Glass Cage

by Francesca Baez

  Vega pulls me close, and I expect him to whisper a threat in my ear, remind me to look happier and less like a blackmail victim. Instead, he asks “Are you alright?,” his lips brushing slightly against the shell of my ear as he does. A shiver dips down my spine.

  “I need a drink,” I say in response, and again, he surprises me by nodding. Usually he prefers for me not to drink in these environments, always worried I’ll lose control and let something slip. Tonight, he motions at a server, and takes two flutes of Moet Chandon.

  “You’re doing good,” he says, handing me one. I down it in one big gulp, probably proving his point false, but I can’t help it. Why is he being so nice to me? Is this because I’m his so-called partner now, not a hostage to be poked and prodded into submission?

  It’s only a matter of minutes before I realize that that’s not quite true, either. I’m not his hostage, no, but I’m certainly not his equal. I’m as much an object as I’ve ever been, and he’s parading me around like a trophy he’s won. And in most senses, that’s not inaccurate. I’m the keys to the kingdom, and he stole me, bent me into something that could belong to a man like him, and now he’s showing off his new prize. It doesn’t matter that he’s the one who couldn’t be here without me, doesn’t matter that no one here had ever heard his name before tonight. It’s all in the way he carries himself, the way he fills the room, the way he loops his arm around my waist like he fucking owns me. And me, all I can do is go along with it, beaming like there’s nowhere I’d rather be, no one whose possessive hold I’d rather be locked in. Vega’s let me out of the prison he’s made of my own home, but I’d be foolish not to see that this is simply a new form of captivity. Everywhere I turn, all I see are eyes staring at me, cameras gunning me down. The gold and glitz are blinding, a sick veneer over a dark, brutal truth. Has it always been this way? Have there always been death-black undercurrents to the luxury we live in? Is that why we do it, drown ourselves in expensive champagne and blood diamonds, to forget what lies just under the surface? Suddenly, I can’t stand it anymore, my stomach in my throat.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I mutter, pulling away from Vega’s iron grip and walking as fast as I can toward the nearest restroom. I don’t need to be watched, I have no intention of doing anything but spill my guts into a toilet bowl, but I see Vega nod in my direction, and then Miel is by my side.

  She follows me into the ladies’ room, doing a quick check of the other stalls while I run into the first one. I fall to my knees and gag once, but nothing comes out. I feel better already though, I realize, with the coolness of the floor against my skin, and the absence of a surrounding mob leaving me room to breathe.

  “Are you pregnant?” Miel asks quietly from her post by the door.

  “What the hell?” I ask, eyes snapping open. “No. God, no.”

  “Then what’s wrong?” Miel asks, harsher now. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No,” I shake my head, rising to my feet, grimacing as Javier pushes the door open and lets himself into the ladies’ room, gesturing with his head for Miel to leave us. She gives me one last, long look, then obeys, leaving me alone with my husband. Whatever second I felt of peace is gone now. I walk over to the sink and rinse my hands, wishing I could splash some water on my face without worrying about ruining my hair and makeup. “It’s stupid. I’m fine. Just needed a moment.”

  “A moment bent over the toilet?” Javier raises a thick brow.

  “It’s stupid,” I say again, grabbing a paper towel.

  “Tell me,” my captor asks, half demanding, half gentle. My instincts scream at me not to let my guard down around this man, not to admit to any vulnerabilities in front of him. But still, when I turn and face him, there’s something in his eyes that feels genuine, nearly caring. And besides, the longer we’re in here, talking, the longer until I have to go out again and face the throng of naive well-wishers.

  “I feel…” I roll my eyes up to the ceiling so I don’t have to look my husband in the face while I say it. “I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like right now, I’m not even real to any of these people. I’m just this pretty thing that belongs to you now, something to gawk at while gulping down free Moet. And you’re loving it. It’s like it always has been with you, I’m just a toy that you can use to get whatever you want. And it’s stupid, you’ve done far worse things to me, but this makes me feel like shit.”

  Javier studies me for a moment, leaning back against the door to keep it shut as someone jangles the knob.

  “I know this is difficult for you,” he says at last, looking almost like he’s about to walk over to me, take my hand and comfort me. But he doesn’t, and I feel like a fool for even imagining such an action. “But this is the part you have to play now, for the safety of us all.”

  I should end this moment, should go back out into the party, where it’s not safe, but at least the air isn’t too weighted to breathe. I don’t know what to believe, when he says things like that. The way he makes me feel, that makes me hate him, but I’m tired of hating him. I’m tired of fighting. I’m just so fucking tired.

  “I’m sorry,” Vega says, simply and without fanfare, but also without much conviction. He’s never even hinted at an apology to me, and now that he has, I’m not sure I believe it. “But neither of us has a choice.”

  I exhale, crumpling a little at the utter defeat coursing through my veins. For a moment, I’d nearly forgotten that Javier isn’t my ally, let alone my confidant. He’s my enemy, and he always will be. I never should have even tried to let him in. I was a fool to trust him with even a glimpse at my heart.

  “Come on, it’s time to get back to the party.”

  * * *

  After the party, we both tumble into bed, exhausted. The more events I go to with Selina, the more in awe I am at her stamina. I’ve fought for my life more times than I can count, as a child brawling for control over a good street corner, as a young man in prison facing down an enemy gang member with a shiv, and just a few weeks ago, in that Buckhead café, against men who used to be my compatriots. How is it that pasting on a fake smile and forcing small talk for a couple hours is so much more exhausting, and feels twice as dangerous? Every conversation with the blue bloods is a minefield. One wrong step, one wrong comment or even turn of phrase, and I reveal myself to be the outsider I am. Things were easier before, when I could work from the shadows while Selina alone served as our public marionette. But now I need the world to know my name, know my face. I need my former employer to know that I’m coming for him, and that I’m doing so from a position of great power. And when I come for the elite I brushed elbows with tonight, one by one, I need them to know who I am, too. I am no longer a nocturnal creature. I am a wolf in the henhouse. I just wish the farce wasn’t so exhausting. I turn to look at Selina, sprawled across the other side of the bed, one hand thrown over her eyes to shield the light. How does she do it? I know that even before I filled her life with lies and secrets, she was never the girl she pretends to be to these people. Maybe she doesn’t see it yet, but her life has always been an act, on one stage or another. When does she get to be herself?

  “Let’s get your dress off,” I tell her, pushing myself up off the bed and reaching a hand out to help her do the same.

  “What?” she asks, voice breathy and a little scared. Her pupils widen, though. How much longer do we have to dance around this, around the fact that she wants me just as badly as I want her? Even if the thought frightens her, even if her desire might seem wrong or forbidden.

  “Not like that,” I tell her, thrusting my hand out further. “You’re exhausted. Let’s get you out of that dress so you can go to sleep.”

  She hesitates a moment longer, then takes my hand and lets me pull her to her feet. She doesn’t need my help to take the dress off, she got it on just fine by herself, but she turns her back to me anyway, slipping her long hair over one shoulder to give me access to the zipper. It’s my turn to hesitate now. If I wasn’t
so damn tired, maybe I’d press my lips against the back of her neck, and draw a trail down to those sweet little dimples at the small of her back. She’s gone enough, she might let me. But I simply tug the zipper down, like a gentleman, and turn away as she shrugs out of the dress and lets the golden fabric fall to the floor. I pretend not to watch as she steps out, in a matching set of lacy black lingerie, and walks barefoot to her dresser. With her back still to me, she pretends not to notice me watching as she undoes the clasp of her bra, and lets the straps slide down her arms. I pretend not to drink in the sight of her naked, golden skin, pretend not to fantasize about running my hands over every square inch of it until I’ve memorized every hill and valley of her body, a map forever burned into my mind.

  And she, she doesn’t turn to make sure I’m not looking, doesn’t slip into the bathroom to change, doesn’t ask me to step into the hall until she’s done.

  It’s a compromise between what we both actually want and what she thinks she should want. We can’t go on much longer like this, neither of us. She can feel the growing tension as much as I can. Something has to give, before this explodes out of our control.

  When we’re back in bed, under the covers, I stay as far on my side as I can without falling right off. If I catch even a whiff of her rich perfume, of the honey-lavender scent of her shampoo, I might snap. I wish all her flaws didn’t align so closely with what excites me about my captive wife. Her stubborn streak, her refusal to back down from a losing fight, the bravado that blurs so closely into foolishness. The darkness deep within her that every day is closer to the surface, singing, screaming to me. Why couldn’t she have a giant mole, or a love of belching, or maybe toss around the word “irregardless” every once in a while?

  “Do you think… Do you think there could ever be more between us? Like… love, maybe?”

  Then, there is that. The way she pushes for information about every single thing I don’t want to talk about, like she knows. The way she dances around some topics until I almost feel safe, then jumps for the jugular. Why would she ask me that? Why would she do that to herself? Or, is she doing it on purpose? Is she trying to strengthen the crumbling walls between us by reaffirming what she must already know? I’m a man capable of many things, but love is no longer one of them.

  “What do you think?” I ask her in return, instead of answering the question myself. “Do you think you could ever love me?”

  “I can’t love a man I don’t even know,” she says, surprising me. Not because I expected her to answer in the affirmative, but because there are so many other reasons she shouldn’t love me. Some reasons she doesn’t even know yet.

  “Is that why you’re trying so hard to get to know me?” I ask after a beat. I should have just let it go, but once the thought occurs to me, I have to speak it. Maybe I’m the one who is throwing up questions to antagonize her now.

  “That’s enough questions for now,” she says, using my own line against me, making me smile. It’s not a no. I never set out to make my princesa love me, I knew that would be a near impossibility after the things I’ve had to do to her to protect her, the things she can never know about. So why does the thought that maybe, just maybe, I could someday hold her devotion excite me so?

  Fuck you, Vega, I tell myself, using the words she should have. I have taken and will continue to take a lot from my sweet captive, but love won’t be part of it. It will only hurt us both more that way, when inevitably, she sees who I really am. I’m a man as incapable of receiving love as I am of giving it. Not even Selina with her relentless nature can fix that, even if she wanted to.

  She’ll never want to.

  In my exhaustion, I’ve misread and now overthought her passing comment. Of course she doesn’t care about me. Why the fuck would she?

  Her breathing has evened out beside me, but not all the way. She’s pretending to be asleep. Trying to get out of this conversation, I’m sure. I press my eyes shut and try to do the same, but I feel the bed shift, and then her warm body against me. She’s still pretending to be asleep, pretending it’s not intentional, even as she presses closer, fitting her head into my shoulder. This close, I can feel her heartbeat skyrocket, and it’s a struggle to keep mine in check.

  This woman is going to be the fucking death of me.

  * * *

  This was always the worst part.

  The waiting.

  Usually, though, I was the one waiting to strike. This time, I’m waiting to be struck.

  It’s been twenty-four hours.

  Twenty-four hours since I cut off Atlanta’s biggest drug lord’s primary supply. Twenty-four hours since I announced my alliance with Selina Palacios to the world, including said extremely dangerous drug lord, who must now be furious at us both.

  So why hasn’t he done anything yet?

  I’m ready for it, whatever “it” may be.

  I’ve got a handful of APD patrol cars at the estate, along with our hired private security, and Miel and my men. At my second hand’s insistence, I also have a couple officers here at the Café Palacios headquarters. I’m most comforted by the three guns in my desk and the knife up my suit jacket’s sleeve, though. The APD is as eager as I am to get El Sombrerón off the streets, and our hired security is costing us an arm and a leg, but when it comes down to it, I’m not trusting anyone but myself with my life.

  Annie comes in for the third time in an hour, asking if I need anything. I think she can tell I’m on edge, which is a bad sign in and of itself. I’ve gotten pretty good at swallowing fear over the years, and masking whatever does manage to bleed to the surface. I spent a lifetime running with wolves, and everyone knows wolves smell fear. If my nerves are so visible that even my innocent assistant can identify them, I must be pretty fucking stressed out.

  I deny her offer of coffee—the last thing I need right now is caffeine jitters—and force my fingers to stop drumming on the desk. Just because I’m facing down nearly certain death doesn’t mean I get to act like it.

  I thought I was beyond this kind of fear, but then again, I’ve never taken on an enemy this great. And it’s not just any enemy, and maybe that’s the problem. This, I am willing to admit, is personal. This is the man who took me under his evil wing when I was too young to know better, too young to say no. He forced me into a life of drugs and violence and death, and when he took the last of my freedom, I rewarded him with loyalty, and that’s when he took my soul.

  The worst part, the part that we don’t voice because it would destroy us completely, is that I didn’t just give him myself. I gave him Miel. I didn’t know what would happen to her in his clutches, but I should have known nothing good would come of it. She was my only family, someone I should have protected, and instead I brought her into a world of pain. That’s why, when it came time to run, I wouldn’t do it without her. And no matter how much she pokes at me, aggravates me with her endless questions and accusations, I can never leave her behind. I owe her too much.

  And Selina… I’m the one who pulled the trigger that night, but I did it at his command. He’s the one who killed the last of her innocence, and caused all the shit she’s been blaming on me since I took her. He set me on her trail, and though I didn’t kill her when I was supposed to, I’ve been on a path to destroy her ever since.

  There’s too much at stake here, and that’s why I can’t keep my legs from fidgeting against the leather chair. There are too many lost lives to avenge, too many lives left to save.

  But I’m ready. I’m ready, and that’s also his fault. He turned me into a monster, plucked at the last pieces of my humanity until he created the weapon of destruction he needed, and now that weapon is pointed directly at him.

  He should have known. He witnessed my first kill, and thought that would make me his. That was his first mistake. He thought that all he’d seen was potential, that he could tame the devil he’d one day create. But I was born already a devil, from my father’s fists and my mother’s tears, and I’ll never be
tamed.

  I realized that the night I first saw Selina, and disobeyed my master for the first time.

  I decided that night that I’d rather die free than in his clutches. I’d still rather not die at all, but I’m not one for blind optimism.

  Fuck, if my leg keeps jiggling like this I’ll wear straight through these Italian leather shoes before the end of the day. Next time Annie comes in here, I’m asking her for some scotch.

  How is everything at home? I text Miel, deciding once and for all that I’m simply not getting any work done today. Maybe I should head back to the estate now. At least there I can ensure Selina’s safety fully. I trust Miel and the team to do their best, but again, I trust no one but myself when it comes to my princesa. At the thought of having my captive wife safely in my arms, I feel my anxiety quell by at least half.

  “Sir?” Annie asks with a light tap at the door, using the title that still sounds like a joke to my ears.

  “What is it?” I ask, looking up from my phone. I can see the three dots of Miel texting back, so I assume they’re not in immediate danger, at least.

  “Um, someone just dropped off a package at the front desk for you,” the curvy blonde worries her bottom lip as she speaks, not quite meeting my eye.

  “So bring it to me,” I say, with forced patience.

  “I’m afraid it might be something bad,” she says, shrinking away from me, although I’m still across the room at my desk. “I don’t think you’re supposed to touch suspicious packages.”

  “Why do you think it’s suspicious?” I ask, no longer masking my impatience, ignoring the new speed my heartbeat has picked up.

  “A kind of sketchy looking guy dropped it off,” Annie says. “He wasn’t one of the usual delivery people, and he wasn’t wearing a uniform.”