Cartel Wives

by Mia Flores

  I kept seeing Peter and Junior out more and more, and every time I’d see Junior, my face would light up. He made me feel alive. It just felt good to talk to somebody who was always so positive. He was like a breath of fresh air, always laughing and joking, and I loved the person he was. I wanted K to hang out more with him, to be more like him. Even though we had chemistry, it was just an innocent friendship, but K would sometimes notice us together, and he’d watch us out of the corner of his eye. He genuinely loved Junior, but seeing me happy with someone else caused his insecurities to get the best of him.

  Still, I was all K’s at this point because my divorce from Leo had gone through easily. He treated me like gold, even helping me start up the salon I’d always dreamed of. I hired over ten stylists, and the place was booked out for months. I was working from the time I opened to midnight every day. Because business was booming, K and I opened up a massive car wash. It was the coolest spot ever, with neon lights shaped like flames surrounding the outside, which lit up the whole street. Finally, at only twenty-three, I had my own thing, my own two things: real, legitimate jobs. For the first time ever, I loved what I was doing.

  On top of being super busy, making sure both businesses were running smoothly, I purchased my first house and completely gutted it. Interior design was my thing, so I went all-out decorating it and put in an awesome gaming room for Xavier. My house was modern, warm, and well put together. Just like me.

  Unfortunately, things with K had become up and down. We’d started breaking up all the time, usually because he’d cheated on me. I kicked him out because he got an ex-girlfriend pregnant, and I swore there was no coming back from this one. It was over for good, and I decided to go to a club to hang out with my girlfriends. We were sitting in the VIP section, talking and laughing, and as I raised my champagne glass to toast being single, I glanced out into the crowd. There was Junior. We made eye contact, and he walked through his entourage to greet me.

  “Liv, what are you doing here? You’re the last person I thought I’d see. Do you want to join me for a drink?”

  “Can we go outside instead?” I asked. There was no harm in getting one little drink, but I was worried word would get back to K, and he’d come and find me and drag me out of the club. Even though it was over, just saying hello to Junior felt like a betrayal.

  “Of course,” he said. “Let’s go to my car.”

  We sat in his car and talked for three or four hours, until the sun came up. Few things had ever seemed so natural, so right, but on the drive home I started thinking, What am I doing? I’d felt an attraction to Junior, and it was something deeper than I had with K. I hadn’t done anything, and besides, K and I weren’t even together, but my stomach was in knots, like I’d just cheated.

  Every time I tried to make positive steps in my life, I faced heartache. So even though I’d broken it off with K, made a great home, and loved my work, life was about to get really bad.

  When my ex-husband, Leo, went in front of the grand jury in 2000, he didn’t just snitch on his drug dealer buddies; he also told on me. We weren’t married anymore, so I wasn’t protected by the law. Junior heard from his brother Adrian that Leo was planning to snitch on me as soon as our divorce went through, and he tried warning me.

  Leo’s just threatening me and trying to control me, I thought. He won’t actually go through with it.

  Unfortunately, I was wrong. The feds raided my salon in front of all my workers, then hauled my ass down to the federal building for questioning. Leo accused me of laundering the money he’d made from his drug deals. The feds’ proof was a $76,000 deposit I’d put in the bank, but that was money I’d made playing blackjack in Vegas. It was clean—I was clean—and I was going to prove it.

  “We won’t charge you if you wear a wire on K,” the investigator said as he questioned me. “We’ve wanted him for a very long time, and you’re going to help us get him.”

  “You’re saying you want me to tell on K because my ex-husband is telling on me?” I was not a snitch bitch. Snitching was something Leo did, not me.

  “Yes. And if you don’t, we’ll indict you. You’re facing seven years in federal prison.”

  Fuck that. I wasn’t a rat, and I was never going to be one. I decided that I was going to stay loyal to K, so I told the feds to go to hell. Because I wouldn’t cooperate, they indicted me. I hired a defense attorney to represent me because there was no way I was pleading guilty to seven fucking years. I was determined to take it to trial. The feds knew I wasn’t backing down, so they offered me a plea agreement for what they call a split sentence, which is five months in prison and five months of house arrest. My mom is my number one supporter, and she begged me to keep fighting.

  But seven years in prison wasn’t a chance I was willing to take. I took the plea agreement and signed on the dotted line.

  K stood by me the whole time, and he promised to do the same forever. So in November, 2001, we flew to Vegas, and me and the ghetto superstar got married in this little chapel with no one else around. I told myself that would be my second, best, and last marriage.

  When I said my vows, I knew I was making a mistake. I didn’t even call my mother to tell her the good news. I loved K desperately, but it was a toxic relationship. Up and down and back up again; a cycle of fights and passionate make-up sex. K was more controlling than my first husband and my son’s father put together. He beat me—hard and often. One time I was driving in my car with my girlfriend, after I’d fled the house, deciding once and for all that I didn’t want to be with him. As I was driving as fast as I could, I felt something ram into the back of the car, like a train had crashed into me. It was K. He did it again and again, trying to throw me into oncoming traffic, till the trunk of my car was in my backseat.

  The police came, but I refused to press charges. They were furious, but I was not a snitch.

  I always believed K would change, even when he shot five bullets through my front windshield. I always loved him, even when he put a gun to my head, then turned it on himself and threatened to pull the trigger if I walked out.

  Junior came by our house after I got back from Vegas. I was in the kitchen, washing dishes, and K called him inside.

  “Hey, little brother!” he said. “Olivia, show Junior your ring.”

  I picked up my finger, but not my head. I just couldn’t look at Junior.

  “Oh, you got married?” he asked. He didn’t sound upset, just shocked.

  I was so embarrassed. It wasn’t that I wanted to be with Junior; I was faithful to K, and Junior was a gentleman. I just knew that he suspected what I felt deep down: I’d gotten married because I didn’t want to be alone when I went to prison. K was a convicted felon, so he couldn’t have visited me if we weren’t legally married.

  I tried to love K the five months I was behind bars. In prison, you have all the time in the world to think about nothing or everything, and I chose to think about myself mostly.

  Mom and Dad visited me with Xavier, who’d been asking for months to see me. While it was painful to see his little face as he walked into the visiting room, it was almost worse to see my dad. Dressed in my prison garb, I could hardly look him in the eyes. Then, there was my mom, who’d lost her mom the day before—my sweet, pretty grandma—and I hadn’t even had a chance to kiss her goodbye. My mom was broken, yet, there she was, trying to make sure I was okay. I thought, My whole life, all she did was put me first, and in return all I did was push her away.

  I really believe in karma, and I decided bad things would keep happening to me if I didn’t do better. I didn’t come from a broken home. I’d had a great childhood; I’d just chosen to run wild. I needed to make better decisions, and that meant surrounding myself with better people.

  I realized K wasn’t among them.

  I started calling him less and less, and I asked him to visit me once a week rather than twice. For the first time in my life, I began loving myself and feeling like I didn’t need a man to make me
happy. I could take care of myself.

  When K picked me up in June 2002, at the end of my time, he was a different person. He’d always hung out with rappers and music producers, but he’d founded his own record label called Connect Records and had started working with DMX, Fat Joe, Busta Rhymes, and this up-and-coming artist from Chicago named Kanye West. He went from flashy dude on the street to some kind of rap mogul in a matter of months. His ego had grown right along with his business. I’d changed, too; I’d grown away from him.

  I knew I was never going to leave K, though. I loved him too much, so I tried to adapt. I’d go to his studio every evening wearing my court-ordered ankle monitor, and we’d record till dawn. I figured, If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, so I worked my butt off, and sure enough, I discovered I was great at running the record label. I set up an office, hired a publicist, met amazing people, networked, and built up strong business relationships. I was constantly on the phone with record labels, entertainment attorneys, and even famous artists, getting clearance for the records we were recording. We even stayed on the Hollywood set of the movie Never Die Alone, starring DMX, for a few months. It was a whole new world for me, and I really, truly loved it.

  K threw a big party at Chocolate Factory, R. Kelly’s recording studio, on the Fourth of July, just a little bit after I got out of jail. Junior was there along with hundreds of people, and when I saw him, I can’t explain it; I just got so overwhelmingly happy. I thought, Oh my God, a familiar face! We caught up, and it felt organic, not awkward like the last time. I missed his friendship and the connection we’d always had.

  I’d lost that connection with K, though. During my five months of house arrest, even though I was so happy running three companies, nothing got better between us. I knew he was still up to no good. Every morning I’d wake up and cook him breakfast, trying to get him up and moving, just so I could get him out the door. “I don’t think I’m going to the studio tonight,” I’d say. All I wanted to do was be alone, and I normally never want to be alone.

  Then, in 2003, I found out I was pregnant.

  “K, I don’t want to have this baby,” I told him. He knew we’d become two different people and that things were just bad between us. I didn’t want to bring a child into that kind of situation. I’d done that with Xavier, and while he was my world, I’d been unfair to him. Sure, he went to great schools and had a mom and grandparents who loved him, but he’d had a hard life. I regretted the heartaches I’d put him through, and I didn’t want to bring a baby into another single family home or unstable relationship.

  “If you kill my child, I’ll kill you,” K said.

  I knew he wasn’t kidding.

  Day after day, I accepted my life. I thought, Okay, I’m going to make this work. For my marriage, for my son, for my husband, and most importantly, for my baby. Where was I in all of that? Nowhere. I became passive and distant. I didn’t fight back when he insulted me. I refused to do anything that would make me crazy, like going through his phone. Little by little, the drama went away, and I just disappeared.

  When I was about four months pregnant, standing outside in front of his mom’s house, I saw his closest friend flying down the street toward me. From the look in his eyes, I knew something serious had happened.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “K’s been shot,” he said.

  I don’t think I even had time to process what he said. I just sprang into action and started to walk toward my car. K’s been shot before, I told myself. We’ve been through this. It’s no biggie.

  “Which hospital is he at?” I asked.

  The answer was drowned out by screams.

  “They killed my son! They killed my son!” I looked up and saw K’s mom running out of the house, her arms extended in front of her like she was begging God to give back her boy.

  I fell to the ground and just lay there on the floor wanting to die, my belly in front of me.

  K was in a car wash just north of Little Village, and he’d been shot in the head multiple times. A rival gang controlled that part of town, but K thought he was untouchable, that he ran the city. In reality, he had so many enemies that he couldn’t trust anyone.

  The funeral was a circus, and it was devastating for me. I just wanted to mourn my husband in peace, but there were probably a thousand people there, including DMX, Fat Joe’s wife, and every Latin King in Chicago. The crowd was a sea of black and gold, and even the roses that were draped over his casket were spray-painted the gang’s colors.

  My dad, a dedicated police officer all his life, stood at my side along with my family, almost all of whom were Chicago cops. Their mouths were wide open the entire time; not only did they think K had left the gang life behind for the music business, they couldn’t understand why anyone wanted to be remembered that way. The feds had also come, and they circled the outside, taking pictures, trying to scope out who they might be able to haul in. They knew all the heavy hitters would be there.

  Everybody kept walking up to me and saying, “Oh my God, you’re pregnant,” and all I could say was, “It’s okay. I’m fine.” It sounds strange to say now, but with his baby in my belly, I felt like K was still with me. I didn’t have to process his death if there was a part of him growing inside me, and I wasn’t willing to let him go.

  The twins were there, too. Junior approached me, reaching out to hug me. I fell into his arms like a baby.

  “I’m so sorry, Liv,” he said, “If you need me, please call me. I’m here for you.”

  A few weeks later, he called and said he knew I wasn’t doing well. It was true; I was so sick I couldn’t move, and my strength was gone.

  “You need to get some fresh air,” he said. “You’re going to make yourself sick, and it’s not good for the baby. Can I please take you to lunch?”

  Junior had two little girls named Sasha and Samantha, and being a devoted dad, he understood my pain. He knew it wasn’t just me that was hurting; it was my baby, too.

  I quietly agreed to see him, and Junior picked me up in one of his fancy cars, I think the red Ferrari. But I was so out of it, it could have been a beater for all I cared. I must have seemed so out of place getting into it because I’d stopped putting on makeup and would only wear jogging suits. I looked exactly how I felt—like shit—but the sight of Junior sparked something inside me.

  “Hey, where are we going?” I asked.

  “Just up the street. It’s nothing fancy.”

  We went to some totally normal diner that I’d passed by a thousand times; the kind of place where you can sit all afternoon and they’ll refill your cup of coffee a hundred times. We just talked and talked and talked. He told me about everything that Samantha and Sasha were up to. I talked about Xavier, my pregnancy, and the fact that, because K hadn’t had a will, I’d decided to give up my rights to Connect Records in probate court. I wanted to avoid drama with his family. He asked me if I’d miss the music industry, and I said that someday I wanted to start my own label. For the first time in years, I felt happy and hopeful in the most innocent, simple way. All I needed was someone to feed me and make me smile, to treat me like a normal person and not the Million-Dollar Bitch. Inside that diner, that’s exactly what Junior did.

  We started going out to eat every few weeks, first lunch, then dinner. Every time, he reminded me how strong I was, and as my confidence grew, I put away my joggers and started to put on makeup. When I’d see him, my face would light up. I wanted to look pretty again, but not in a sexual way. I was a pregnant widow, and hooking up was the last thing on my mind. With Junior, it was different. It was more like I was falling in love with all of him, the whole person.

  He motivated me to get working again, and within a month or so, I signed an R&B artist and hit the studio again. Staying busy helped clear my mind, and I didn’t have time to feel anything negative. Junior and I went to New York City to record with Swizz Beatz and Kanye West, and we shot a video DMX made in honor of K. Everyone came out, includi
ng Fat Joe and Busta Rhymes.

  Junior and I didn’t care about being around famous people and living that life. When everyone would head out to the club, we’d go to the grocery store, then go back to the hotel, chill out in our PJs, and eat cereal. When it was only us, there was no makeup, designer clothes, or jewelry. We just talked and laughed. It was the simple times that made us fall madly in love.

  When he asked me what I dreamed of for my life, I was honest.

  “I want my parents’ life. I can’t be with another bad boy or drug dealer. I need to grow old with someone who can give me stability.”

  Junior wasn’t expecting I’d say that. But I could tell it got him thinking, so I continued.

  “I have no idea why you’re in this life, Junior. You can do better. With your intelligence, you’d be successful at anything.” Then I paused, knowing that I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t keep pushing. “You should change your life before it’s too late. You don’t want to go to prison like Leo or end up dead like K.”

  He just sat there, quiet, in deep thought.

  A few weeks later, Junior took me to see a show in downtown Chicago, and afterward he led me down a block toward Capital Grille, a restaurant right off the Magnificent Mile, where everyone knew him on a first-name basis. When we got close, I noticed all the lights inside were turned off.

  “Junior, it’s closed!” I said.

  “Just wait,” he answered.

  When we got to the entrance, the lights came on, and the hostess welcomed us inside. Junior had filled the whole restaurant with flowers. Everywhere I looked there were long-stemmed red roses, from the front door all the way to our private table in the back. They were beautiful.

  I can’t believe he rented out the whole restaurant for me, I thought.

  Over dinner that night, Junior took my hands, looked at me and said, “I want to take care of you and your baby. I’ll raise your baby like my own.”