Cartel Page 4

  His words were razor sharp, laden with derision, and it bewildered me. This guy didn’t even know me! Why did he seem so offended by my sexual proclivities?

  More to the point, why was he getting under my skin so badly?

  ‘You were spying on us?’ I asked in disbelief, as embarrassment and indignation flushed my face. For the first time, I was thankful I was wearing the black bag on my head and that he couldn’t see me blush.

  ‘You weren’t exactly hard to spot,’ he said, placing a hand on each of my knees and wrenching them apart as I cried out in horror. ‘You’re obviously up for a good time.’

  I didn’t care what the rules were meant to be, if I was meant to comply now that I was ‘property’ and let this guy have his way with me. My hands weren’t tied anymore and I pushed that bastard’s creepy hands away as hard as I could, raking my fingernails along his flesh for effect.

  His entire body tensed up and I cringed in my seat, waiting for a blow that never came.

  ‘Stop.’ A voice cut through the tension. Emilio.

  ‘I’m going to kill you, you little whore,’ the Suit spat.

  ‘Stop!’ Emilio’s voice rang out again, filling the car.

  Relief flooded through my limbs as I realised he was in the car. It was swiftly followed by confusion and then shame, that I was happy my new owner and likely murderer was present.

  ‘The little slut made me bleed,’ the Suit protested, and I heard Emilio tut.

  ‘You should have been more careful, Murphy.’

  Murphy? A stupid name for an asshole of a man.

  I sniffed, placing my palms on my thighs, tugging my dress down to cover as much skin as possible.

  ‘You crying under that bag, sweetheart?’ Murphy mocked me. ‘Because where we’re going, tears are weakness. Those boys’ll tear you apart, and I’ll watch the show.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I said bitterly, the material muffling my voice as I slouched back in my seat.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he drawled, and I could picture the smirk on his lips. ‘You’ll be screaming, they’ll be fucking you, and I’ll bring the popcorn.’

  I had never felt so alone in my life, and shit was going to get a whole lot worse before it got any better.

  The drive ground on for what seemed like days. Weeks. Years. I was desperately thirsty, but didn’t dare ask for any water. Didn’t dare ask for anything. Every time I relaxed, felt myself drifting on a daydream of numbed shock, I would remind myself who I was in the car with. That knowledge would cause me to sit upright, as my heart rate skyrocketed and fresh sweat formed a slick on my palms. I was tired, and terrified, and I desperately needed to pee.

  When the car finally did come to an abrupt halt, I wasn’t prepared for the sudden braking. I was thrown forward, and I gasped as I caught myself on my hands and knees on the carpeted floor.

  Murphy laughed, and I felt his long, ice-cold fingers at my neck as he undid the rope that secured the bag over my head. When he pulled it off I winced, his arrogant face the first thing that swam into my vision.

  I realised I was on all fours, my face way too close to his lap. I scrambled backwards into my seat just as my door was opened. A hand closed around my upper arm and tugged. ‘Out.’ I fought the urge to scream and stepped out of the limo, jumping as the door was slammed loudly behind me.

  ‘Nunio!’ Emilio said sharply. ‘It’s not a fucking chingalera, so why are you treating it like one?’

  Nunio looked ruefully at Emilio, who had just told him not to treat the car like a piece of shit. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said, tugging me along. I looked up at the tall building we were in front of, the cars parked in a large, opulent circular driveway.

  ‘You live here?’ I asked Emilio.

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. ‘This is a hotel,’ he said, and gestured at the big red and gold sign hanging above the double glass doors. ‘I thought you were smart, cholita.’

  I chose not to answer that as I was marched into the hotel between Nunio and Murphy, Emilio leading our odd-looking entourage. I looked behind me, wondering if I could make a run for it, but I was met by the glares of the three guys from the house as they stood guard at the entrance. Fabulous.

  The plush hotel foyer was completely deserted as we made our way through, my bright blue Havaianas making a dull thwack each time I lifted my foot and then put it back down on the marble floor. I clenched my fists, trying to stave off the urge to let go and pee all over the shiny floor. Still, if it hit Murphy’s feet, that would be a plus.

  I smiled to myself, imagining that scenario as Emilio punched a button for the elevator. I got a firm push into the elevator when it arrived, and I stumbled to stop myself from falling flat on my face.

  ‘What the fuck are you smiling at?’ Murphy asked.

  Emilio looked peeved. ‘Murphy,’ he said, as the doors slid shut, ‘give it a rest.’

  ‘I want to know what the little Colombian chocho thinks is so funny.’

  Did he just call me a cunt? He did. Asshole.

  Emilio sighed, massaging his temples. ‘And I want some peace and quiet, so shut the fuck up. I only let you come along because you said you’d stay out of it.’

  Murphy rolled his freaky blue eyes as the doors opened smoothly. I fought the urge to flinch as their hands were on me again and I was herded out into a carpeted hallway.

  ‘I said I’d stay out of it when I thought we were going to off them,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even get to play with her sexy sister.’

  Emilio stopped and turned so sharply, I collided with his chest. He wore a look of annoyance like it was an old friend.

  ‘Come on,’ Murphy wheedled, as Nunio swiped a card against the door we were crowded in front of. ‘Can’t I at least stick my dick in her mouth? Look at those lips, Emilio.’

  ‘Look at these teeth,’ I added, as Nunio shoved me inside. If Murphy thought any part of him was going to get anywhere near my mouth, he was in for a rude shock.

  Emilio pointed to an overstuffed leather couch that looked over the city. ‘Sit down,’ he said, in a tone that didn’t inspire me to argue.

  ‘Can I use the bathroom first?’ I asked, hating that I had to ask permission for such a basic thing.

  Emilio waved his hand, and I took that to mean yes. I walked down the hallway of the lavish suite, in the general direction he had gestured. I spotted the bathroom and practically ran inside. I might have been about to begin the worst possible part of my life so far, but at least I’d spare myself the indignation of pissing my pants in front of these bastards.

  As I turned to close the door, I nearly did pee my pants. Murphy was standing in the doorway, the bright light in the bathroom bouncing off his weird eyes and making him look like a complete psychopath. He grinned, opening his mouth to speak, but I slammed the door as fast and as hard as I could, snapping the lock into place.

  ‘Bitch!’ I heard on the other side of the door.

  ‘Go away!’ I yelled. I rushed to the toilet, threw the lid open, wrenched my panties down, and sighed at the blissful relief that followed.

  Once I’d finished, I washed my shaking hands with some strong-smelling hand soap. I dried my hands on an expensive-looking towel, white and fluffy, nervously going through the motions as I distastefully surveyed the opulence of a room designed exclusively for washing and eliminating bodily waste. A room that looked more expensive than my entire house back in Villanueva.

  A man who had enough money to spend on hotel rooms like this shouldn’t miss five hundred thousand dollars, let alone thirty thousand dollars. It made me want to scream.

  Este. I pushed him out of my mind right then, because thinking about him was going to send me over the edge so fast I wouldn’t be able to come back.

  I’m sorry, Este, baby. I love you so much. I’m going to make these bastards pay for what they did to you. I’m going to make them suffer.

  I smiled, catching a glimpse of myself in the large gold-framed mirror that hung above the basin. Yes. I would
be the faithful servant, the piece of property, the slave girl. I would bide my time. Keep my sorrow locked tightly away. Push thoughts of my loved ones to the farthest recesses of my mind.

  I would be an obedient little chocho. And once I gained their trust, even if it took me the rest of my life, I would find a way to make these fuckers pay.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mariana

  I left the bathroom quickly — I knew that if I let myself get comfortable in there, one of them would have to break the door down to get me out.

  Daydreams of violence filled my every thought as I made my way back to the main area of the opulent apartment. It was late — most of the lights in the hills were out, meaning most people were tucked up in bed in their houses. While I, in stark contrast¸ was trying to survive my first hours as Emilio’s possession. That knowledge made my skin itch. The primitive part of my brain screamed at me to run away, to fling the door open and run out into the street. To find a safe place and lock myself away so nobody could ever find me.

  But I didn’t. I held my head high and forced myself to breathe evenly, knowing that these men were like dogs — they could sniff out fear better than anyone.

  Emilio stood at the window, which was actually the entire fourth wall of the apartment. Though his hands were in his pockets and he was facing away from me, his presence was overwhelming.

  ‘Eat something,’ he said, without turning around. I guessed he could see me in the reflection of the glass. I looked around, my eyes landing on a platter of tamales and empanadas and a bottle of aji hot sauce.

  I was a stress eater. Trauma made me hungry. My mouth watered as I tried to walk casually over to the counter, when really I wanted to run as fast as I could and see how many pieces of food I could fit into my mouth at once.

  I spotted a stack of white paper napkins and took one, loading it up with two tamales and an empanada. I bit into one of the banana leaf-wrapped tamales, every tastebud in my mouth lighting up at the delicious chicken and spices encased in sweet fried cornmeal. Bliss.

  Well, bliss for a starving girl who’d just signed her life over to the man who’d had her lover shot and her father by the balls. Relative bliss, I suppose.

  I played with the heart-shaped locket around my neck absent-mindedly. It hung on a gold chain, along with the small crucifix my mother had given me at my Confirmation when I was a small girl. Panic burst in my chest as I thought of the contents of the locket … because it suddenly occurred to me that Emilio didn’t know about my son.

  Luis was three years old. Este and I had been stupid when we were younger, and hadn’t used protection when we’d first started screwing like rabbits at every opportunity. And, well … I was pregnant in less than a month, and had a little boy who I named Luis, after Esteban’s late father.

  But I hadn’t been allowed to keep my baby, and all I had was a letter once a year with an updated photograph to let me know how he was going. The most recent photo was tucked into my locket, and the thought of Emilio finding it and using Luis against me made me turn cold inside.

  I looked at Emilio. He appeared to be deep in thought, and I used the moment to open the locket and dig out the small photo. I screwed it up in my fist, devastated that I hadn’t thought of it in the bathroom where I could have had one last peek, but I had to be strong now, and this was the smart thing to do.

  I would never tell them about Luis.

  I edged over to the rubbish bin that sat in a small recess between the refrigerator and the wall, tossing the photo in and giving the bin a kick to make sure the photo tumbled down underneath the plastic water bottles and balled-up napkins that already sat in there.

  Shaken, and with an entirely new sense of loss, I stepped back over to the counter and looked at Emilio. He hadn’t budged. Thank God for small favours.

  I devoured several more empanadas, then helped myself to a glass of water in the kitchen. After I’d had my fill of food and water, I stood at the kitchen counter, nervously folding napkins into different shapes. A butterfly. A star. By the time I’d finished fashioning a pistol from two napkins folded together, Emilio was watching with barely concealed interest.

  ‘You are an odd girl,’ he said, eyeing me intently. ‘Who taught you to do that?’

  My boyfriend. The one who you had killed.

  I remembered the day he had taught me — I was sixteen years old, in the throes of a protracted labour, and the judgmental bitches who called themselves nurses refused to give me any pain relief. To teach me a lesson. I’d already learned my lesson when my father told me I couldn’t keep the baby, but those bitches still took their pleasure in watching me writhe as my small frame was swamped with contractions.

  Este had held my hand as I screamed, and in the moments between contractions, he showed me how to fold just about anything out of paper napkins. By the time I started pushing, I’d learned how to fold swans, stars and all kinds of animals.

  And guns, because, you know, we were the children of mobsters.

  ‘My boyfriend,’ I answered. ‘Your men murdered him.’

  Emilio slid the napkin gun closer to him and picked it up, his lips quirking slightly as if he was amused by my haphazard paper weapons.

  ‘Do you know how I came to be the most powerful man on the west coast?’ he asked me, setting the paper gun down on the counter between us. ‘How I wrestled power from my enemies to become the fucking kingpin of the cocaine trade?’

  ‘By controlling those below you?’ I guessed, keeping my voice monotone. ‘By holding their daughters hostage?’

  He chuckled. ‘You are a smart girl, even if you do think people live in hotels.’

  We stood there like that for a few moments, both of us apparently deep in thought. It was odd; I wasn’t afraid of him the way I thought I ought to be. I was hesitant, yes, but as much as it disgusted me, I understood. My father had let him down, in an industry where you do not let your boss down.

  ‘So my father,’ I said casually, playing with the edge of a napkin. ‘He really screwed up, didn’t he?’

  Emilio nodded, his dark eyes betraying nothing if he was annoyed at my questioning.

  ‘Why did you stop that man from raping me?’ I asked, cringing inwardly at the way my question came out.

  Emilio’s lip curled up, and I could tell he was amused. ‘Did you want him to rape you, cholita?’

  ‘No!’ I said quickly. ‘No, no, no. I was just wondering. Why you protected me when you could have let him at me. Why you were nice to me.’

  He grinned, and I fought the urge to back away, sensing that I had stirred something within him. Oh, shit. He leaned across the counter and tucked a stray hair behind my ear, letting his hand linger for a moment that was entirely too long and uncomfortable.

  ‘I didn’t let him rape you because you do not belong to him. You belong to me, cholita, and I will use you as I see fit. For now, I want you untouched, clean and beautiful.’

  For now? Something inside me died as I wondered what those seemingly benign words meant coming from a man like Emilio Ross.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’ I whispered.

  I shivered as he replied. ‘I’m going to recoup at least some of my losses.’

  I can’t promise you that you won’t beg me to kill you anyway.

  I couldn’t pretend to be strong a moment longer. My knees became shaky and I had to grab onto the counter to stop myself from sliding to the floor in a heap.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ Emilio said, a glass of water and a round white pill materialising in his hand as if by magic.

  I hesitated, earning me a slap across the face that had me flying halfway across the kitchen, my ears ringing in its wake. He slammed the glass of water on the counter, staring me down.

  ‘I would have punched you,’ he said, rounding the counter and crouching in front of me, ‘but I want you to look pretty for me.’

  He squeezed my jaw, forcing my mouth open, and dropped the pill into the back of my mouth. Then
he pressed my mouth shut, clamping his thick fingers over my mouth and nose.

  ‘Swallow,’ he said. I tried to wrench my head away, but he was strong. I couldn’t budge an inch in his vice-like grip. I swallowed, the dry pill almost catching in my throat as I tried not to cough.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, releasing me. ‘The first night is always the hardest.’

  ‘The first night of what?’ I croaked.

  He must have seen the terror in my eyes. ‘The first night of the rest of your life,’ he said, offering me his hand. ‘You’re not a college student anymore, cholita. You’re not somebody’s daughter. You’re not somebody’s little girlfriend. You’re somebody’s possession. You’re nothing. You’re mine.’

  Not long after, I tossed and turned in stiff hotel sheets, trapped between sleep and terror. The pill Emilio had given me must have been a sleeping tablet, because I was groggy, but I refused to sleep in case that other asshole came in and tried something on me. My door was locked from the outside. A man had been standing guard when I entered the room, and I had no doubt he was still out there, keeping tabs on me. The windows were high and barred, completely different from the living room’s windows, which would have been pretty easy to break and jump out of.

  The room was devoid of artwork, devoid of anything. There was one small wardrobe, completely empty save for a bare rack that I’m sure nothing had ever hung from. A small double bed with white sheets, white comforter. White pillows that were too high and stiff with feathers. Beige walls.

  It was like being in solitary confinement, only worse, because that was still safer than what was outside my door.

  My eyes were closed and my body painfully heavy, but I still couldn’t sleep. It was like someone had locked me inside my immobile body and left me to try and survive. The sleeping tablet gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, promising relief if I just let myself slide into a deep, black sleep, but I knew better. I knew that I was not safe in the room.

  It felt like hours had passed, but it was still dark outside — I could see a tiny sliver of sky through the high, heavily fortified window.