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CHAPTER4
Imelda sat at her vanity, watching the slave brush her hair and style it while El Cuchillo prayed at his alter in the corner of their bedroom. Her husband prayed the Rosary three times a day, while Imelda made herself beautiful.
Slaves stood quietly in the corner, her ladies in waiting of sorts. All beautiful.
She loved pretty things.
She married her husband because he promised to provide her with the pretty things she wanted, and he did. Every shipment, she was allowed to choose her favorite. She had her pick of the guards in the compound. She had enough money for shoes, dresses, and chucherias, the knickknacks and baubles she loved so much.
Her bed was covered in the finest of silks, her dress made of the best linens, and her slaves learned to make her up by the best artists in Honduras. She even dressed them in beautiful things, gauzy, see-through sheaths that left little to the imagination.
Her husband was handsome. That was what had attracted her to him in the first place. She let him have her, because in their youth and naivete, he thought he could make her happy like her trinkets could. She succumbed to the pretty boy from the mountains near the coast, who could take her away from her inland home. But he could only make her content. Her things made her happy.
Now she was stuck in the land of mudslides and filth, and she missed her Abuela. But she had her pretty things.
A knock sounded at the door, and Hector pushed it open without waiting, speaking as he moved. Imelda froze, waiting to see if her husband would finally put the Chihuahua in his place.
“Jefe, Lobo Gris will meet you for lunch to discuss his next shipment.”
El cuchillo stiffened but didn’t stop his prayers.
Imelda gave Hector a cold smile in the mirror. “I wish you wouldn’t barge into our living quarters like this. Can it not wait until breakfast?”
“Lo siento. I have business to discuss.” He bowed to her, a disingenuous gesture that angered her more than anything. One of these days, she would teach him a lesson for his constant patronizing of her.
Instead, she chose to return her eyes to the mirror, where she nodded at the slave to continue. Hector stood near the door, waiting for El Cuchillo to finish his prayers.
He must have said an extra Rosary because Hector only bounced from foot to foot, getting more and more anxious as he waited.
Finally, her husband stood, kissed the crucifix on his beads, and tucked them into his shirt before turning to Hector.
“I do wish you wouldn’t barge into our living quarters like this. Can it not wait until breakfast?”
His eyes met Imelda’s across the room, and they twinkled as they shared the joke.
“Lo siento, Jefe. Lobo Gris has a shipment set up for this weekend. But I wanted to—”
“Hmm…”
“I don’t trust him, señor.”
“So you’ve said.” El Cuchillo walked to his closet and selected a suit coat from a hanger. “Has he done something?” Imelda loved that her husband dressed so nicely, even in this disgusting habitat they lived in. He was always dressed in an immaculately pressed suit, even in the heat. She chose to wear dresses that were thin enough to breathe, but his suits were gorgeous.
“No, but he shows up from nowhere. He tells us things, and we believe him. Everything we know about him is what he’s told us to believe.” Hector’s voice was whiny, a tone he only took with El Cuchillo, and Imelda knew for a fact her husband hated it.
He remained silent, waiting for Hector to say his piece. There was always more.
“He has a woman.”
Imelda’s eyebrows rose at that. The Wolf was her favorite of her husband’s men here. Tall, strong, dark, and broody, she’d had him once, and he hadn’t come back to her. That made her want him the most. She’d had a taste and wanted more, but he wouldn’t give it, and knowing he had a woman, made her want to kill her.
“The keystroke tracker you gave me shows messages between them. I’m pretty sure there’s video too, but I don’t have that.” Hector sounded contrite. Imelda was surprised he knew how to even use hacking software, more surprised her husband would let him. Computers were Lobo Gris’s job.
“Is he using her to betray me?” El Cuchillo’s words were quiet, his face open.
“No. She knows nothing.”
“Hmm…”
