Page 4 of Cartel Viper
That’s what happens when you date somebody in the mob.
If I’d known who he was when I met him, I wouldn’t have even given him a second look. There are already enough ties to organized crime in my family. We sure as hell didn’t needone more, but that’s exactly what happened. I’ve been a virtual prisoner for the past two years.
The few times I tried to hint to Laura that something was wrong, Drew found the texts. I even switched to a burner phone and tried to hide those. I realized a while ago that he had cameras all over our apartment. He’d watch me when I was at home. He had people reporting to him while I was at work. I tried to leave twice, and he always found me.
There’s a reason, even in summer, I wore long-sleeved shirts under my scrubs, and almost never took off my lab coat. I’d make the excuse I always run cold, but it was to hide the bruises. He didn’t care that he left them places people could see.
It was his control. It forced me into wearing clothes that kept me covered up. His jealousy that anyone might look at me was only a minimal part of that. I couldn’t really wear what I wanted to wear. I couldn’t do the things I wanted to do because I was often too sore.
I’m free of him now.
At least, sort of.
I’m certain he’s looking for me. What he doesn’t realize is I learned a lot about hiding from him. Some of it was necessity, so people wouldn’t know what our relationship was really like. A lot of it was from thinking about all the things he did to hide his real ties from me for two years, and all the things he did to hide who he was from the rest of the world.
He was a master class in subterfuge. And I was an A-plus student. Now, I’m employing all those skills.
But having two Diaz men burst into my hotel room, likely expecting to meet one of their associates, and instead finding me, puts a damper on my hopes that I can be anonymous for a while. I planned my escape for months. I made sure I had everything I needed.
Drew insisted we have a joint checking account, so he had control over my salary. What he doesn’t know is that I’m an artist. The one place he couldn’t have cameras was in my car. He had tracking devices on it, but he never put any cameras in there. He assumed between tracking me and having men follow me, there was nothing I could do he wouldn’t know about. Except he had my windows tinted to where I’m surprised I never got pulled over or ticketed.
Some of that was for my protection, since rival syndicates knew who I was. Some of it was that possessiveness that nobody else dared look at his girlfriend. But it allowed me to draw in my car when I would pretend to nap there if there was no space in the on-call room.
Instead of napping, I would push my seat all the way back or climb into the back of my SUV and sketch. I even had my watercolors hidden in the well where the spare tire’s kept. It certainly wasn’t easy without an easel, just using my bent legs to hold my sketch pad or lying on my stomach with my canvas.
The sketch pad pictures were easy to deliver to the sketchy-ass art dealer. They were small, and I could pass them to him when I went to the grocery store. The canvases took some spy-level secrecy since men watched my car while I was parked. I’d pick this one spot in the employee lot that made it impossible for them to see the trunk. I had to trust the fucker enough to give him a spare key fob—which cost me nearly four hundred dollars that I saved from lunches I skipped buying at work—so he could open the trunk while I was inside the hospital and slide them out without Drew’s men seeing him.
But selling my art made me extra money I kept squirreled away. I was motivated, so I found a way. Two years of doing that has built me a nest egg. I didn’t think it would take that long for me to gain the chance to escape. The first time he hit me was the first time I tried to leave. I learned quickly to be as deceptive ashim. And I also realized it would be no small feat getting away from him, especially as his net closed tighter around me by the day.
I look around the extended-stay hotel room I’ve been in for a week. I’ve been packing as I mull this situation over.
I only brought what I absolutely need. I knew a guy in college who used to make fake IDs. It was serendipity when his wife came in to deliver her baby. They were in town from Schenectady, and she went into early labor. I helped deliver their son. Then he delivered fake driver’s licenses and fake passports to me. He even stole a couple social security numbers for me and made cards for those.
With my new identity, I went in and opened a bank account where I kept my art money. It was a branch of the same bank I already use but closer to the hospital than the one near my home where I use my real name. Since I already banked with them, it never raised any red flags to Drew when his men reported me going there. After that, I used online banking for the art sales.
Now I have what I need—money and a new identity—but another complication exists. I’m certain either Javier or Joaquin posted one or two of their men nearby to make sure I don’t bolt or call the police.
I hear my phone buzz from the bedroom and hurry to grab it, worried anyone posted in the hallway could somehow hear it. I don’t want any of the Diaz men returning because they fear I’m going to squeal.
“Hi, Mom.”
This isn’t who I want to talk to right now. She’s going to ask questions I don’t want to answer because it means I have to lie.
“Hi, sweetie. How’re you?”
“I’m well. How about you?”
That was lie number one.
“Same. I haven’t talked to you in nearly a week, so I thought I’d give you a ring. Do you have time to chat?”
Not really.
“Sure.”
I pull my baseball cap low over my eyes and tuck my blonde hair underneath it, securing it out of my way. I grab the tube of disinfectant wipes I took from the hospital on my third to last shift.
“I have some news to share.”
