Arturo is enjoying this. I don’t believe he gave a shit about his dead uncle. He enjoys my suffering because he enjoys making women suffer. In particular, he wants me to suffer. The one woman he couldn’t touch, not while Manuel was alive, the one who taunted him by my mere presence.
I tense as Arturo positions himself behind me, reaching for his zipper. I want to fight, know I can do some serious damage, even in this degrading position. But if I do, if I manage to hurt him, then they'll hurt me worse. Maybe break some bones, make sure I can’t fight back when I really need to. I'm going to have to take it, let him fuck me. I harden my heart, preparing for the vicious assault.
But it doesn’t come.
“Arturo,” Luis snaps, his voice sharp. I feel Arturo shift behind me, stop what he's doing as he looks questioningly at his cousin, now his boss. “Leave.”
“But…” Arturo complains, his grip on my hip tightening. He clearly doesn’t want to let go of his prize.
“Out, now.”
Arturo grumbles something inaudible but likely insulting and stands, zipping his pants as he walks to the door and slams out.
I try to feel relief. But somehow being left alone with Luis, a man who has hated and resented me from the beginning feels worse. I try to calm my breathing, pace myself. Luis is going to hurt me, probably do some damage. I need to get through it and then find a way out.
“Look at me,” Luis demands, coming to stand in front of me.
My gaze falls on his shoes. They are nice shoes but scuffed from use. I look up, past his long legs, his trim waist. He wears a suit, fitted perfectly to his powerful frame. He's wearing his father’s mantle as though born to it. Which, of course, he has been. When my eyes finally land on his face, terror shoots through me. Despite his comfort in taking over for his father, grief still grips him, etching its mark into his handsome, rugged face. That grief makes him dangerous. Because he blames me.
He crouches down in front of me, so close that his knee brushes my chin as he comes down to my level. I manage to suppress a flinch, but just barely. He takes hold of my throat, his strong fingers clenching into the flesh, squeezing painfully until he cuts off most of my breath. I can feel his father’s cartel ring dig into my skin, cutting the flesh. He puts his face near mine, a few inches above. I see the golden flecks in his dark brown eyes, the smoothness of his long black hair. I also see the intense hatred burning in his gaze, followed closely by utter satisfaction as he takes in my position, naked and chained to the floor and completely at his mercy.
“You belong to me,” he says, so softly that if our faces weren’t so close, I wouldn’t have heard him. “I’m going to fuck you, hurt you, break you. And then I’m going to kill you.”
7
Luis
My desire to break Lena overwhelms every other thought I have. I want to beat her into submission, fuck her until she’s begging me. The look in her eyes drives my fury. She’s afraid, but not. She knows what I’m capable of, thinks she can withstand it until she has an opening to fight back, to kill me, to flee.
She underestimates me because she thinks of me as my father’s son. It’s unfortunate for her. She thinks I hate her but she’s wrong. She was seconds late from saving my father. She saved my life. It’s admirable, but it eats at me. That she bested five men with weapons. That she did what I could not.
After I kick Arturo out, I have a moment to think without his constant stream of vitriol. Just me and Lena. She’s chained and cuffed to the floor. Naked and dirty. The way I want her and it’s making me hard. I wonder how to break her. Through force, through seduction? Through humiliation? I know who she is and what she’s been through, but it doesn’t evoke sympathy. I don’t have those kinds of feelings. My father traded in whores and I'm expected to follow in his footsteps.
Though quiet, Lena is stubborn, she doesn’t like to lose. It’s why my father used her, kept her. Because she would die before she lost. Will die before she admits defeat.
I crouch in front of her. Long dark brown hair streams over her shoulders and down to the floor, the tips brushing the chains at her wrists where they're bound to the floor in front of her. She’s staring back at me, waiting for me to make a move. She’s tense and I can tell she’ll fight me however she can; no matter how helpless, she’ll resist. I hated that my father used a woman as a bodyguard, but as I contemplate her, I have a small understanding of why. Because of her delicate beauty men underestimate her. She glides in on my father’s arm and men think she’s a pampered princess.
And I did too. Until I saw her take out five men. Until she saved my life. “Are you good for anything but fighting, Lena?” I say softly.
She doesn’t answer and I give her another hard slap. “You’ll answer when I talk to you.”
She takes the slap. Blood trickles from the corner of her lip where I’ve split it. “Yes,” she says. Her voice is cool, low, contained.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes. I’m good for other things than fighting.”
“Like fucking?”
She draws a sharp breath, but remains silent, her dark eyes continuing to meet mine. I think she doesn’t care if I rape her. She’s not like other women. To her, rape is just another weapon in one’s repertoire. She would take it, like she would take a beating. Another day in her life. Something to recover from. It was apparent when Arturo and I walked into the cell. She was naked but didn’t quail. Wasn’t embarrassed by her nudity, didn’t try to cover herself. Vulnerable but brave. Arturo would fuck anything so he didn’t notice her lack of inhibitions. No shame, but no seduction either.
She fascinates me.
Then she says, “Who killed your father, Luis?”
Her unexpected question enrages me. I whip off my belt, wrap it around my hand and grip her by the neck, forcing her face up to mine. “You fucking dare mention him to me, you useless little bitch!”
I straighten and stand over her, slamming the belt down across her back. Again, and again, I lift the belt, marking her back, her ass, the back of her thighs. My temper, my grief wins over my good sense and I can’t stop hitting her. Stroke after stroke, welts across her bare flesh. A few deep enough to draw blood. She refuses to cry out even though she can’t contain her tears, which are dripping down her face and onto the concrete floor. Her body flinches with each blow, further inflaming me.
I drop to my knees next to her, grab her hair and yank her head back. I could snap her neck with a hard jerk. “Beg, you bitch. Beg me to stop.”
“Please stop.” Her words slip out softly, genuinely, her tears continue to fall, but still no fear, no sobs.
I drop her head and rock back on my heels. She hangs her head down, I see the trembling in her body. She may be able to mentally fight me, but her body is reeling from my blows. “Fuck.” I’m disgusted with her, with myself. This is not going how I imagined.
Then she says again, not looking at me, her eyes on the floor, her long dirty hair obscuring her face. “Who killed your father, Luis?”
I stand up and walk away from her, to the wall next to the cell door. I need to put distance between us so I don’t beat her to death. “Do you have a death wish, slut?”
She coughs, spits some blood onto the floor. “You’re not stupid, Luis. Are all your thoughts of revenge directed at me? I didn’t kill him. But someone did. Who killed him, Luis?”
I leave. I have to leave or I’ll end her and I’m not ready to do that. I slam the cell door shut and turn the key, leaving her chained up, unable to move. No one can get in and she can’t get out. As I move away from her, I know I have to return. I have to unchain her, give her some water and food. But I need some distance right now.
I have to think and I can’t get past my sorrow to think clearly.
As I ascend the stairs, Arturo is hovering at the top. He’s tall, my cousin is. Lanky, but strong. A predator of the worst kind. A good man to have on your side. A dangerous man for an enemy. He pretends to mourn the loss of my father, his unc
le, but that’s bullshit. There was no love between the two. Manuel saw Arturo as a violent bumbling idiot and my cousin thought my father an old-fashioned autocrat. But Arturo and me, we’ve been tight since birth. He’s a handful, hard to contain. Someone I have to watch constantly. But he’s the brother I never had.
Still, the bitch in the basement is right. Who killed my father? It was too easy to grab the two of us. Too convenient. Someone who knew where we’d be but didn’t know about my father’s secret weapon. Didn’t know about Lena. But then no one knew about Lena. Except me and my father. Not even Arturo. At least not until my father was killed. Now everyone knows what she’s capable of. Which makes her useless to me.
“Did you leave anything for me?” Arturo asks as I pass him and head for the bar.
“Nothing, Arturo.” I’m conflicted. I shouldn't care if Arturo wants a piece of her, but for some reason I do. I don’t want him to fucking touch her so I say, “Go find another girl to fuck. This one’s off-limits.”
I don’t want any other hands on her but mine. I pour myself a double shot of tequila, a liquor I despise, but one that’ll get me drunk fast. I contemplate the sudden possessiveness I feel for Lena for a few seconds. I’m indifferent to women. I like them for a fuck, then I want them gone quickly. I know that I need to marry someday, have a few kids to carry on the business, but my wife will never be one of the women I fuck.
But Lena... chained up naked in the basement like a wild animal. I do want to fuck her. I want to keep her. I think I've always wanted to keep her, despite that she belonged to my father first. She’s a pit bull, so first, I have to break her. I have to tame her. I knock back the tequila and pour another. And another. And another until I’m reeling. I’m vaguely aware that Arturo is hovering, and I tell him to get the hell out. “Fuck you too, you prick,” he says. But he leaves.
I collapse on the sofa, my head on the back, leaning up and staring at the ceiling. I feel like killing someone. I want to find the fuck who shot my father in the head, who planned to do the same to me. Two Ramirez’s dead. Father and son. Who would benefit? That’s my last thought before I drift off. An hour, maybe two and I’m jarred awake by something. It’s fully dark now, the room is cast in shadows. And the remnants of a dream, just smoky tendrils. Her voice, mocking me through the fuzziness. Who killed your father?
She’s still down there chained up. Mine to do with what I want. I stand, stagger a little, but the worst of the drunk is slept off. I make my way down to the basement, fumble the key into the lock, then enter the cell. She’s as still as death, still on her knees, but her elbows are bent so she can rest her head on her hands. I think for a moment that she’s died and my heart wrenches for some reason. The thought of her dead… but then as I slam the door, she jerks and lets out a small moan.
“Please,” she whispers. “Please unchain me.”
“What will you give me if I do, Lena?” I kneel by her head. I’m not afraid of her, even though I’m drunk and she’s lethal. On a good day, if we were both sober and in a fair fight, she would be a challenge. But she's been bent over for hours, dehydrated and starving.
“Anything,” she whispers without contemplation. “Just please let me up.” Her voice cracks on the last please. I remember the warehouse, her hysterics to draw our captors’ attention to her. It was well done. A good act that even I believed with disgust in that moment. I know better now.
“I want to fuck you.”
She shudders and I hear a single sob. I reach down and unchain her. Neck first, then as she rolls to her back, I let her hands go. She lays on the concrete floor, staring up at the ceiling, her arms and legs splayed, except one knee, which is bent and dropped across her thigh. Her hair is fanned out. I wonder if she has any strength to resist me.
Who killed your father Luis? Fury mixes with confusion.
“I own you, Lena.”
She nods.
“If my father wanted to fuck you, what would you do?”
“As I was told.”
I nod. That’s good enough for me right now.
She needs a shower, she needs food and she needs water. And none of that seems to matter to the horny fuck inside me.
"Can you stand?” I ask.
She rolls to her belly again and gingerly pulls herself upright, to her knees, but she can’t quite get to her feet. She almost makes it once, but then she falters. Dizzy. Falls again, scrapes her skin on the concrete floor.
I want to take her in my arms, carry her upstairs and put her in my bed. It's a strange yearning. Caring for a pathetic whore. I resist the thought. Instead, I take out my phone and dial Theresa, the housekeeper. She sounds like I’ve woken her from a dead sleep. “I’m downstairs with Lena. Brings towels, a jug of water and some toast. Ten minutes, Theresa. Don’t be late.”
Lena stays in front of me, on her knees, while I tower over her. And we wait.
Who killed your father, Luis?
8
Lena
Who killed your father?
It had been stupid of me to push Luis like that. But there was something about his grief, his deeply entrenched rage over Manuel's death that called to me, forced the words past my lips. I think I know who killed his father, was trying to kill Luis, had worked it out almost immediately after we'd been taken. And if I'm right, then Luis is still in grave danger.
I don't know why I care. He and I have been at odds since my arrival in the organization. At worst, I knew he wanted to get his hands on me, wanted to get me alone to pit his strength against mine, prove to his father that I am an unnecessary inconvenience for a man of his stature. At best, Luis was coolly indifferent to me. His chilling gaze following my movements whenever we were in the same room together.
Now, I'm in the exact position he’s always wanted me in. Tied up, ready to be used, at his mercy. If I'm going to have any chance at survival, I need him to see the truth of the kidnapping, the execution, but it was stupid of me to challenge him the way I did knowing he's on a hair trigger.
And I paid for it. Now I'm even weaker than before. Not as weak as I'm pretending though. Luis doesn't know that I'm more in control of myself than I'm making out. That I can stand if I want to. But I needed him to think I'm worse off. Then I might've been in a position to attack when he finally unchained me and tried to fuck me. Only he didn't do what I expected. Instead, he called the maid and asked for supplies.
I lay on the floor, unmoving, both relieved and anxious about this reprieve. I know he still wants to fuck me, and from the look in his eyes, the rigidity of his body, he wants me bad. The thought makes my heart thump in trepidation. I was prepared to take Arturo's vicious brand of fucking. Was prepared to be raped by both men, by more than them even. But the way Luis told his cousin to go, the way he looks at me now, lustful but something else I can't pin down. I can take an assault if I need to, but this…
He must be using psychological warfare, lulling me into a sense of security by providing food and water. By unchaining me. So I'll feel grateful, so I might give him something I wouldn't otherwise give. Luis is a master at war. He has a sixth sense for understanding the way people think and then using it against them. It's why he makes me so uncomfortable whenever we're in a room together. He looks at me as though he can see every thought in my head, as though he knows my secrets. My secret desire.
If that's his plan, it's not going to work. I'm not grateful that he unchained me. I'm not anything, not even angry. I understand why he wants me broken and dead. And I understand that I will need to fight him eventually. Take him down if I want to live. Maybe try to find my own brand of psychological warfare.
When the food and water arrive, I roll onto my side and reach a hand pathetically toward the jug Theresa is holding. I allow myself to feel the wounds on my back, the beaten and stripped flesh where he'd taken his belt to me. I moan in pain and drop my arm as though I can't hold it up anymore. Squeezing my eyes shut I wait, two seconds, five seconds, then I feel it. The tiny stirring o
f air as Luis crouches by my side.
He's coming to take a better look, to assess the damage. I summon the pain, feeling every injury in my body. Feeling the indignity. I open my eyes and look up at him, showing him the broken woman he wants to see. I must look bad, my hair a tangled mess spread on the floor around me. Every inch of my body is either dirty or bruised. And I smell even worse. My bladder released when he was beating me. I hadn't had enough to drink for a large amount of urine to escape, but it still coats my thighs. I hold his assessing gaze and think perhaps I see a flicker of something, not compassion, not concern, but something.
Then he takes my hair in a hard grip and yanks my head back. "I'm not buying it, Lena."
Fuck. A small sigh escapes and I shrug my shoulder. I had to try.
"You're good." A hint of admiration leaks into his voice.
"You're better," I admit, and push myself up into a sitting position, reaching for the jug of water. Theresa hands it over.
Luis dismisses her, nodding his head toward the door. She scurries off, clearly relieved. I can't blame her. It would be jarring to see someone like me, the woman who graced Manuel's arm for over two years, fall this low.
Luis continues to watch me from his crouched position, his eyes following my movements as I gulp the water and then reach eagerly for the toast. It's dry but I don't care. I haven’t eaten since the day of Manuel’s death. Days ago, I think.
"I had no idea you could act on top of your other qualities. You almost had me fooled." A new tactic. Show admiration for the victim, become her friend.
Kiss of the Cartel Page 3