There’s no pain there.
There’s nothing at all.
It’s a place absent of everything.
Absence is good.
The void is a blessing.
But the knocking continues and I don’t know why.
It’s not like I can answer the door.
I’ve been tied to the chair for who knows how long.
Naked.
Shivering sometimes because I think I’m in shock and the basement is damp and my leg burns.
Sometimes I’m sweating, overheating, especially when I think about where I am, what has happened, and what will happen next.
I’ve pissed myself twice.
Other than that, I’ve had no urge to go.
Because there is no water left in me.
I’ve never been so thirsty in my damn life.
More knocking.
Finally, I open my eyes to the room.
The door is opening and I hold my breath, the fear that it might be Javier, the hope that it might be Vicente.
It’s not either of them.
It’s the man Vicente called La Mueca.
Either way, he’s tall, sharply dressed, something I’m noticing since I’m naked before him.
All shame, though, all modesty, is gone.
There’s something peculiar about him and his mannerisms. Like everything he does or says is done with great thought. A quietness.
I know he can’t be trusted.
I know he threatened to “blow my fucking tit off” in the parking lot.
I know he’s not your average man. He’s something more.
And quietly so.
Which makes him worse.
Those are the guys you never see coming.
But here he is, staring at me with an expression I can’t read.
Mr. Brooding.
That’s what I think I’ll call him.
Fuck, if I don’t have my humor I don’t know what I have.
I don’t think I’d even have the will to take my next breath.
Mr. Brooding comes closer, walking toward me.
He stops, looks me over.
“You need a drink, senorita.”
He goes to the water bottle on the table, the one that has sat there taunting me this whole time.
Time…
How long have I even been here?
He picks up the whole bottle and brings it over to me, pausing as he notices the broken glass jar on the floor, and then my leg.
My leg.
It alternates between exquisite fucking pain and this terrible numbness. I’m not sure what’s worse. The pain tells me I have nerves and feeling. The numbness tells me otherwise.
It’s a mess.
Like my mother’s. Before my father made it pretty with his art.
He’ll have to do that for me, too.
Then I catch myself and my heart sinks.
The chances of me seeing him again are slim to none.
He’s still staring at it. Glances up at me.
“Things didn’t go so well for you, did they? I thought I told you to be a good girl.”
I’m not a good girl, I think to myself.
He holds out the bottle of water and comes closer. So close that he’s right against me. I’m extremely conscious of the fact that his groin is pressed up close to my chest.
“Tilt your head back,” he says. “I’ll give it all to you, but you have to drink slowly or you’ll get sick. You understand the rules?”
I nod, putting my head back.
He slowly tips the bottle, the rim hitting my lip, the water trickling out.
I gulp it, desperate, like the water is air and I’m drowning.
I get a few gulps down and then I’m coughing. I do everything I can not to spit it up.
“Easy now, senorita,” he says. “There is no rush. The water will always be here.”
As will I.
I try again, going slower, willing my throat to cooperate.
Finally, nearly all the bottle is gone.
“Good girl,” he says, wiping my lips with his thumb. It tastes like a cigar.
I can only stare up at him.
He stares down at me. His eyes are sharp beneath the furrowed brow and I can’t make out their color, he’s squinting too much.
Then he nods. “I forgot something very important.”
He steps back and takes off his suit jacket. Carefully places it on the back of his chair.
Starts unbuttoning his dress shirt.
Oh my god.
Everything inside me freezes from a fear so acute it nearly splits me in two.
Is he going to rape me?
That’s why he was pretending to be decent.
To lull me with a false sense of security.
To catch me off guard.
His fingers work methodically as he unbuttons it, not breaking eye contact. He’s right. There is no rush. He has all day.
I start to tremble. Shake. My limbs squeezed against the ropes.
He takes his shirt off and looks at me.
“I’ll have to untie you for this to work. You promise not to fight me. Be a good girl?”
I shake my head. I’ll fight. I’ll fight with every ounce that I have. I will do all the terrible and ugly things I’ve been afraid to.
He ignores me. Brings a knife out of his pocket, opens the switchblade so it glints in the lights. He holds it out in front of him, inspecting it.
Then steps toward me.
I freeze.
“Please,” I tell him. “Please don’t.”
He only pauses for a second and when I look into his eyes, framed by dark circles, I realize I’m looking into dead eyes. There’s nothing inside him.
“Don’t what?” he asks, leaning over so his face is just inches from mine.
I suck in my breath.
“Don’t hurt me.”
“I have not been ordered to do so.” He reaches down with the knife and my thighs stiffen.
Oh, please.
No.
With a quick motion he slices through the rope tying my legs together and then his face comes back to stare into mine again. “I follow orders. You understand?”
I nod.
He walks behind me and I hear the slice of the knife and then my wrists are free.
“As I said, be a good girl. I follow orders but I also make up my own. It’s best you understand that too.” He shoves his dress shirt into my lap. “Here. Put this on.”
Now I understand. He wants to cover me up.
He turns his back to me and I see a back of scars. Some look like whip marks, some like cuts. Some could be bullet holes. I’m not sure if this is a warning, to make me realize I’m dealing with a man who has been through a lot and won’t hesitate to do so unto others. Or a gesture of trust and respect. I’m not sure why he doesn’t just watch me since I’ve been naked this whole time, but maybe the act of getting dressed can be just as raw as getting undressed.
But I can’t get the shirt on. My arms are too weak from being tied, my body too shocked from the pain of earlier.
“Can you please…”
He turns around and with a nod, comes over, lifting up my arms and slipping the shirt on.
It’s large on me and long, and for the coverage I’m grateful. It smells of faded cigars, and the tobacco makes my heart want to cry. It reminds me too much of Vicente.
Oh god, I need to see him.
I stare at Mr. Brooding as he buttons up my shirt with long, agile fingers. I try to guess his age – maybe late thirties? I wonder if I could headbutt him. I wonder if my head would withstand it. If he would even notice.
He glances up at me briefly, brows drawn together. “You have questions,” he says softly.
“I want to see Vicente.”
“I am sure you will, senorita.”
“Is he okay?”
He nods, grunts. “He’s been better.”
“Did you hurt him?”
“Anything that’s done to
you, hurts him. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“So he knows what his father did?”
“I’m sure it will come out in some way,” he says, straightening up. “Do you have any other requests?”
“Are you leaving?”
He nods. “I have things to do.”
“Other hostages to attend to.”
A tiny hint of a smile. The hair above his lip lifts. “No. You’re the only one. Do you feel special?”
I shake my head. “I want to see him. Please.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Can you…is there…how long am I going to be here? What does Javier plan to do with me?” It’s impossible to keep the fear out of my voice. I’m surprised I’m not crying hysterically at this point.
“You seem like a girl that can handle the truth.” He pauses, eyes drawn to my leg where the skin is raw and bright pink. “As well as handle pain. To be honest, I don’t know his plans and it’s not my place to ask. It’s also not my place to say no. You understand? If he orders me to hurt you, I will have to hurt you. Don’t take it personally.”
Don’t take it personally?
“I’ll come back with some antibiotics for you. Cream. A blanket, pillow maybe. And I’ll see what the patron says about Vicente.”
“You might also come back with orders to kill me…”
He purses his lips, nods. “Yes. I might. Let’s hope not.”
He strides over to the door and shoots me a sharp look over his shoulder.
“Don’t try anything risky, senorita. You won’t like the results.”
Then he leaves, throwing his suit jacket over his bare shoulder, sauntering out the door.
I sit back in my chair, looking around.
I’m covered by his dress shirt.
I’m free from the ropes.
But other than that, I’m a total prisoner.
In a damp windowless room with stale air.
With a scarred leg that burns with pain, all the way to the bone.
At least I have a bucket so I don’t have to shit on the floor. At least he left me a little bit of water.
Slowly, very slowly, I get up to my feet.
It doesn’t hurt to walk, it’s the skin stretching across my muscles that causes me to stumble to the ground.
Luckily I have the sense to land on my good leg.
Grinding my teeth through the pain, I get back to my feet and go to the furthest corner of the room.
It’s where I’ll feel safest.
As if that’s a feeling anymore.
Safe.
I lie down.
It’s strange how grateful I am to stretch out my body. To not be tied to the chair. That I can feel something worth holding onto, no matter how ordinary or small.
And then there’s hope.
I feel it when maybe I should feel none.
That no matter what Javier said about his son, that Vicente still loves me.
That he will save me.
I never thought I’d be a woman who needed saving.
But right now, he’s the only one who can get me out of this.
I can’t trust La Mueca. Mr. Brooding. Barrera. Whatever his name is.
He is a strange man and loyal to no one.
Not even to Javier, that’s the feeling I get.
But definitely no one to count on.
So it’s just me.
And Vicente.
Though we’re apart, we’re still together.
If not…
I’m as good as dead.
Chapter Fifteen
Vicente
I spend most of the day tied to the chair.
It’s my mother who eventually comes in and frees me.
She’s afraid to look at me at first, and when she undoes the ropes with a knife, she steps back. Her knife isn’t at the ready though. If she’s afraid I’ll attack her, she won’t fight back.
That’s the difference between her and my father.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice low as she places the knife on my desk. “I didn’t mean to hit you.”
I can’t conjure up the effort to apologize to her. She knows this.
“You have every right to hate us,” she says. “To hate me. I just want you to know, that I didn’t know what your father was asking me to do. About Ellie. I didn’t know. I really didn’t.”
I know she’s telling the truth.
Still…
“If you had known, would you still have asked me? Would you have done as he asked?”
She shakes her head. “Vicente, please. You’re my son.”
She comes forward but I shoot her my most hostile look.
She backs off.
I’m not ready to make nice.
Not now.
Not while I don’t have Violet.
Anyway, I’m not sure I believe her.
And what’s done is done.
“Do you ever stand up to him?” I ask her, shaking out my wrists. “Do you ever fight?”
She stares at me like she doesn’t understand. “You think I bend over backwards for him just because he asks?”
I shrug, and even that hurts my atrophied muscles. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know how you’re married to him, to be honest.”
She watches me for a moment, her big eyes welling up. Then she looks away, hugging herself. “You’ve changed.”
“I have.”
“We should have never let you go.”
“Letting me go was part of your plan.”
“Vicente,” she says.
“Mom. What do you expect to say to me? What do you want me to say to you?”
She presses her palms together as if in prayer, faces me. “I want you to do what you can to appease your father.”
“What?”
“I know it’s a hard pill to swallow, I know it. But please, you have to do as he asks.”
“He’s not even asking me anything!”
She closes her eyes, presses her fingers into her forehead. There is so much vulnerability in her right now, seeping through the cracks, it nearly breaks me too.
“Please, Vicente. He means well. He just sees the world differently, we know this. We know what he’s like. No matter what happens, just be broken. Don’t fight it. The worse it is for you, the worse it gets for her.”
“Why is he doing this? He says this will save me in the end. What the fuck is he even smoking?”
She draws her lips between her teeth, her eyes flitting to mine and then back. “In a way he has a point.”
“What?” How could my mother possibly agree with this?
“I want you to have a happy life, Vicente. But that’s not up to me. That’s up to you. If it were up to me, you would be sheltered forever. But the fact is, you’re groomed to take over the cartel and you’ve been rising up to this over the last few years. If you didn’t want it, we would know. And you wouldn’t be the first. Occasionally there are heirs that don’t want the responsibility. They get to walk. No one should ever be in charge who doesn’t want to be in charge. It benefits no one. You, Vicente, if you hadn’t wanted the role, it would have gone to someone else. Me, for example. Marisol even if she had interest. Oscar, maybe. Cousins. There are ways. But you, Vicente, you always wanted it.”
“But I wanted it my own way. Not his.”
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see this now? There is only one way, and if you want it, you have to walk it. You have to shed that old skin and become someone worthy of running the cartel.”
I shake my head slowly. “I would have thought you of all people would have fought against this. Violet is innocent. She’s been taken far from her home. Her only flaw was to fall in love with me. Don’t punish her for that. Don’t punish her for what she’s been born to. She knows nothing of her mother’s past and believe me, her parents have suffered enough.”
“I know,” she says. “But what can I do?”
I jum
p to my feet and grab my mother by the shoulders, shaking her. “Stop him! You have the most power out of everyone. He loves you. He will do anything for you, just as I’ll do anything for Violet. You are the only one who can stop him from taking this any further and you know it.”
She stares up at me. She’s torn. Torn in so many ways, between doing what’s right and doing what’s easy. But mainly between father and son.
She’ll have to choose one of us in the end.
“Please just…be a mother, take care of her. She’s barely older than Marisol. Can you imagine how Marisol would feel to be taken by someone else, treated this way. Dad has already hurt her…”
She closes her eyes, nods. “I know.”
“How can you live with yourself?”
She looks at me, eyes now dead. Haunted. “I can’t. I’ve tried. For years now your father has been on the decline. He’s only grown more dangerous with age and the more he loses, the more dangerous he gets. Don’t you see how you’re this family’s only hope?”
“But why make me suffer? Why make her suffer?”
“The suffering is temporary,” she says and suddenly her tone changes. She stands up straighter, chin up. She’s gone from mother to queen in a matter of seconds. “It won’t last. You’ve had a good life, Vicente. You couldn’t have asked for a better one. Everything you’ve ever needed we provided. My life was hard. Your father’s was hard. The majority of the people in this country lead a hard, punishing life. That’s the way it is. But they come out stronger for it. They learn to find the love and beauty in the poverty and abuse and strife. You and Marisol never had to learn to find anything because it was all handed to you. On a silver platter. We spoiled you rotten. That was our biggest mistake. My biggest mistake as a mother.”
I can’t believe she’s saying this. She sounds absolutely brainwashed, so much like my father. I’ve heard her talk like this before, I’ve seen her act power-hungry and money-crazy. I’ve seen her get swept away in the violence and the business side of things.
But still I never expected to hear these words now.
I swallow hard, and when I speak the words are grinded out through my teeth. “I would have rather lived a life of poverty, on the streets, with no family, nothing, and still have Violet, than to live the life I did and lose her in the end.”
Something in her expression wavers for a moment but she holds it together. “If I thought you were in any danger I would end it this second,” she says stiffly. “But you are not.”