Page 21 of DOM: The Miami King

“Be a good girl.”My mother whispered as she smoothed the hem of my dress, refusing to look in my eyes, that’s how I knew something was wrong because no matter what she always looked into my eyes and always taught me to do the same.

She didn’t say shit else after that and I remembered my chest feeling like something or someone was squeezing it. The man they gave me to didn’t even talk much and he didn’t have to because I didn’t want to talk to him anyway. The way he looked at me was enough for me to know that he was trouble. He looked like the type to beat a female, but he didn’t hit me right away. Instead, he fed me while also treating me like I was a stray cat he was trying to fatten up before the slaughter. Then one night, he finally came into my little smelling like rum and sweat.

That was the first time I ever truly feared for my life as I immediately sat up rubbing my eyes while adjusting my long, dingy sleeping gown. The minute he approached me, somethinginside of me wanted to fight and I truly did. I literally fought, bit, scratched, and screamed to stop him from sticking his nasty little dick inside of me. I barely made it out with a split lip and a bruised wrist, just glad I made it. I ran barefoot into the night, ignoring my own blood and bruises as my chest heaved up and down. Afraid that he may catch me, I ran straight to my aunt’s house across town thinking I’d be safe there, but I was wrong. I should’ve known that when she didn’t even care about me being attacked. I had to tend to my own bruises. Yes, she took me in, but only because she was flat broke and needed the extra hands.

I became a fucking slave in her care. It didn’t consist of love and comfort; I was just there based off of survival and that became my life eventually bouncing from one home to another like a burden nobody wanted but everyone needed. Hell, I slept on floors, and I ate scraps. I learned early on how to listen to arguments through walls and how to leave a room before someone’s anger entered my space. I worked as a damn child sweating in open-air markets, cleaning people’s laundry, and babysitting other people’s kids even though I was still one myself. It wasn’t one person who cared about me or my own dreams. Nobody even asked me if I had any… they just told me to keep quiet and be grateful I wasn’t dead yet, which I learned to do.

By the time I turned eighteen, I didn’t have shit at all… no money, no passport, and the way it was looking, no future either. I was full of rage and that same rage is what got me out. I had a cousin of a cousin who knew someone who forged documents for a price. It took everything I had, which wasn’t much, but I managed to scrape it together so I could get a new identity, a temporary visa, and a one-way ticket. At first, I didn’t know to where and I didn’t care either as long as it wasn’t Trinidad anymore. As long as it wasn’tmy past life. When I boarded that plane, I didn’t look back not one time because back thereI wasn’t a person. I was a piece to everyone or something they could profit off of. I was born as Anya Joseph, and I left as Carmen Williams and when I got up there in the clouds, I told myself I would never let anyone own me again, but Dom… he was different. He didn’t own me, he saved me.

Taking a deep breath, I finally snapped myself from the prison of my own thoughts and dabbed my eyes with a napkin before gathering my things to head out.

* * *

An hour later, I was back at the penthouse. I kicked off my boots and poured a shot of Reposado before I sat at my desk. “Alexa! Play ‘Snooze’ by SZA!” I ordered before letting my hair down and making myself comfortable. It was time to handle the real threat with that file. The Feds were known for having holes and legal entry points I could exploit their asses with…and I would if it came down to it. I opened my laptop and pulled up the sealed customs documents.

I started rewriting case theories and burying the trails. I shifted digital routing protocols on the back end too and even falsified three donation receipts from a nonprofit we set up in O’Shynn’s name to act as a clean filter… you know to wash the money as well. I then rewrote legal exposure language in the packet the Feds would likely use as evidence. They didn’t know who they were fucking with. The system was crooked but not as crooked as I was.

By the time I was done, I had created enough reasonable doubt to break the entire back of the case without even having to step inside of a courtroom. I closed the laptop and sipped my drink, feeling satisfied. I leaned back in my chair with my drink in my hand, and eyes fixed on the lights from the skyline glistening through the penthouse windows. Everything looked perfect from where I sat but we all knew that was a fucking lie, especially in Miami. My phone buzzed with a blocked number snapping me from my thoughts.

I answered. “Carmen speaking.”

The voice on the other end sounded nervous. “It’s me, Harris. That subpoena request you flagged… you were right.”

My stomach started twisting in knots once again. Harris was just as crooked as me and in my back pocket for whatever I needed. Just like Dom had his people, I too needed my own people in my own field in order to keep the foundation solid. “Talk to me.”

“There’s a new one and they’re not just looking at vehicle manifests anymore. They’re pulling offshore wire transfers and custom dealer reports from Dubai and Berlin. They’re trying to establish a conspiracy ring.”

That word hit hard. Conspiracy? “Does Dom’s name appear?”

“Not yet, but Royal Enterprises is being watched. Two of your dummy LLCs were just pinged through a system you’re not supposed to know exists.”

"ICU-7?" I quizzed.

"Yeah," he said. “I don’t know how you know that, but yeah.”

I closed my eyes for a second, took down the last of my drink and rubbed my temples. Dom was making me work more now than I ever had before. He just didn’t know how much I was over here cleaning shit up, and it wasn’t for him to worry about either. “I need a full data pull. I need to know everyone they’ve served, everyone they’re watching, and where that data is landing. Make sure there’s no links to any personal IPs. Send it to my burner email and wipe your system clean afterward.”

“Damn Carmen, I could lose my fucking license behind this shit.”

“You could lose your life too Harris,” I said in an agitated tone, and then softened my voice. “But you won’t… I’ll make sure of that.”

He hung up without another word and I stared at the phone. The shit was moving faster than I thought. And if I had to be honest, this wasn't just Dom’s shit anymore… it was mine too. I spent the next three hours moving like a ghost in the underworld. I was wiping triple-layered VPNs, offshore transaction histories, and modifying log timestamps. I created false login entries from IPs in Argentina and Kenya, hell places we never touched but the Feds would love to chase ghosts in. I was stressed but silently laughing to myself too looking like Cruella Deville having an episode.

Next, I unregistered a shipping manifest that had Royal Enterprises listed as a secondary recipient and replaced it with a fake transport group we used once a couple of years ago. I pulled three dated contracts from our shell law firm in Spain and edited them to reflect a completely different vendor chain. Hell, by the time I was done, the evidence trail looked like a fucking Picasso painting that the Feds would have to chase for months and end up in the middle of an art gallery in Madrid somewhere wondering what the hell just happened.

I was completely satisfied that I’d done enough to hold it off and keep them chasing their tails for now. I stepped into the kitchen, poured another drink, and stared out the window thinking about Dom… at this point, he better had been ready to give me some babies and completely retire me in a few years with all of the work I put in.

I understood why he felt like we shouldn’t cross the line that we weren’t going to be able to stop crossing now, because we both knew the moment one of us slipped, everything would all burn down, and we needed to be focused. I picked up my phone again and made another call… this time it was to Charlene Dunley who worked over in the Internal Affairs, of the IRS Oversight Division. She had the nerve to try and prosecute Royal Enterprises, before I flipped everything and ruined her case in court and now, she owed me. I sent a message:I need to bury a federal trail… and I need a response in 12 hours.

After that, I sent her ten bands in crypto as a tip because I knew she’d call back. I walked into my bedroom and thought about Dom. I still smelled his cologne on my sheets. I wondered where he was right now, and what he was doing. I’d fuck him every hour on the hour if I could but right now, I had to be the one behind the scenes building the escape tunnel, and burning the evidence because God forbid if Dom ever fell, I was the only one with enough reach to protect what we built.

It had been two long fucking suffocating days in this concrete palace they called a safe house. Yeah, it may have looked like luxury with expensive appliances and heated floors as the place screamed money, but the energy and air were both stale. I might as well had still been back home under El Blanca’s watch if I was going to have to deal with the exact same thing. My entire existence made me feel as though I’d been locked in a cage with a dog watching me. It didn’t feel like safety, it felt like I was under arrest and losing my mind.

I paced the living room again completely barefoot with my silk robe trailing behind me like I was royalty, and I couldn’t help it because that’s the way I was used to living. The cartel moved around the property like shadows with a watchful eye and always silent except when they were talking shit to each other and laughing about it. Most of the time, their eyes never left me, even when I disappeared into the bathroom or stepped onto the balcony for air. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or shit without being watched, just the same as back home. Only home, I had a little more freedom to go places, and it wasn’t like that here. Dom hadn’t called me not one time and every time I did call him, he would answer, give me three words, and then hang up.

“I’m en route.” Was his response this time before hanging up once again in a cool mannered tone leaving my blood boiling. So, I called the one person who always gave me answers… at least I thought he did. I called El Blanca, and he answered in two rings.

“Victoria,” he said like he already knew I was about to complain.

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