Page 59 of The Russian's Forced Bride
I pressed myself against the chair as he entered the room, flooding it with light, and the bugs that had swarmed around the room and on my body scurried away, hiding.
He was just as I remembered him. Tall, burly, with muscles that always threatened to rip the buttons of his Italian custom suits. But today, he was dressed in a T-shirt tucked into suit pants, his bare muscled arms etched with black ink that ran up his biceps and disappeared into his clothes, reappearing on the nape of his neck.
Joaquin Saavedra.
He wasn’t exactly my father’s best friend, but I’d considered them somewhat close. I hadn’t seen him in years, but he always haunted the narrative of Father’s life. He and Father were business partners, as Father always claimed. Their supposed partnership ran deep, even before I was born.
My memories of him were always blurred, but every year on my birthday, I received some kind of present from him.
We didn’t share any bond, but I always thought he was a pretty nice man and the only true friend Father actually had.
But to think he had been the one to kill my father….
Now, he towered over me, right as he slammed the door shut, the sudden jolt causing me to flinch. A lopsided smile was plastered on his face as he sifted through the pockets of his pants and brought out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one up and taking a sharp drag.
He then crouched down to my level, so we were eye to eye, and puffed out the smoke he had dragged slowly onto my face, causing me to cough as the bitterness hung in my throat.
A dark chuckle escaped his lips.
“You remember me, don’t you,Chiquita?” Joaquin asked, his Spanish accent creeping into his words.
Chiquita.
It was his pet name for me growing up. Anytime we got the chance, he’d ask me how things were faring on my end. Then, the word had made me giggle—it sounded cute—but now I loathed it with every ounce of my being.
I drew in saliva from my mouth and spat it right onto his face. “Fuck off, Joaquin.”
Taken aback, Joaquin slowly dug into his pockets and brought out a clean handkerchief, wiping off the pool of saliva that threaded down his face before he rose to his feet, hands clasped behind his back, jaw locked in anger.
“I’m going to cut that mouth open and shove it down your throat, bitch,” he threatened darkly, the sound of his bones popping as he cracked his knuckles.
But that didn’t stop me from running my mouth. “You’re gonna die, Joaquin. And I swear to God, it is going to be a slow and painful death!” I yelled, pushing against the ropes binding me as though I were mad.
He snorted. “What can a silly, sheltered heiress like you do,Chiquita?” His arms opened, slow and deliberate, as though welcoming a challenge. “I would love to see you try. After all, neither your mother nor father put up a good fight anyway. I wonder if you’ll be any better.”
A string in my head pulled at his words. And then, like a lucid dream, I could finally see the details of the nightmares that had haunted me my whole life.
I was just six. Mom had been driving me to a birthday party I had been invited to from school. We were singing along to this song, and then, right as she drove into a tunnel, her car was rammed from behind. I could still hear her shrill scream as the car somersaulted—could still feel how my head rang when it slammed against the ground.
And then four men dressed in all black, their faces masked, approached. Mom thought they had come to help.
She had called his name, saying, “Joaquin, help me.”
He was there, and he had been the one to drag Mom by the hair and slice her throat while I watched the blood gush out of the wound in horror, unable to scream, the air knocked out of my lungs.
The trauma had left me with memory loss—bits and pieces only coming to me in the form of nightmares. And somehow, my head had blocked the image of Joaquin being present at that scene.
Tears blurred my vision as I glared at him. He ran his tongue across his lower teeth, and I could tell he was relishing that memory in his head, his eyes gleaming with a predatory-like excitement.
All these years, I had searched for answers—for the truth behind Mother’s death. I had laughed with him, even after that incident. Ogled the gifts he sent to me in awe.
I had been fraternizing with the enemy right from the beginning.
“Don’t go crying now,Chiquita. You should blame your father.” Joaquin now stepped forward, pointing his cigarette at my face.
“He betrayed me. That fucker betrayed me!” he roared. “Your father’s business was supposed to be mine. We were partners. We didn’t play by the rules—we got good money, whether it was legal or not. But then suddenly, he wasn’t paying attention to my advice. He didn’t feel like laundering money anymore.”
Joaquin laughed, once again bending over as he grabbed my chin roughly and squeezed it hard until I felt it would bruise. “Your father thought I was bad company. Can you imagine? And then guess what—he got himself entangled with the Bratva, thinking he could somehow protect himself from me. And for what?” he growled into my face.
