AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Because that’s the thing, my pretty bride. He found out about you, and he made a certain set of arrangements for you. Fortunately, I found out about them before they came for you.”
Chapter 7
I reached for my wineglass and gulped down a mouthful of the burgundy liquid, trying to come to terms with what Grayson was telling me and not really believing it. It seemed like a twisted story to suddenly become something of a mafia princess in the dangerously bloody world of the cartel. I’d long lost hope of ever knowing anything about my father and his history and to be suddenly thrust into it without any warning was a lot to take in.
“This isn’t possible,” I repeated.
“I’m afraid it is, sweet girl. I verified it myself some time ago,” he replied.
“How?”
“A few years ago, Ismael’s son was arrested for drug possession. I was able to procure a sample of his blood. I compared it to yours and the results were definitive. He is your brother, which in turn makes Ismael Zambada Garcia your father,” he said. There was no sarcasm or even the hint of a joke in his features. Everything he was saying was the truth, no matter how much I wanted to brush it aside as rumor or conjecture or the biggest fucking nightmare of my life.
I didn’t ask him how he’d gotten a sample of my blood. It didn’t matter really. I was quickly coming to terms with that fact that Grayson Asher was much more than just a rich eligible bachelor. He was a billionaire and in some fashion, a bit of a crime lord himself. He operated with power that people only dreamed of. I was probably only scratching at the surface of what he was capable of.
“The Sinaloa Cartel operates by blood and family above all else, but a crime organization of their caliber makes enemies and a lot of them. Their biggest one is the Jalisco New Generation Cartel. The two have been at war for years, but when Ismael discovered that he had a very attractive American daughter, he made an arrangement with his enemies. He arranged for you to be married,” Grayson continued.
“That’s not possible,” I snapped once again.
“It is, my sweet bride. Your father arranged for you to be married into one of the bloodiest cartels in recent history,” he said further. “Your husband was to be Nemesio Cervantes.”
I knew that name too.
“When was this marriage supposed to happen?” I pressed.
“On your twenty-fifth birthday,” he answered.
“That’s in a few days,” I whispered.
“I know. May twelfth,” he replied. I tried not to be bothered by the fact that he already knew the date.
“If I’m supposed to be marrying a cartel drug lord in a few days, why am I sitting across from you in a wedding dress?” I swallowed heavily. The white fabric encasing my body suddenly felt heavy, but the ring on my finger felt even more daunting than all of that.
“This marriage between you and Nemesio has been in arrangement for a long time.”
“How long?”
“It was drafted in the weeks following your mother’s death,” he explained.
I swallowed back my horror.
“Why am I sitting here as your bride?” I pressed. There was something else he wasn’t telling me, and I needed to know what it was.
“I come across problems sometimes in my line
of work. Not all of them can be fixed or dealt with and some of them I must pretend like I never even saw at all, but when your marriage contract came to light, I was drawn to it, and I began to investigate it. At the time, you were eighteen and had been in your first year at Stanford University and I decided to take matters into my own hands. I bought your contract myself. The only stipulation in the bill of sale was that you were to be my wife before the day of your twenty-fifth birthday or else the marriage to Nemesio would go forward as planned,” he finally finished and I sat back against the chair, my meal mostly forgotten.
“You can’t purchase people like a prized horse,” I spat.
“I can and I did,” he replied curtly.
“You forced me to say my vows. Any valid court would throw our sham of a marriage out the window,” I scoffed.
“True, but then the cartel would find you. I don’t need to tell you what would happen after that,” he said, and I gritted my teeth, knowing he was right.
I reached for my glass of wine once more and took another heavy swallow.
“Eat, Zoe,” he coaxed gently. I leaned forward and picked my utensils back up again, cutting another bite and placing it on my tongue. I was so unsettled that I hardly tasted it. For a few moments, I was quiet, and he let me be and for that I was grateful. Eventually, I cleared my throat and sat back.
