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“No . . .” I didn’t want Alejandro to stop talking, but a pit formed in my stomach. Would he get in trouble for revealing things he wasn’t supposed to? “I’m not even sure he’d like us talking about it.”
“Never said not to,” Alejandro said, stretching the other way. “Cristiano is discreet given his position, but inside the walls, he’s more of an open book than you’d think.”
“You’re joking,” I deadpanned.
“No, señora.”
“Don’t call me that,” I said. “It makes me feel old. I’m only twenty.”
“That may be, but you’re married now, and no longer a señorita.”
“Just because a book is open doesn’t make the story true. I don’t know what’s fact and what’s fiction. Cristiano married his enemy’s fiancée,” I pointed out.
“I know. I was there.”
“So why would he tell me anything or let me into all of this? He doesn’t trust me as far as he can throw me.”
“I’ll bet he can throw you pretty far. Have you tried asking him anything about the cartel?”
“A little. He explained some of the rumors, like the rotten fish and the snails thing.”
Alejandro opened his mouth as if to respond but just blinked at me. “Huh?”
“Never mind. It’s the other stuff that he hasn’t explained, and I’m sure I asked . . .” Hadn’t I? Cristiano’s fuse had run out quickly when the trafficking had come up. He’d accused me of believing hearsay, of not entertaining both sides of the story, and he had denied some of his practices, but not given me an explanation for them.
“Have you asked what we’re about, though?” Alejandro asked, cocking his head. “What we’re doing?”
“I know enough. You deal in arms, and you traffic women and children.”
“What?” he asked, stepping away from me as if I’d shoved him. With his strong reaction, I once again wondered what exactly was happening here.
“What? Am I wrong?” Was it wrong to assume the worst in Cristiano when he’d forced this life on me? No. Even if there were shreds of decency in Cristiano, that didn’t make him decent. “Isn’t that what you guys do? Isn’t that what you did to me?”
Alejandro’s jaw slackened. “Is that . . . is that how you feel?”
Raising my eyebrows, I crossed my arms. “Why wouldn’t I? You were at the wedding. You saw.”
His eyebrows drew together as sweat dripped down his temple. He swiped it away with his sleeve and turned his face away, shaking his head. “Jesus, Natalia . . . I mean, you should really ask him about all of this. Don’t let him off the hook until he explains what we do here.”
“You just told me we’re allowed to talk.”
“We are,” he said. “But it doesn’t feel like my place to explain. When Cristiano gets back, try putting aside what you’ve heard and go in with an open mind.”
“Will it change the fact that I’m here against my will?” I didn’t expect an answer, but I wanted Alejandro to see things from my side. I sighed. “Forgive me if I find it hard to keep an open mind.”
Alejandro glanced at the ground, looking uncomfortable. “I get it, I do. But if you could just try . . .”
“If you think this is about anything other than Cristiano’s need for power and control,” I said, “you need your head checked.”
“I do,” he said, squatting to tie his shoelace and then glancing up. “I mean, the first part . . . not the head check. Cristiano is a control freak. He needs to live in that space—he’s a provider and a guiding light for more people than I can count. Sometimes, it’s destructive. But in some cases, it can save lives.”
“Destructive,” I repeated, frowning. “Do you know what I gave up to be here? I loved someone else. I had a future with him—”
“Diego’s a piece of shit.”
My mouth fell open. My reflex was to block the insult, to defend the man I was going to marry, but even hearing his name lit a fire inside me, and not the kind it used to. Diego had done awful, unforgivable things, but that had nothing to do with this. “The point is, now I’m here, spending my days wandering around a house that isn’t and never will be, mine. I’m learning how to defend myself in case anyone, including my ‘husband,’ tries to hurt me.”
Alejandro rose slowly, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth. “He wouldn’t hurt you, not ever.”
“He already has.”
“How?” he asked. “You tell me right now if Cristiano has put his hands on you. I would kill him. He may be rough around the edges, but he’s making an effort.”
Taken aback by the vehemence in his voice, I scoffed. This was making an effort? Cristiano had held a knife to my throat in this very spot. He’d pointed a gun at my head as a child and had left me in the dark to fend for myself. A week ago, he’d almost killed me in a warehouse fire.
