Sons of a Saint

Part 3

The Funeral

Melissa stood and stared at the ground. It had all been a blur to her. She looked around and could see Tony's mother, Angela, though she had always called her Mrs. Munoz. The man who had driven them was not there, though there were plenty like him. These men were disposable, much like the ones on the boat, and the ones who had come for her all those weeks ago in Cuba. She laughed to think that she was back in the very city she had run from. Tony had never left.

She had gone numb from the moment Angela Munoz had told her that her husband was dead. She had not believed it at first, but she believed it now, although she was still hopeful that this was some elaborate hoax crafted by Tony to ensure his and her own safety. They would ride off into the sunset and raise the child in some country far away. She had heard that Europe was nice, and she spoke the language. Well, some of the language. The group of countries was such a mismatch of people, cultures, and languages, and that is what appealed to her. Melissa had to refrain from putting her hands on her belly at the thought of her child. She would get through this and take her child away from this place. This was no place for a child. Angela Munoz would not get her hands on this one and do what she did to Tony.

Melissa did not remember much of the ride back over. She had been so tenacious in her escape that the return journey was something of an anticlimax. She had risked her life to go over to America, and the return journey had been somewhat in luxury. They had driven to an airport somewhere on the outskirts of Miami, not the main airport, but a smaller one tucked away from prying eyes. They had not stopped anywhere to pick up any of Melissa's belongings, nor had they asked where they could stop to pick up anything which she needed. She did not have anything to pick up, but she still resented their impoliteness. They had driven straight to the airport, and she had been bundled onto a plane.

"Why are you doing this?" asked Melissa.

"Because I can," said Angela.

"But why? Why me?" asked Melissa, trying to make some sense of the situation.

"You are family," said Angela. "You should be at the funeral." Melissa still did not understand why Angela had come for her nor why she needed to be at the funeral. Tony was dead. What use was she going to be at the funeral? Melissa was still in denial too. She had hopes that at any moment, Tony would come from nowhere and take her, fleeing to somewhere better, a life not like the one in Cuba.

The boat ride from Cuba to Florida was still fresh in Melissa's memory, but, still, she marveled at how quickly the journey was over. One second they were ascending from the States, and the next minute, they were descending into Cuba. As the small private aircraft touched down on the outskirts of the city of her birth, Melissa wondered how there could be such a stark difference between the two counties. Such poverty in one and such riches in the other. The States was the land of opportunity, but what was Cuba? There was a lot of opportunity in Cuba, depending on where you looked and what you were prepared to do. Maybe they were not so different, after all.

From the small airport, Melissa was taken to Tony's childhood home, the one his parents still lived in. Angela had always been cruel to her, in the little time that she had known her, but she understood her. She understood that she was a woman in a man's world, and had to sit back while Tony's father, Alex, short for Alexandro, did his business. Melissa had promised herself that things between her and Tony were not going to be like that. She wondered if she had succeeded in that.

The Mansion which Angela and Alex lived in was bigger than any mansion had a right to be. It was exactly the sort of mansion that Melissa wanted to live in when Tony made it big. She knew what he did, of course she did, but what did that matter when the money kept rolling in?