Medieval but effective.
When my curiosity became too much, I opened my eyes and looked out the windshield.
Envisioning the worst had proved futile.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for this.
3
Natalia
It could’ve been Main Street in any affluent town. Clean and maintained buildings spread before us, tucked under the verdant, towering mountainside that would’ve shadowed the Badlands had the sun been out. This wasn’t a ghost town—whatever the Calavera cartel had done to the people who’d lived here, the structures and homes had not only remained intact, but seemed to have been improved. Their red brick facades were bright, stucco white walls clean, and not a crack could be seen in the pavement or concrete.
It was in even better shape than where I came from.
No longer bumping and jostling, we started a slow tread as the road into the Badlands smoothed from potholes and rocks to paved roads and cobblestone. We drove down the wide, main road bordered by shops that went directly from the gates to the foot of the mountain.
I took my chin off my knees and released my legs to scoot closer to the window. Though the walls were high, the town was big enough that I couldn’t see where it began or ended. Just beyond was the ocean, taunting the prisoners with salty air and the promise of an endless horizon they couldn’t see. I wondered if anyone ever tried to escape that way, and how far they got.
Two young girls in t-shirts and shorts stood under a deli awning, watching us pass. They had plastic bags of groceries in their hands and umbrellas tucked under their arms. Their freedom had been stripped, but at least they were dry, I thought wryly. Men on horses steered to one side, nodding at us. A group of women traveled as a pack and carried baskets of fruit on their shoulders; one smacked another on the shoulder as we drove by.
The rain started and stopped, and hardly a passerby didn’t stop to stare as we drew closer and closer to green foothills dense with trees. I didn’t know what to make of what I saw. Disoriented and slightly dizzy, I sat back in my seat.
“More than meets the eye?” Cristiano lowered the partition. Clouds darkened the sky, but the driver switched off his wipers as the rain became a drizzle. “You can see the house ahead,” Cristiano said.
I didn’t try to hide my curiosity. I ducked to peer through the windshield and spotted it instantly—a multi-story house built into the mountainside with white walls, a red terracotta roof, and crisp lines that offset curved archways.
“I can keep an eye on things from up there,” he said.
I didn’t doubt Cristiano had eyes everywhere.
It turned out the main road didn’t go straight through to the base of the mountain. We made our way around the perimeter of a large plaza, not unlike the one we’d just come from, also anchored by a church. I wasn’t fooled. Diego and Tepic had suggested the Badlands used storefronts and mundane businesses for money laundering. The church could’ve been a decoy for something else or just a cruel joke for false hope in a godless land.
People had set up stands in the same manner they had back home, though most were packing up their goods, and some stalls had been abandoned in the rain. A pair of children ran barefoot from booth to booth, jumping up and down with their hands cupped, tugging on the dresses of women who were boxing up everything from painted, wooden knick-knacks to talavera tiles to vibrant clothing.
“Begging for chocolate,” Cristiano said.
“So sad,” I murmured.
“Sad?” he asked. “They just want Easter candy.”
Oddly, women wore colorful dresses and had decorated their stands with flowers, red, white, and green crepe streamers, and matching flags. With trash bins full of paper plates and plastic Solo Cups, it almost looked as if we were arriving at the end of an event.
“Pull over,” Cristiano said, and the driver Cristiano parked at a curb close to the square. Cristiano opened his door and strode toward a woman who was removing dresses from hangers and folding them into a crate.
When she noticed him coming, she stepped back, waving him away. He held something out to her, grabbed her hand and pressed it into her palm, then squatted before a yellow blanket displaying leather huarache sandals.
I had no idea what he was doing, but the woman clearly objected to it.
Cristiano headed back, his dress shirt dotted with raindrops. He slid in next to me and passed over a pair of brown leather sandals. “These will be more comfortable,” he said.
I took them because I didn’t know what else to do. Turning them over in my hands, I admired the detailed craftsmanship and high-quality leather. He stared ahead as we continued on and didn’t look as if he expected a “thank you.”
“These are well-made,” I said. “They look expensive.”
“Maricela is highly skilled. I’ve told her to charge more, but she refuses, so I gave her double.”
“You paid her?”
“Of course.” He glanced over as I ran a fingertip along the thin soles. “They remind me of the ones you were wearing . . . the ones you had as a girl.”
Ah. Yes. I pinched the smooth leather strap. These were an understated, adult version of the woven huaraches I’d worn until the leather had been darkened by dirt and sun, and the frayed straps had started to come loose. “My mom hated them. She said—” I stopped myself. I’d been wearing those sandals the day I’d found Cristiano in her bedroom as she’d lain dying on the floor.
“What did she say?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Cristiano didn’t deserve to share in my past, however trivial. I bent over to pull on sandals like the ones I’d worn so ragged, my mom had called them a step up from bare feet. “It was nothing.”
The car wound up the mountainside and turned onto the circular driveway of Cristiano’s house. Upon closer inspection, the white, Spanish Colonial-style home had wrought-iron window grilles, and a stone walkway that led to a massive, arched, dark wood door. “You don’t have a gate?” I asked as we parked. Anyone from town could hike up to his front door.
“Wait here,” he said, taking his jacket from the seat and exiting the car.
I turned away from the house to peer beyond the cliff it sat on. Clay rooftops, stone buildings, greenery, and desert comprised the town. Businesses and activity gathered in the middle, around the main street we’d driven down, and from there spiraled off pockets of neighborhoods.
A slim woman with delicate, elfin features and long, reddish-brown hair descended the front steps to meet Cristiano. He handed her his jacket, touched her shoulder, and gestured to the car. She twirled her considerable hair into a bun on top of her head as she nodded before walking to the trunk.
Cristiano opened the door to the backseat and offered a hand to help me out. “This is Jazmín,” he said as I unfolded from the Land Rover. “She’ll see that your things are handled.”
The woman and I met eyes. She was indisputably pretty and close to my age. How had she gotten here? I studied her for any signs of mistreatment. In clean, pressed black pants and a white button-down, and with no outward signs of trauma, she almost seemed normal.
Jazmín bent her head toward me. “Bienvenida, señora.”
“I can get my own bags,” I told Cristiano. “She doesn’t need to do that.”
“Jaz has been preparing for you the last couple days,” he said.
I tucked some of my hair behind my ear and straightened my dress. Even with the low-heeled sandals, the hem just barely grazed the ground. “Why am I wearing this?” I asked.
Cristiano glanced from me to Jazmín. “I apologize. Natalia seems to have forgotten her manners.”
My cheeks warmed. I hadn’t responded when she’d welcomed me, and she wasn’t the enemy. “Mucho gusto,” I said to her as she removed my bag from the trunk and slung my mother’s dress over her elbow.
Cristiano led me up the steps to the sturdy wood-and-iron door. The tiled entryway had high ceilings with dark beams and round-top windows that would’v
e lit the space if the sun had been out. Instead, a chandelier made of wrought iron glowed above us and matched the railing of a staircase with blue and orange painted risers.
Jaz entered behind us. “We had to move everyone into the dining hall because of the rain.” She gave him a small smile. “It’s a little cramped, but they don’t notice.”
“Drunk?” he asked.
“Very. And extremely curious.”
“I have no doubt,” Cristiano said. “I’ll give Natalia a quick tour on our way to the party.”
I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Party?” My life was falling apart, and Cristiano wanted to celebrate? “You can’t be serious.”
“Do you have any laundry?” Jaz asked me, readjusting the strap of my bag on her shoulder.
“I—what? I can unpack myself,” I said, stepping toward her. “I’ll just go to my room if you’ll show me—”
Cristiano took my elbow and drew me back to him. “Jaz has it under control. I want you by my side right now. They’ve put a lot of time and effort into tonight. You’ll make the rounds with me.”
My lips thinned into a line. “You can’t force me to enjoy a party.”
He turned to block Jaz from my view and put his mouth to my ear. “Enjoy it or don’t,” he said quietly. “But you’ll do as I say, and you won’t question me in front of anyone again. Jaz asked you a question. Answer her.”
He straightened up again and I was faced with Jaz’s unreadable expression. The last thing I wanted was to be rude to someone who might be in an even worse situation than I was, but being thrust into a party an hour after my life had been ruined seemed cruel.
“My things are clean,” I said to Jaz. I’d done all my laundry at home before I’d packed. “Except . . .” I glanced at the ruined wedding dress hanging over her shoulder. Even if the delicate lace could be repaired, was there any point?
“Except?” she asked.
“Never mind. It’s all clean.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”
“De nada.” Jaz started up a staircase, gripping the iron railing as she climbed the stairs over the front door. She cast me a narrow-eyed glance before disappearing through a rounded doorway.
“It will make my staff happy to know you’re happy to be here,” Cristiano said. “And when my staff is happy, so am I.”
“But I’m not.”
His posture eased with an exhale. He tipped up my chin until our mouths were aligned and he could bend and kiss me if he wanted. “Then fake it for their benefit.”
I dropped my eyes to his lips when he wet them, then quickly turned my face away. “Why should I?”
“I already told you why. It makes me happy. And you want that.” He guided my head forward and waited until our eyes met again. “But if that’s not a good enough reason, then do it because I command it.”
I had a feeling I’d get used to hearing that response. But if I had to endure his will, then he was also stuck with me. I didn’t have to play nice when we were alone. “Fine,” I agreed. “It’ll be good practice anyway.”
“For?”
“Faking what I don’t enjoy.”
He pursed his lips into what could’ve been a smirk. Before he could decide if he was amused or annoyed, footsteps sounded behind me, and Cristiano dropped his hand and stepped back.
The two guards that had stood by Cristiano’s side in the church entered, and we proceeded down a hallway, past a long, wooden bench with muted cushions, to an airy living space that opened to a dining room—but as there were no people in it, it must not have been the one Jaz had just referred to. Though lines and curves anchored the tidied, Old World Spanish-style room, it was warmed by clay pottery over a stone fireplace, a gold-and-maroon tapestry covering one wall of the dining area, and trees in ceramic pots. Flimsy, sheer white curtains were drawn halfway, and windowed doors showcased a covered concrete patio with dining tables and couches, and a sizeable pool that rippled with occasional drops of rain.
The kitchen appeared more lived in—and less suited to Cristiano—with deep-orange walls, cornflower-blue shutters, and a green tea-colored wood table. A stout woman reached for a tray of hors d’oeuvres on the counter, and it was impossible not to notice the burn scars up and down her arms. She spared me a quick glance before she sidestepped a man in a chef’s hat.
Cristiano gestured around the room rattling off names that went in one ear and out the other. My mind was at capacity for the day. “Fisker is the main chef,” he added.
A blond, skin-and-bones man standing over a large pot nodded at me. “Fish stew?” he asked.
I looked to Cristiano, who asked, “Are you hungry?”
“N-no,” I told Fisker. He didn’t look healthy. Nobody in here did. Where had they come from? “But thank you.”
Cristiano turned to exit but bent to whisper, “Don’t let his gaunt appearance fool you. He grew up a fisherman in Denmark and knows food as well as any world-renowned chef I’ve met.”
Cristiano nodded for me to follow, and we were moving again. Down another hall, past closed doors and small windows. I thought I detected the din of voices and music, but it wasn’t until Cristiano opened one of the doors that a cacophony of singing, hollering, and mariachi overwhelmed me.
“Soundproof rooms,” Cristiano explained the disparity in volume. “One of the best investments I’ve made in the house. The party can rage on while I—we—sleep. Or we can rage on while they dine.”
His tone was teasing, but I doubted he’d meant it as a joke. He dipped his hand to my lower back and guided me down a small, dark passageway. We stepped through the doorway to the top of a staircase, as if entering a basement, and stopped at a half wall overlooking a subterranean dining hall. Distressed wood beams formed an X on the high ceiling, and candlelight sconces made shadows on white walls. Three long, sturdy picnic tables centered the room, where people ate from a restaurant-style buffet.
At one end of a community-style table, a group of women sat interspersed between children with plates of frosted cake. Their long skirts and dresses resembled what the women of my town had worn to church that morning. They sneaked bites of dessert from the children and laughed across the table from each other.
Cristiano urged me forward by my lower back, and though my hands were only figuratively tied, it still felt like walking the plank. “This is your home now,” he said, removing his hand. “These are your people.”
How did they get into this situation?
“They’re just celebrating Easter.”
I glanced back at him, not realizing I’d spoken aloud. “Easter?” I asked. “Here?”
“It’s not as if we’ve left the country. We still have holidays here.”
But anything beyond basic survival would be a luxury for people being held and worked against their will. And they were, weren’t they? The alternative was that they lived in the Badlands willingly. As one of Cristiano’s victims, I just didn’t see how that could be.
“Do you think people in distress eat cake?” he asked as if reading my mind.
Maybe, if it was the best they could make of a bad situation.
My heart fell. I should’ve been with my father, sitting down for an Easter feast now, or on a plane back to my friends and my life in California. Instead, I was surrounded by the lost and forgotten.
My gaze caught on an older man who glanced up and made eye contact. He lowered his beer mug to the table with a frown, and people fell silent in sections as they noticed us. The music stopped. Wide eyes stared. The number of women and children both surprised and saddened me. Mothers drew their children to their sides. Men stood straighter. They feared Cristiano, but their eyes were trained on me. Did they fear me too? Or was their fear for me?
“I can’t be a part of this,” I whispered.
“But you are.”
“Why?” The intensity of their glares made me want to move behind Cristiano, which was ridiculous. He was who I wanted to hide from. “Why parade me around like this?” I
asked under my breath. “You don’t need me.”
“You will learn all the things I need, and soon, I hope. But as of today, you don’t know enough to say what I need.” He kept his distance but spoke only for me. “Tonight, you’ll meet your people, and they’ll see they have nothing to fear.”
“Fear?” I asked. “Me?”
A portly man raised a frothy ale and shouted, “Are the rumors true, patrón?”
Despite looking as if he’d just come from the fields, the man must’ve been one of Cristiano’s inner circle to address him with such an informal term of respect.
“Sí,” Cristiano said, moving away from me. “I’ve formed an alliance that will benefit both parties.”
An excited murmur moved through the crowd. The man banged the bottom of his mug on the table so loudly, I stepped back and hit Cristiano’s body. He grabbed my shoulders and released them as if the lace had burned him.
Other men slammed their mugs and beer foamed over, dripping onto the tables as they offered celebratory shouts. “¡Epa!”
“It should be a prosperous year—” Cristiano started.
“Who cares about business,” another said. “Who’s the girl?”
Cristiano chuckled as if sharing an inside joke. “In order to make the deal, I’ve taken a wife.”
I glanced over my shoulder at him, but he kept his distant eyes on the crowd as if I weren’t there at all.
Though a few men and women smiled, and the children were mostly awed, some of the enthusiasm left the room.
“My bride will stay here with us out of convenience,” he said, adding under his breath, “unwilling though she may be.”
Cristiano started down the stairs, leaving me standing there alone. Up until then, he hadn’t been so dismissive. He hadn’t been dismissive at all. Not once since he’d turned up at my father’s costume party. Even as I’d been forced down the aisle to him, he’d watched me with curious, hungry eyes. In the car, he’d shown interest and a modicum of warmth as he’d asked after the state of my feet.
Violent Ends (White Monarch Book 2) Page 3