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Fucking creepy.
“Santiago has friends in Texas. That’s how he gets people over the border. If people ask where we’re from, just say south Texas. But stay far away from Santiago. He’ll ask too many questions.”
Aziel nods. “Got it. Let’s go.” He pulls me the rest of the way towards the house.
Once we reach the bottom of the oversized driveway, my ears start ringing. My heart beats like a heavy drum, rattling against my rib cage with each beat. Guards stand up at the top of the circular driveway, serving as a valet and assisting with escorting guests into the home.
I squeeze Aziel’s hand as hard as I can. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” I wheeze. I feel like someone is gripping my esophagus and squeezing with all their might. I can barely catch a breath with every step we take. Aziel starts up the driveway, pulling me along beside him.
“Why? What’s wrong?” He asks but continues his path towards the entrance.
“We’ll never get away with it. We can just turn and run. Flee the country. I don’t care where we go. I’ll go to fucking mars. I justcan’t go in here.” I whisper, each breath scratching at my dry throat.
He continues walking, his gait relaxed and powerful. In no way does he look stressed or tense. If only I could have his confidence.
“Listen, Ivy.” He whispers. “It’s too late to run. See those men up there? They’ve already seen us. If we turn and walk away, it’s about an eighty percent chance we’ll be followed. We’ll probably be killed. You think we won’t survive if we go in there? We won’t survive if we stay out here. We might as well try, yeah?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“It’s too late.” He whispers, his tone coming out low but strong. “Don’t fuck this up. You fuck this up, not only will we be killed, but hundreds and hundreds of girls for however long will be sold by this motherfucker. We have a chance to stop him, tonight. Let’s finish it.”
“I’m not ready to die.” I choke.
“You won’t die. I won’t let you.” He gives my hand a squeeze.
We make it to the top of the long circular driveway. An oversized stone fountain sits in the middle with a naked woman crouched on her knees. She is nude except for the fabric she has pulled in front of her legs. Her head is tilted forward, in agony or despair. The statue has always unnerved me. A servant is what she looks like. A slave.
A black Saab pulls away, and one of the large guards, I think his name is Alec, escorts a beautiful woman and man up to the door. They have masks that make them look like sparrows covering the top half of their face. I can barely hear their French accent, and a frown pulls at my lips. They crossed countries for this. They deserve to rot as much as Santiago does.
The one who is not escorting them to the door gives us a sharp look. “Feliz Día de los Muertos. ¿Cómo te llamas?”Happy Día de los Muertos. What is your name?
“We’re the Benton’s.”
Alec frowns. “¿De dónde eres?”Where are you from?
“We are from Texas.” I use the most Texan accent I can find.
Alex nods, although unease still sits in him.
“You must not remember us from last year. My husband here was shy a few hundred thousand dollars of buying that little blonde that was so popular.”
His face relaxes and he lets out a little grunt.
We all remember the little blonde that had the house betting the most I have ever seen. She was a seventeen-year-old girl from North Carolina. She was beautiful, one of the most stunning girls I’ve ever met. The party fawned over her instantly, and the winner was an older Russian man with the last nameSlavik.
“Todavía tengo sueños de agacharme sobre esa perra rubia.”I still have dreams about bending over that blonde bitch.
I withhold the grimace that wants to take over my face and let out a sharp chuckle, humming to his words even though I want to strangle him.
A Range Rover pulls up, and Alec walks to the door and opens it for us. “Disfruta de tu noche.”Enjoy your night.
We smile and walk inside the extravagant entrance. The front entry is through a rounded door that leads to a spacious entryway. The tile floor is original and uniquely patterned, each square telling its own story of time. Two large blue vases sit on either side of the door with large, green plants spilling out the tops of them. This place is much different from the clubhouse. At the clubhouse, Halloween decorations were placed in every crevice and curve of the place. At this mansion, things are much more subtle. There are small candles placed along the wall, creating a low-lit walkway. Some decorated skeletons are placed in corners, with colorful flowers decorating the head and body. Día de los Muertos is not a trick or treat holiday in Mexico, it’s a celebration of lives lost.
My heels clack on the tiled floor as we walk down the hall and into the main room. People flow in and out of various rooms. To the left is the kitchen, with waitstaff wandering through the constant revolving door with plates of foot and flutes of champaign poised on top. I recognize many waitstaff and have to force myself to keep my eyes averted as to not draw any attention to myself.
To the right of the room is a hallway that leads to suites where some guests will stay the evening. There is also an office where Santiago handles his work when he stays here. The hallway to the right also leads to a terrace with an outdoor patio and eating area.
The guests are dressed in all different tastes. Some have masks painted on their face much like we do. Others are dressed in colorful dresses and outfits, large vibrant flowers placed throughout the breast and arm area of the costume. This has always been a beautiful holiday in Mexico, whether I was a prisoner during it or not.
