Page 8 of Trapped

“Jealous?” I say, batting my eyelashes.

My brother and I have barely known each other a year, but we argue like we have been around each other our whole lives. Our fights are never rooted in hate and are nowhere near as extreme as Enrique and I’s fights. Enrique, who is now dancing with his fiancée, Gael, on the dance floor. He would come to me later drunk and pour his heart out. I would likely do the same because that’s how our stubbornness worked. We made sure to utilize the bravery of our drunkenness to remind each other how much we really did love one another. That’s how dysfunction works in my family.

To the left of Enrique is Ariella, her best friend, Genesis, and Lucia, holding hands and swaying to the music. They are all matching in pink dresses. I smile at Lucia’s rebellion, even if it was a small shot to my pride. Olivia dances with Luca, and Patricio grips tight to the love of his life.

My eyes make their way to the band playing. Or should I say to the familiar sax player, whose eyes are glued to my cleavage. He offers me a flirtatious smile. I’m not normally into musicians, but I had flirted with this one countless times at different family events.

“Who is he?” Alma asks, interrupting our eye fucking.

“César Velarde. Don’t be surprised if you hear me screaming it from behind the bushes later.”

Alma chokes on her drink, and Mireya’s cheeks flush. Adrian shakes his head at me. We spent our days surrounded by hitmen whose mouths were as filthy as mine. Those men could turn anything into a sexual innuendo, and the cartel had no human resources to complain to.

The night was still young, and I overestimated my tolerance to expensive champagne. That, mixed with various tequila shots from Osiel and Ricky, and I was plastered beyond return. One minute, I’m dancing El Caballo Dorado, and the next thing I know, the world was pitch black. My dreams take me to my favorite spot. The night of my wedding. The smell of him. For a brief moment, I can’t tell reality from the unconscious images. For a brief moment, I think I feel Silas’s touch.

How did a devil sleep like an angel? I set the white bouquet of lilies down on the dresser and make my way into the room. Usually, I would pay someone to do this. Usually, that person was Axel Reyes. Despite his psychopathic tendencies, he was the only person I trusted to do the job.

Every year, I leave the same delicate white flowers for the girl who haunted my dreams. Only, she wasn’t a girl anymore, and she was far from delicate. I hadn’t seen her in seven years until today. I saved myself from that torture. The moment she stepped out of that van dressed in all black, designer shades, and red bottom shoes, my heart stopped beating.

She had matured in ways my own memory failed to imagine. I run my knife gently over her jawline and listen as she lets out a soft moan in her drunken sleep. I watched as the same guy she took to the compound carried her in. The one who stopped her from killing Hewey Contreras. If that guy was anything more to her than a guard dog, then I had no problem putting a pet cemetery in my backyard.

I look back down at Thalia, or should I say,La Viuda.I laugh at her infamous nickname. I had been hiding out in Tamaulipas the first time I heard the name. The goth buchona, who had assassinated various men in the most savage of ways. One story claimed she dismembered a rival cartel member’s dick and forced him to suck on it before she slit his throat. That should turn me off, but the thought of her anywhere near my dick had the opposite effect.

I run the knife down her neck to the top of her breasts. An asset she paid for, but I’m not complaining. We did have the right to each other’s assets through marriage. I pull the top of her dress down to reveal said shared assets. They are well proportioned to her body. I run the knife over her nipple, and she lets out a small whimper. I run the knife back to her shoulder and let the blade slide softly over her arms, both covered in black and gray ink. They reveal an array of different images. I run the knife down the front of her body, right to her pussy, and stop.All this was mine.

My perky tits, my pussy, and my wife.Toda mía. I run my knife back up to the gold necklace that reads “Consuelo” and yank it off. She is in for a rude awakening because she is not aConsuelo, she is aMacias,and soon enough, I will remind her of it.

We once played a game where we competed to see who was the most notorious gangster, the better of two evils. Now that this was real life, she would have no chance of winning against me. Thalia Isabel Macias was about to meet her match. I press my index and middle finger to my lips, then press them to her lips.

Sweet dreams, diablita.

Thalia

I wake up to the wet feeling of something on my cheek. I slowly open my eyes to see Guapo smelling me. Guapo is Ariella’s hideous dog. No one is sure what breed he is, but he looks like an overgrown rat. I groan and pull the covers over my head.

“Wakey, wakey,” Ariella sing-songs. Morning people are a mystery to me. I groan and pull myself up from the pillow. Immediately, I can feel the throbbing in my head and crash back down onto the bed.

“What time is it?” My head is already throbbing. I let my eyes adjust to the light as Guapo snuggles next to me. I can’t deny him the affection he wants. He may be the world’s ugliest dog, but he is still family.

“It’s seven thirty! Here, I brought you a coffee.” I take my time and sit up, reaching for the styrofoam cup Ariella offers me. I expect to meet the velvety taste of my favorite dark roast, but instead, I meet the bitter taste of vodka.

“What the hell is that?!” I set the cup down, but stand up too quickly. I grab the post of my bed to steady myself. Ariella takes a sip of her cup and frowns.

“Don Mario was handing out lattes in the break room, so I grabbed us one.” I take a deep breath in and rub my temples.

“Aye, prima.Those are his homemadepajaretes.”Pajaretesare a well-known drink among ranchers in Mexico. It consists of vodka, fresh cow’s milk, Abuelita’s chocolate, and occasionally, coffee. Don Mario is set on reviving the drink here at Calavera Hotels at the cost of driving Enrique mad.

“Aren’t pajaretes supposed to have chocolate milk in them?” Ariella says before wiping her tongue with a napkin.

“Don Mario’s are ten percent chocolate milk and ninety percent vodka.”

“Ugh! This is the thanks I get for trying to help out a small business.” I laugh and shake my head. When I look around the room, my eyes fall to a fresh bouquet of lilies on the vanity.

“Oh my god. Is it you?” I jump off the bed and go to retrieve them. She was here every year for my birthday, usually with her entire family, but they opted to stay home this year. I press the arrangement to myself and breathe them in. They smell likeeverything is going to be okay.

I turn around and Ariella stands there, confused. She shakes her head, then hands me a card. “No. But I do have this for you. It’s from that hot musico.” Damn. I never got around to screaming his name in the bushes.

“Feliz Cumpleaños, Preciosa. Call me so we can celebrate,” I read aloud before I gag. Only two things come to mind when a man calls me precious. One involves a sixteen-year-old verbally abused Claireece, and the second image is of Gollum.

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