Cartel (5 page)

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?’

Emilio nodded, his dark eyes betraying nothing if he was annoyed at my questioning.

‘Why did you stop that man from raping me?’ I asked, cringing inwardly at the way my question came out.

Emilio’s lip curled up, and I could tell he was amused. ‘Did you want him to rape you,
cholita
?’

‘No!’ I said quickly. ‘No, no, no. I was just wondering. Why you protected me when you could have let him at me. Why you were nice to me.’

He grinned, and I fought the urge to back away, sensing that I had stirred something within him. Oh, shit. He leaned across the counter and tucked a stray hair behind my ear, letting his hand linger for a moment that was entirely too long and uncomfortable.

‘I didn’t let him rape you because you do not belong to him. You belong to me,
cholita
, and I will use you as I see fit. For now, I want you untouched, clean and beautiful.’

For now? Something inside me died as I wondered what those seemingly benign words meant coming from a man like Emilio Ross.

‘What are you going to do with me?’ I whispered.

I shivered as he replied. ‘I’m going to recoup at least some of my losses.’

I can’t promise you that you won’t beg me to kill you anyway
.

I couldn’t pretend to be strong a moment longer. My knees became shaky and I had to grab onto the counter to stop myself from sliding to the floor in a heap.

‘Open your mouth,’ Emilio said, a glass of water and a round white pill materialising in his hand as if by magic.

I hesitated, earning me a slap across the face that had me flying halfway across the kitchen, my ears ringing in its wake. He slammed the glass of water on the counter, staring me down.

‘I would have punched you,’ he said, rounding the counter and crouching in front of me, ‘but I want you to look pretty for me.’

He squeezed my jaw, forcing my mouth open, and dropped the pill into the back of my mouth. Then he pressed my mouth shut, clamping his thick fingers over my mouth and nose.

‘Swallow,’ he said. I tried to wrench my head away, but he was strong. I couldn’t budge an inch in his vice-like grip. I swallowed, the dry pill almost catching in my throat as I tried not to cough.

‘Good girl,’ he said, releasing me. ‘The first night is always the hardest.’

‘The first night of what?’ I croaked.

He must have seen the terror in my eyes. ‘The first night of the rest of your life,’ he said, offering me his hand. ‘You’re not a college student anymore,
cholita
. You’re not somebody’s daughter. You’re not somebody’s little girlfriend. You’re somebody’s
possession
. You’re nothing. You’re
mine
.’

Not long after, I tossed and turned in stiff hotel sheets, trapped between sleep and terror. The pill Emilio had given me must have been a sleeping tablet, because I was groggy, but I refused to sleep in case that other asshole came in and tried something on me. My door was locked from the outside. A man had been standing guard when I entered the room, and I had no doubt he was still out there, keeping tabs on me. The windows were high and barred, completely different from the living room’s windows, which would have been pretty easy to break and jump out of.

The room was devoid of artwork, devoid of anything. There was one small wardrobe, completely empty save for a bare rack that I’m sure nothing had ever hung from. A small double bed with white sheets, white comforter. White pillows that were too high and stiff with feathers. Beige walls.

It was like being in solitary confinement, only worse, because that was still safer than what was outside my door.

My eyes were closed and my body painfully heavy, but I still couldn’t sleep. It was like someone had locked me inside my immobile body and left me to try and survive. The sleeping tablet gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, promising relief if I just let myself slide into a deep, black sleep, but I knew better. I knew that I was not safe in the room.

It felt like hours had passed, but it was still dark outside — I could see a tiny sliver of sky through the high, heavily fortified window.

I eyed the open wardrobe again with interest.
Yes
, I thought. I gathered up the stuffy pillows and the white comforter and rolled out of the bed, crawling over to the wardrobe and closing myself in. At least in here, I would be able to hear someone enter the room in the dark. A pillow behind my head, I half-laid, half-leaned against the back wall of the wardrobe and fell into a drugged, numb void.

The room may have been escape-proof, but it definitely wasn’t soundproof. I awoke in the dark, momentarily confused. I sat in pitch blackness, a hard wall at my back and a blanket twisted around my legs. I smelled old blood and wondered if it was mine.

Am I dead? Did somebody bury me?

The events of the previous night came crashing back into my mind. I sucked in a deep breath as the image of Este’s bloodied corpse hit me like a punch to the stomach.

And then, the rest of the night’s events came hurtling back, unrelenting, even as my drugged brain struggled to catch up. Emilio. The drive. The creepy dude in the suit.
You’re mine.

If I’d had anything left inside me, I would have burst into tears, but I couldn’t let go. I was too tightly wound, my heart thudding loudly in my ears and my hands shaking as foreign sounds reached me through the wardrobe door.

Cars on the city streets below. Horns blaring. A truck’s reversing siren, loud and obstinate at what felt like a ridiculously early hour.

A knock on the bedroom door, followed by the door opening, had me scrambling to stand up. As it was, the wardrobe had a shelf about four feet from the ground, and I only succeeded in slamming my head against it. ‘Ow,’ I muttered, reaching out for something to hold onto. I steadied myself on the wardrobe door just as it was wrenched open, and I spilled out onto the person on the other side.

Murphy grinned as he took in my dishevelled appearance and my sleeping quarters.

‘You look like shit,’ he said. I narrowed my eyes, flicking them up and down his outfit as I disentangled myself from him. He wasn’t wearing a suit anymore. He looked like a garish tourist who belonged in Florida or somewhere similarly tropical, sporting tweed shorts and a bright blue shirt printed with palm trees. The loafers on his feet looked cheap and nasty, a complete contrast to the expensive leather shoes he had been wearing last night.

‘You look like Hawaii threw up on you,’ I retorted, rubbing sleep from my eye. I looked down at myself, barefoot, still wearing my black sundress and Este’s blood all over me.

Murphy stepped back, his smile still wide and freakish, and gestured to the door. ‘Time for breakfast.’

I eyed him warily as I side-stepped him, walking as quickly as I could to stay out of his reach. I’d take Emilio and his violence over this freak and his wandering hands any time.

I entered the main living area again, expecting to see cereal or perhaps some fast food on the small round dining table, but what greeted me instead made my stomach flip.

Emilio sat on the far side of the table, sipping an espresso from a tiny cup as he read the paper. He was studying the stocks this time, and I wanted to ask if I was allowed to fix a coffee for myself, but I was too distracted by the plate that lay between us.

‘Sit,’ he said, without looking up.

I sat across from him, trying to suck my stomach in to suppress the loud growling noise it was making. I was so hungry I’d eat anything.

Except what was currently in front of me.

‘You don’t seriously expect me to do
that
?’ I asked, barely concealing the horrified tone in my voice.

He swallowed, annoyance showing in his cocked brow. ‘Did I say you could speak?’

I looked down at the table, trying to cover my rage. What I really wanted to do was stand up, throw the table on its side and scream ‘FUCK YOU!’, but I knew if I did that, he’d punish me. Probably by letting Murphy put his hand up my dress.

I stared at the table for a few moments, as Emilio returned to his paper. When he didn’t speak again, I let my gaze wander higher, eyeing off the bottle of olive oil and the plate stacked high beside it.

Surely he wasn’t going to make me do
that
?

He folded the paper up leisurely, placing it on the table as he drained the last of his coffee.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Good morning, Ana. I trust you slept well?’

‘Like the dead,’ I replied, without missing a beat.

‘No doubt. We need you looking fresh and well-rested. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.’

‘She looks like shit,’ Murphy said again, making me prickle in annoyance. ‘They’re going to stop her in customs looking like that.’

Just fuck off
, I wanted to say, but instead I bit my tongue and ignored him.

Customs. So it was what I had suspected.

‘I’m a drug mule?’ I asked Emilio in disbelief. ‘That was fast. What if I go to the police in the airport?’

Emilio chuckled. ‘I own the police,’ he said, his gaze shifting momentarily to Murphy before returning to me. I choked on that inference as I whirled around to face Weird Eyes. ‘You’re a
cop
?’

He glanced at Emilio, for once not engaging with me. I guessed that he hadn’t wanted me to know that.

‘Murphy here is a Federal Air Marshal,’ Emilio said, his amusement evident as he rolled one of the rubber-coated pellets on the plate between his fingers. ‘He helps us get our product from A to B.’

‘You’re a
drug-trafficking cop
?’ I asked Murphy, who continued to give me nothing.

‘The drugs are an attractive part of the package,’ Emilio teased, dragging out my torture. ‘But he specialises in moving
other
possessions of mine.’

Oh.

‘I bet he does,’ I said sharply, imagining Murphy taking full advantage of the women he trafficked from one country to another. It was enough to make me want to stab them both more than I already did.

‘Can I at least eat something first?’ I asked, eyeing the pellets nervously. There had to be at least thirty of the fuckers, gleaming smugly at me from their spot on the table.

‘No,’ Emilio said. ‘If you eat, your metabolism will start working. No food until you’re on American soil.’

‘If you shit these out on the plane ride,’ Murphy added behind me, ‘you’ll have to rinse them off and swallow them again. We wouldn’t want that, would we?’

My skin crawled at the thought.

Emilio laughed, gesturing at me as he addressed his associate. ‘She’s Marco’s daughter and she’s never been a mule? I don’t believe it.’

I eyed the pellets again, each about the size of my thumb, tightly wrapped in plastic. I might not have acted as a drug mule before, but I wasn’t stupid — I knew what would happen. And I wasn’t as worried about them going in as I was about them coming back out again.
Ouch
.

‘The plane leaves in three hours,’ Emilio said. ‘In the meantime, Murphy, I suggest you go and buy
cholita
some fresh clothes and that shit women put on their face to get rid of the bags under their eyes.’

‘Concealer,’ I said. ‘It’s called concealer.’

Murphy whistled as he left the apartment, for once not arguing. I jumped in my seat as the door slammed loudly, and sat on my hands to stop myself from fidgeting.

I stared down at the plate in front of me, at the reality that greeted me. Plastic-wrapped pellets full of pure cocaine.

‘What if one of them bursts inside me?’ I asked Emilio, who was arranging a passport and papers in front of him.

‘You die,’ he said casually, as if I had asked him what would happen if it rained today. ‘You die, and I get very angry, and I cut you open to get the rest of my coke out.’

I shivered despite the warmth, imagining my lifeless body in a bathtub, dead and gutted. I imagined my blood sprayed on the walls as faceless men pushed their hands inside me and removed bloodied plastic pellets full of Colombia’s finest white powder.

‘They won’t burst,’ he said, setting the papers to one side and fixing his beady eyes on me once more. ‘I am a professional. I wrap my product properly. They will only burst if you don’t get them out quickly enough, if your stomach acid eats them away.’

My stomach roiled. I was thinking there was probably a lot of fucking acid in there right now. I wanted to throw up and I hadn’t even begun.

As if reading my thoughts, Emilio unscrewed the bottle of olive oil and took one of the pellets from the plate, balancing it in his palm. He added a swig of olive oil to his slightly cupped hand and worked the oil over the pellet until it was coated in the slick substance.

‘Open wide,’ he said, standing and leaning over the table. I swallowed, keeping my mouth firmly closed.

‘I will rape your mother and kill your father,’ he said, pressing the pellet to my lips. ‘Or you can swallow a few tiny little packages for me.’

A tear burned in my right eye and I blinked it away hurriedly, opening my mouth to allow the pellet inside. The strong smell of the olive oil hit my nostrils and I fought the urge to pull away.

‘Wider,’ Emilio instructed, forcing the pellet past my lips and teeth. My eyes bulged and my throat protested as his finger pushed the pellet all the way to the back of my tongue, aggravating the sensitive gag reflex.

I jerked away in one sharp movement, gagging and choking as I chased the slick pellet around my throat with my fingers. I couldn’t get hold of it, it was too slippery, and finally I just dropped my head forward and let it fall out into my shaking hands.

‘I can’t,’ I said, panicking. ‘Please, I’ll do something else. I won’t run away.
I’ll be good
.’

The words tumbling from my mouth were completely foreign to my ears and I felt hot shame rise in my face as I heard myself beg.

Emilio slapped the table loudly, circling around and grabbing hold of my jaw. I whimpered as he squeezed.

‘Look at me,’ he commanded. And me, being the obedient slave, did what I was told. I met his dark brown eyes and saw my worst nightmares within them.

‘This is a test,’ he said, gripping my chin. ‘You think I would let you out of my sight without some kind of insurance policy? I know you will stay with me,
cholita
, when you’ve a belly full of drugs and a United States Air Marshal by your side. Do not forget the deal you struck with me last night. Do you want your family to die?’

He released my chin, pushing me roughly as he stepped back. I looked at the pellets and gagged again, not as loudly this time but enough that I thought I might throw up.

Emilio returned to his seat across from me, breathing heavily, and I could tell he was trying his hardest not to fly off the handle and beat me to a bloody pulp. Not because it would make him feel bad, but because he wanted me to look pretty.

I took a deep breath in turn, let my shoulders drop, and tried to calm myself. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, recalling his threat about my parents. ‘I’ll try again.’

His lip curled up into a sneer and he simply gestured to the plate.

I bobbed my head, tentatively picking up one of the pellets in one hand and the olive oil in the other. Taking a deep breath, I repeated what I had watched Emilio do with the olive oil in his palm.

Without giving myself time to think, I slid the pellet as far as I could to the back of my throat and swallowed forcefully.

Shit!

The pellet lodged painfully in my throat for an agonising moment, and for a brief second I thought it would remain there. Thankfully, it eventually went down, and I swear I could feel it travel all the way to the depths of my stomach and settle on the bottom like a brick dropped in a fish tank.

I smiled, hitting myself lightly on the chest. ‘I did it!’ I was pleased, until I remembered where I was, who I was with, and how many pellets were left on the plate in front of me.

Oh, Christ.

Emilio looked amused as I stared in horror at the rest of the plate.

‘I don’t think they’re all going to fit inside me,’ I told him.

He chuckled. ‘Of course they will. I’ve fit twice that amount inside girls half your age.’
Half my age?
Visions of nine-year-old girls swallowing these pellets made my heart contract painfully.

‘You’re trying too hard,’ he said. ‘It’s just like taking a tablet. Or sucking a cock. I’m sure you’ve had a cock in your mouth before.’

I almost fired a retort at him until I remembered I actually had had one of those in my mouth the night before, in the alleyway, before Este and I had moved onto other things.

‘Speaking from your own cock sucking experience?’ I finally managed.

Without pause, Emilio stood and reached across the table, backhanding me across the face with a ferocity that had seemingly come out of nowhere.

I cringed, holding a palm up to my stinging cheek. When I pulled it away, a small amount of my blood marked my palm. I glanced at his hand, seeing a large gold ring adorning his ring finger.
Great.

I was too shocked to say anything. I just pressed my palm back to my cheek and watched Emilio, my mouth slightly open.

‘I wasn’t always this rich,’ he said, twisting his ring back to the correct position on his finger. ‘I was a smuggler before I was a kingpin, tough girl. I built this business up from the ground level.’

‘Your parents must be so proud,’ I muttered, one hand on my stomach as it growled in hunger.
Don’t eat through the pellet, stomach acid, please don’t eat through the pellet.

‘My parents are dead,’ he replied without a trace of sadness. I cowered, expecting another slap for speaking out of turn. I had to stop mouthing off or it would be the end for me. ‘They were slaughtered by a rival mafia family in Italy when I was just a boy. My father was not as smart as me. Kind of like you and your father. We’re more alike than you realise,
cholita
.’

‘How lovely,’ I replied.

‘Quit stalling and get the rest into you,’ he said, pushing the plate closer to me. ‘We leave for the airport in one hour.’

My heart sank as I faced the impossible task in front of me.

He’s not lying. He’ll kill your entire family if you don’t do what he says.

I pulled the plate closer and continued.

Nineteen pellets. One for every year of my life. That’s how many I’d been able to swallow over the course of an hour, before my stomach refused to take any more. I still wasn’t entirely sure if the nineteenth had made it all the way down, or if it was still lodged in the bottom of my throat. I felt fuller than I’d ever felt before, fuller than I felt after the biggest
El Día de las Velitas
dinner of
buñuelos
and rum.