting." I quip.

"You won't be." Armando assures. "Santos will have his nanny. You'll just lounge around the place until we get things sorted."

"Works for me." I say, going for another sip of wine. The plane chooses that minute to lurch and I nearly spill it.

A small thump comes from the back of the plane and a soft cry alerts us that Santos is awake from his nap.

Armando shoots up and quickly makes his way to the back cabin and emerges moments later with a teary-eyed Santos in his arms.

"He fell of his seat when the plane shook." Armando says with a soft smile, rubbing his son's back.

He walks over to where I am and sits next to me, leaning back so that Santos can rest his head on Armando's shoulder.

"I never asked how old Santos is." I mention.

"He'll be four in May." Armando replies proudly.

"You know, looking at you two so close, he looks a lot like you."

Armando laughs softly. "I should hope so. He is my son, after all. Although, everyone used to say he's a carbon copy of his mother."

"What was she like?" I ask cautiously.