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CHAPTER SEVEN
MARIANA
I left the bathroom quickly — I knew that if I let myself get comfortable in there, one of them would have to break the door down to get me out.
Daydreams of violence filled my every thought as I made my way back to the main area of the opulent apartment. It was late — most of the lights in the hills were out, meaning most people were tucked up in bed in their houses. While I, in stark contrast, was trying to survive my first hours as Emilio’s possession. That knowledge made my skin itch. The primitive part of my brain screamed at me to run away, to fling the door open and run out into the street. To find a safe place and lock myself away so nobody could ever find me.
But I didn’t. I held my head high and forced myself to breathe evenly, knowing that these men were like dogs — they could sniff out fear better than anyone.
Emilio stood at the window, which was actually the entire fourth wall of the apartment. Though his hands were in his pockets and he was facing away from me, his presence was overwhelming.
‘Eat something,’ he said, without turning around. I guessed he could see me in the reflection of the glass. I looked around, my eyes landing on a platter of tamales and empanadas and a bottle of aji hot sauce.
I was a stress eater. Trauma made me hungry. My mouth watered as I tried to walk casually over to the counter, when really I wanted to run as fast as I could and see how many pieces of food I could fit into my mouth at once.
I spotted a stack of white paper napkins and took one, loading it up with two tamales and an empanada. I bit into one of the banana leaf-wrapped tamales, every tastebud in my mouth lighting up at the delicious chicken and spices encased in sweet fried cornmeal. Bliss.
Well, bliss for a starving girl who’d just signed her life over to the man who’d had her lover shot and her father by the balls. Relative bliss, I suppose.
I played with the heart-shaped locket around my neck absent-mindedly. It hung on a gold chain, along with the small crucifix my mother had given me at my Confirmation when I was a small girl. Panic burst in my chest as I thought of the contents of the locket . . . because it suddenly occurred to me that Emilio didn’t know about my son.
Luis was three years old. Este and I had been stupid when we were younger, and hadn’t used protection when we’d first started screwing like rabbits at every opportunity. And, well . . . I was pregnant in less than a month, and had a little boy who I named Luis, after Esteban’s late father.
But I hadn’t been allowed to keep my baby, and all I had was a letter once a year with an updated photograph to let me know how he was going. The most recent photo was tucked into my locket, and the thought of Emilio finding it and using Luis against me made me turn cold inside.
I looked at Emilio. He appeared to be deep in thought, and I used the moment to open the locket and dig out the small photo. I screwed it up in my fist, devastated that I hadn’t thought of it in the bathroom where I could have had one last peek, but I had to be strong now, and this was the smart thing to do.
I would never tell them about Luis.
I edged over to the rubbish bin that sat in a small recess between the refrigerator and the wall, tossing the photo in and giving the bin a kick to make sure the photo tumbled down underneath the plastic water bottles and balled-up napkins that already sat in there.
Shaken, and with an entirely new sense of loss, I stepped back over to the counter and looked at Emilio. He hadn’t budged. Thank God for small favours.
I devoured several more empanadas, then helped myself to a glass of water in the kitchen. After I’d had my fill of food and water, I stood at the kitchen counter, nervously folding napkins into different shapes. A butterfly. A star. By the time I’d finished fashioning a pistol from two napkins folded together, Emilio was watching with barely concealed interest.
‘You are an odd girl,’ he said, eyeing me intently. ‘Who taught you to do that?’
My boyfriend. The one who you had killed.
I remembered the day he had taught me — I was sixteen years old, in the throes of a protracted labour, and the judgmental bitches who called themselves nurses refused to give me any pain relief. To teach me a lesson. I’d already learned my lesson when my father told me I couldn’t keep the baby, but those bitches still took their pleasure in watching me writhe as my small frame was swamped with contractions.
Este had held my hand as I screamed, and in the moments between contractions, he showed me how to fold just about anything out of paper napkins. By the time I started pushing, I’d learned how to fold swans, stars and all kinds of animals.
And guns, because, you know, we were the children of mobsters.
‘My boyfriend,’ I answered. ‘Your men murdered him.’
Emilio slid the napkin gun closer to him and picked it up, his lips quirking slightly as if he was amused by my haphazard paper weapons.
‘Do you know how I came to be the most powerful man on the west coast?’ he asked me, setting the paper gun down on the counter between us. ‘How I wrestled power from my enemies to become the fucking kingpin of the cocaine trade?’
‘By controlling those below you?’ I guessed, keeping my voice monotone. ‘By holding their daughters hostage?’
He chuckled. ‘You are a smart girl, even if you do think people live in hotels.’
We stood there like that for a few moments, both of us apparently deep in thought. It was odd; I wasn’t afraid of him the way I thought I ought to be. I was hesitant, yes, but as much as it disgusted me, I understood. My father had let him down, in an industry where you do not let your boss down.
‘So my father,’ I said casually, playing with the edge of a napkin. ‘He really screwed up, didn’t he?’
