POV: Sofia Vasquez
The plastic hospital bracelet itched under my sleeve as I sat on Tía Rosa's sagging couch in Queens, the TV muttering some late-night telenovela I couldn't follow. My lungs rasped with every breath, the cough syrup doing nothing for the fire in my chest, but it wasn't the illness keeping me awake. It was the secret I'd carried for six years, heavier than any debt, burning hotter than the fever that had sent me to the ER last week. Elena thought I was just sick; chronic bronchitis, the doctors said. She didn't know the real diagnosis, didn't know why the bills were triple what we told her. Didn't know about the letter folded in my purse, the one I'd read a hundred times until the ink blurred.
Marco snored on the floor, his lanky frame curled around a pillow, his phone still clutched in one hand. He'd been texting Elena nonstop since we left Brooklyn, worried after some thug cornered him outside the bodega tonight. "Tell Elena to stay away from Kane," the guy had hissed, shoving a photo of her at the mansion into Marco's chest. My boy had come home shaking, but he'd sworn he wouldn't tell her. Not yet. He didn't know I'd seen the photo, didn't know I'd recognized the man in the background: Victor Lang, smiling like a wolf.
I slipped the letter from my purse, my hands trembling. The paper was worn soft, the clinic's logo faded. Stage III lung cancer. Prognosis: 12–18 months with treatment. Written six years ago, right after Elena's father died. I'd hidden it then, told her it was bronchitis, because she was nineteen, running the restaurant, holding us together. I couldn't let her carry this too. The experimental treatment: some new immunotherapy, not covered by our junk insurance, cost $20,000 a round. We'd taken Frankie's loan to try it, thinking we could pay it back with the restaurant's profits. Then the place burned, and the truth burned with it.
I'd lied to Elena, to Marco, to everyone. Said the loan was for "repairs," not for needles and hope that didn't pan out. The cancer was in remission now, a miracle the doctors couldn't explain, but the debt wasn't. Frankie's calls, his threats, they weren't just about money. He'd hinted at knowing my secret, and said Victor Lang paid him to keep me quiet. About what, I didn't know. But tonight, seeing that photo, I knew it was tied to Elena's new job, to Kane, to whatever game they were playing.
Tía Rosa shuffled in, her housecoat swishing. "Sofia, mija, you need sleep. The girl's fine. She's with that rich man."
I folded the letter, tucking it away. "He's trouble, Rosa. And Elena's in the middle."
Rosa waved a hand, pouring coffee from a pot that never cooled. "She's strong. Like her papá."
Strong, yes. But blind to how deep this went. I'd met Victor Lang once, years ago, at a charity event for small businesses. He'd cornered me, all charm, asking about La Isla Dorada. Said he could "invest." I'd brushed him off, but his eyes lingered, cold, calculating. A month later, Frankie offered the loan. Coincidence? My gut said no.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table, Elena's name. I answered, keeping my voice steady. "Mija, you okay?"
"Mamá, I'm at the mansion." Her voice was tight, angry, but alive. "I quit, but… I'm back. It's complicated. Are you and Marco safe?"
My heart clenched. She didn't know about the thug, about Marco's fear. "We're fine. At Tía's. Don't worry."
"Bullshit," she snapped, and I almost smiled. My girl. "Marco's not answering. What's going on?"
I glanced at my son, still snoring, the bruise on his cheek hidden in shadow. "He's asleep. Teenagers. You focus on you, Elena. That job, it's not safe."
A pause, then her voice softened. "I know about the bet, Mamá. Kane… he lied. But there's more. Victor Lang: he's connected to Frankie. I think he set us up."
The room spun. I gripped the phone, my cough flaring, sharp and wet. "Elena, listen. You get out of there. Now."
"I can't," she said, fierce. "I need answers. For us. For Dad."
Dad. The mention stabbed me. If she dug too deep, she'd find my secret: the treatment, the lies, maybe even why Victor wanted us broken. I'd heard rumors, years ago, that Victor's father had laundered money through Puerto Rican restaurants in Queens. La Isla Dorada was small, but we'd turned down shady offers. Was that why Victor targeted us? To silence something my husband knew?
"Mamá?" Elena's voice cut through my thoughts. "You there?"
"I'm here," I said, forcing calm. "Promise me you'll be careful. And don't trust Kane. Not yet."
"I don't," she said, but there was a waver, like she wanted to. "I love you."
"Love you too, mija." I hung up, my hands shaking. The letter felt like lead in my purse. I couldn't tell her, not now. But if Victor was closing in, if Frankie was escalating, my lie could destroy her.
A knock at the door froze me. Rosa frowned, shuffling to peek through the curtain. "Nobody's there," she muttered, but her voice shook.
I stood, heart pounding, and opened the door. A small envelope lay on the mat, no address, just my name in red ink. I tore it open, my breath catching. A photo: Elena asleep in the mansion's guest room, taken through a window. On the back, scrawled in the same red: Tell her the truth, Sofia, or she pays.
I dropped it, the cough ripping through me, blood flecking my hand. Rosa gasped, but I waved her off, my mind racing. Victor? Or someone worse? The cancer might've spared me, but my secret was a death sentence now; for Elena, for all of us.
I grabbed my phone, dialing Frankie's number, the one I'd sworn I'd never use. "You want money?" I rasped when he answered. "Meet me. Tomorrow. Alone."
His laugh was all teeth. "About time, Sofia. You know what Lang wants."
I hung up, my hands steady for the first time in years. I'd lied to protect my daughter, but lies had a cost. Tomorrow, I'd face Frankie, maybe Victor, and pay it. Whatever it took to keep Elena safe. Even if it meant confessing everything: my illness, the loan, the truth about her father's death. Even if it broke her.
The TV flickered, the telenovela's heroine weeping over a betrayal. I shut it off, the dark closing in. My secret was out, and the clock was ticking.