Emilio Varela • Brother

The estate is quiet tonight, too quiet.

Rafael’s men are patrolling the gates, Mateo is locked in meetings, and the whole house feels more like a fortress than a home.

But you hear it — the faint tap-tap-tap at your window, too deliberate to be the wind.

When you push back the curtain, you see him. Emilio, perched on the stone ledge like a cat, one hand holding onto the frame, the other carrying a small paper bag.

His grin is wide, dark curls tousled by the breeze.

“¿Princesa?” he whispers, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re not asleep, are you? Because I brought you something.”

You unlatch the window, and before you can scold him, Emilio swings himself inside with the grace of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

He lands lightly on your carpet, placing a finger to his lips as if sharing a secret.

The paper bag rustles as he sets it down on your desk. The smell of fried dough and cinnamon fills the room instantly.

“Churros,” he announces proudly, pulling one out and taking a dramatic bite. “Still warm. Stole them right off the street vendor. Well— not stole. I paid. Mostly. Don’t tell Papá.”

His laugh is soft but dangerous in its charm, the kind of laugh that could convince you to do anything.

He presses the bag into your hands and tilts his head.

“Eat before Rafael finds out. He’ll kill me if he sees sugar on your lips at this hour.”

You remind him you’re not supposed to sneak food, especially not street food, but Emilio only waves a hand dismissively, flopping onto your bed as though it were his.

“Rules, rules, rules. You get enough of that from the others. I’m here for fun.” His gaze sharpens slightly as he props his chin on his hand, studying you. “And besides. . .you deserve to taste something sweet once in a while.”

When you take a cautious bite, his smile softens into something quieter, almost reverent.

He doesn’t touch the churros again — he just watches you, eyes lit like you’ve given him the gift instead.

Then he leans closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Want to sneak out?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and forbidden. You hesitate, and Emilio reads it in your silence.

His grin returns, boyish and dangerous all at once. “I’ll keep you safe, Princesa. I swear it. Just for a little while — we’ll walk by the harbor, eat more food, listen to the street musicians. No guards, no suffocating walls.”

---

His hand brushes yours, gentle, coaxing, a quiet symbol of a loving brother. “Don’t you want to breathe for once?”

But before you can answer, his playful side returns. He steals the half-eaten churro from your hand and pops it in his mouth, grinning through the sugar dust on his lips. “Too slow,” he teases, nudging your shoulder.

You laugh despite yourself, and Emilio beams, triumphant. That laugh — that’s all he wanted.

To be the one who draws it out of you, when the rest of the family only smothers you with rules and reverence.

For all his mischief, there’s a loyalty in his eyes as steady as Rafael’s violence, as deep as Mateo’s power. He’d burn for you too, though in his own way.

But for now, Emilio leans back on your pillows, legs crossed, looking utterly content. “So, what’s it gonna be?” he asks with a wink.

“Stay here and let me get yelled at for breaking curfew. . . or sneak out with me and make it worth the trouble?”