Page 23 of Unhinged

“He’s broken you.” He meets my gaze. “But don’t worry little bird. I’ll fix you.” He clears his throat. “But right now, we’ve got to focus on tonight’s event.” Taren’s eyes flit back to the tablet in his hands. “Come, sit.” He slumps into the sofa, and I sit beside him, fiddling with my hands in my lap.

“The Estrada Cartel’s leader, Pablo, will be in attendance.” He brings up a picture of an older, balding man with a gray mustache. “This is him.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Ileana believes he’s trying to agree a deal to give him Mexico City. I don’t believe it, but we must be her eyes and ears. Spies in plain sight. Blend in and look the part on my arm.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

He smiles at me. “Maybe. But we need to monitor these players, too. Javier Estrada, Lionel Estrada and Maria Estrada. All three will be in attendance, and we need to ensure none of them are working to secure Mexico City.”

“What’s so important about Mexico City?”

He chuckles. “Anyone who controls Mexico City controls the whole fucking country. It’s the hub.”

“Who controls it now?” I ask.

“No one. It’s a free-for-all, and that’s how it must stay.”

Taren’s words send a chill down my spine. The thought of being in the same room as these powerful and dangerous people makes me feel nauseous. I’m just a creative writing major at Brown University and completely out of my depth.

“They’re going to know I don’t belong,” I breathe.

Taren shakes his head. “No, they won’t.” His eyes burn with confidence. “You belong because you believe you belong. And tonight, little bird, you’ll wear that belief as your most glamorous attire.”

I smile and nod.

If Luna, Blake, and Kali could see me now, they’d wonder what the fuck I’m doing. Guilt floods me as I know they’re locked in a cell while I’m planning to go to a fancy event with a madman. And I’m actually enjoying his company.

Why am I helping him so willingly?

Why did I tell him about the incident that has haunted me for two years?

He’s the first person I’ve uttered the words to, and it’s because, despite how utterly unbelievable it is, I trust him. I trust him, and I don’t know why. It’s as if he sees the real me like no one else ever has.

“So, what now?” I ask, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s only three in the afternoon, and the event isn’t until tonight.

Taren stands up, the couch’s leather creaking under his movement, and extends his hand to me. “Let’s take a walk,” he suggests, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “The streets of Mexico City are a narrative, a visual story of the past, the struggles, and the spirit of the people who call this city their home.” He speaks as though from experience, and I wonder if he called Mexico City home once before.

“You know the city well?” I ask.

His jaw clenches. “Unfortunately.”

I nod. “Okay, a walk.”

Stepping out of the luxurious confines of the hotel, the world transforms into a vivid tableau of life and color. The buildings are painted in a kaleidoscope of colors. Street vendors peddle their wares, offering a sensory overload of flavors, sights, and sounds while children chase each other around the bustling squares.

“This city feels alive,” I say.

Taren glances at me. “It always has.” His jaw clenches. “I want to show you something.”

“What?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” he replies, tightening his grasp on my hand and yanking me away from the crowds. My stomach twists a little as we walk through a quieter part of the city, with derelict houses and beggars on every corner.

Taren pulls me gently down a narrow street. At the end of the road stands what I can only describe as a relic of what once was a house. The walls look like a bomb has blasted them, reduced to a skeletal frame with jagged chunks of concrete. The roof is non-existent, swallowed by the ravages of time as weeds and trees grow out of the top. Its windows, empty sockets, stare blankly at us as if harboring a thousand untold stories of hardship.

“This,” Taren says, barely above a whisper, “is where I was born.”

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