Stolen Innocence (Stolen 0.5)

He wasn’t the only one looking. When my eyes skipped past him, no longer able to bear the connection, I found another man watching me. His eyes were black, bottomless. His face was doughy, but his shoulders were broad. I wasn’t as familiar with this stocky man who flanked Vicente, but I was fairly certain that his name was Hugo. He’d never been far from Vicente’s side when I’d seen him in the past.

Now, they were both looking at me. Both studying my developing body.

My stomach churned, and my face burned with shame.

Andrés’ hand tightened on mine like a vise, and I heard a low, angry sound rumble from his chest. Luckily, the organ music was loud enough to smother the aggressive noise. I wasn’t sure what would happen if Andrés snapped at Vicente and his friend, but it wouldn’t be anything good.

Within moments, Vicente and Hugo finished walking past us to take their places farther back in the church. I heaved in a sharp breath, and I squeezed Andrés’ hand tighter to hide my trembling fingers.

The funeral went by in a haze after that. My skin continued to crawl where the men had looked at me, and my hand grew slick and sweaty against Andrés’. He didn’t seem to mind; he didn’t pull away.

All I could think about was getting back home and changing out of this dress, which now felt far too form-fitting and sophisticated for my age. I wanted to sit at grandmother’s kitchen table and eat arroz con leche in my pajamas before watching a telenovela. Andrés pretended he didn’t like them, but he always sat beside me on the couch and watched the drama unfold. Maybe we’d play a game of chess, too. Spending time with my best friend and my grandmother would calm my nerves.“Valentina,” Abuela said my name in an urgent tone. “Get dressed.”

“What?” I asked thickly. I’d dozed off on the sofa, comfy in my pajamas, my belly full of dessert. I blinked the sleep from my eyes and glanced at the window. The curtains were drawn, but I could tell it was dark outside. Abuela should be telling me to get in bed, not to get dressed.

“What’s going on?” Andrés asked. He was lounging on the couch beside me, still in his suit from the funeral. It was rumpled from lazing around for hours in front of the TV. We never had gotten to play chess, but I’d been too emotionally exhausted for a game against my wickedly smart brother, anyway.

“Cristian wants to see Valentina,” Abuela said. Her tanned, weathered face was drawn with worry, her wrinkles deeper than I’d ever seen them. I’d never really noticed her age before, but now, her gray hair looked wiry around her cheeks, and the lines at the corners of her lips appeared carved into her skin.

I sat up quickly, the fog of sleep clearing from my mind. “Why does he want to see me? What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight. I don’t know why, but he called to say he’s on his way. He’ll be here in a few minutes. You need to get dressed.”

“He’s coming here?” Fear knifed through me, but I started moving to obey my grandmother. I darted into the bedroom and grabbed the first thing I found in my drawer—jeans and a t-shirt with happy little cartoon monkeys on it.

Cristian never came to our house. He stayed in the big house, with our father.

But now, father was dead. This was Cristian’s domain: the entire estate. He could come and go as he pleased.

As I hurried back out into the living room, I heard the front door open without so much as a knock to request entry.

“What do you want?” Andrés challenged.

I hurried to his side and grabbed his hand, silently urging him not to antagonize our sadistic older brother.

Cristian entered the living room. He wasn’t alone.

Vicente Rodríguez and his stocky friend, Hugo, followed my oldest brother into our house, invading our safe space.

I immediately took a step back, seeking shelter behind Andrés. Their eyes were on me again, dark and hungry. Vicente’s gaze dropped to my t-shirt, lingered. I realized I hadn’t put on a bra. I still wasn’t used to hiding my nipples, and now they peaked against the soft material.

He frowned. “She’s younger than I thought.”

“Does that matter?” Hugo drawled.

Vicente’s eyes left me to fix on my grandmother. “Is she a woman yet?”

“She’s a child,” Abuela replied, her voice shaking. She stepped up to stand beside Andrés, further shielding me.

“You know what I mean,” Vicente pressed, his tone ice cold.

I didn’t know what he meant. Of course I wasn’t a woman. I was fourteen.

“She’s a child,” Abuela repeated, her own tone hardening.

I peeked around her shoulder, so I could study the scary men. I had to know what was happening.