Corrupt

by Elena M. Reyes

  Christ, those words hit me in the chest, and I turn my face away from him as tears gather at the corners of my eye. It hurts that someone I barely know understands what my father never will.

  I’m a person. I have rights.

  “Gracias, I—”

  “I’m here now, Sol. Trust me.”

  “I don’t know you.” I’m still refusing to look at him, but that choice is taken away a minute later when he switches our position. He’s below me, my body laying over his and our faces mere centimeters apart. His exhale is my inhale.

  “Then I suggest we start exchanging facts about ourselves.” Alejandro gives me a soft smile that disarms me. “Every night this week, I’ll be calling to play my version of twenty questions.”

  “Your version?” I quirk a brow up, and my smile broadens at the ridiculousness of it all. I’m here with a criminal, my father is the president, and he’s proposing we play a silly game to calm my worries. “Sounds interesting.”

  “Good…” he pecks my lips once more and then tucks me against his chest, arms hugging me tight “…because I wasn’t giving you a choice in the matter.”

  11

  THERE’S A KNOCK at my door two days later, and I’m not surprised. It’s why I gave everyone but Geronimo the day off with instructions to head out into the jungle for a training session with Chiquito and my brother.

  Out in no man’s land. Where those in power here are too scared to venture into.

  The Amazon is unforgiving and cruel. It’ll take without asking.

  “Come in,” I say and sit back, dropping the pen in my hand atop a lucrative contract with an overseas pharmaceutical giant. It’s a hefty amount on the dotted line that anyone else would sign, but I’m not most. My counter is written out just above the empty signature line, and I won’t accept anything less than what I’m asking.

  “Hey, Lucas. You have a few minutes to spare?” Signio asks, sitting across from me without being offered a chair. His friend follows, eyes roaming the large office located on the first floor of the building I own in Bogota—where I enjoyed a nice little afternoon lunch with my guest’s fiancé two days ago.

  I’ll put a bullet in his head before he ever says I do.

  “No, but I imagine you drove over to share something of importance?” The bite in my tone is lost on both as they admire the picture of Solimar atop my desk. They don’t know it’s her as I’ve cut her face from the print, but her body is on full display. Out on the veranda, she stood with her back to the city, arms gripping the bars behind her, and head tipped up to the sun. Her chest—the tempting swell is clear to see, and so is the sinuous curve of her hip, those toned legs seemingly a mile long in the perfect little dress she wore for me.

  Before Signio blinks again, I lodge a bullet into the leg of his chair, forcing him to tip forward. “What the fuck!”

  When he looks up, the barrel of my 1911 is pointing at his chest. “Keep your eyes off what isn’t yours, Cortez. I won’t miss next time.”

  “Understood.” He stands from the ruined armchair and places his hands atop my desk. I don’t miss the way his eyes shift over the papers in front of me. “We have a similar problem where you poached—”

  “I’d be careful in how you finish that sentence, güevon.” Lowering my gun, I keep it pointing his way while I sit forward. “There’s little patience in me today.”

  Signio swallows hard and holds a hand up. “I’m not trying to be disrespectful, Alejandro. I just came here to talk man to man.” My reply is to wave a hand in the air for him to continue. For a brief second, his eyes shift to his friend, who nods. “Do you know who my fiancé is?”

  “You have five seconds to get to the point.”

  “Solimar Quintero is important to me and—”

  He’s silenced by the slam of my hand against the wooden top of my desk. “Why the fuck are you here, Cortez? Be a man and spit it out.”

  “Back away from her.”

  Laughter bubbles up inside of me. It’s loud and non-threatening, the first clue he should be afraid. Shitting his pants. Because while he relaxes and I show an outward amused expression, beneath my skin the ire in me is bubbling to the surface.

  The demon in me is clawing its way out, and I smile. “Is that all?”

  “Yes.” Cortez and his friend chuckle. They’re amused and at ease. “We both know you don’t need that kind of heat, and between us, she’s nothing more than a trophy I need on my arm.” They both miss how my hand grips the gun’s handle, finger on the trigger. “My father needs this marriage to happen and if I comply, I get a favor in return.”

  And that right there sums up what Solimar means to him; a means to get what he wants. She’s an object. Nothing more.

  “How long do you need to stay married and what are the terms?” Every muscle in my body has locked down, the cords trembling with the exertion to stay in my seat and not snap his neck. I want to. I will in the future. However, I’ve come to learn a few things over the years, and one is that stupid people talk. Give them a sense of comfort and they give themselves away. “For curiosity sake?”

  Another laugh. Cocky. “Two years, and she needs to have given me an heir by then.”

  “Okay.” Bringing my other hand to my face, I scratch my jaw. “And why do you believe that I know this girl? What gave you the cojones to come and warn me away?”

  Signio tilts his head in his friend’s direction. “Samuel saw you follow her at Codicia toward the elevator but lost you among the crowd. He didn’t see you talking with her, but you were chasing.”

  With a brow raised, I stare the friend down. “Is that so, Samuel?”

  His throat bobs harshly. “Your eyes were set on her and—”

  He doesn’t finish as his scream rends the air, the pain-filled sound reverberating throughout every square inch of this office and lobby. A lobby that exists purely for appearance’s sake and whose front desk is run by my employees.

  The building is mine.

  The people within will do anything I ask.

  These concrete walls have seen more than one person take their final breath.

  And while his friend sits beside him, kneecap blown, Signio doesn’t move. He doesn’t look. Pussy.

  “Anything else?” No response other than muffled cries as Samuel bites down on his knuckles. Calmly, I place my gun down. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else you want me to know?”

  “No.” It’s low and meek and pathetic. Fucking culicagados trying to play men.

  “Louder.”

  “No. Nothing else, Lucas,” Signio says, now refusing to meet my stare.

  “And you, Samuel?”

  His hands grip his fragmented knee, blood pooling below him and onto my carpeted floor. “No, sir.”

  “Good.” Pushing my chair back roughly, I stand to my full height with narrowed eyes. “Now, listen very carefully because I will only say this once. Nod if you understand.” They do, looking just like the sniveling bobbleheads they are. “If you ever step foot inside my building in any way that isn’t respectful, I will personally cut off your head and mail it to your parents. What I do…” I keep my voice low, but my simmering ire is clear “…is none of your fucking business, and you best remember that. Is that clear?”

  “Alejandro, I didn’t mean to disrespect you. She’s my intended and her father would—”

  “Stay away from Solimar, Signio. This is your only warning.”

  “I can’t do that. We’re getting married.”

  Placing both hands palms down atop my desk, I lean forward. “I’ll slit your throat before you ever make it to the altar.”

  At my words, his face pales and hands shake. His curiosity is also piqued. “Why do you care about her?” Signio’s voice is low, the words muttered. “Why does she matter?”

  “How I deal with each Quintero is none of your concern.” His mouth opens; he’s dying to ask more or offer some kind of bullshit assistance, but we both know it’s fake. I know a lot more
than he thinks. Know his true intentions. The things he’s done. “This is your cue to leave.”

  “I—” That’s all he gets out, rushing to pull his friend up as my fingers wrap around the gun’s handle. “We’re leaving. Have a good day.”

  “You do that.” He’s a dead man.

  “Señor Lucas, she’s in her room now,” her guard speaks lowly into the phone, and the sound of a door closing carries through the line a few seconds later. “It’s been a rough day for her.”

  “What happened?” I hiss out through clenched teeth. My earlier visit with Cortez has left me in a shit mood. He’s lucky I didn’t end him today, that I’m giving him more time to dig a deeper hole. “Who upset her?”

  “Solimar argued with her mother today after lunch.” Carlos exhales roughly. “They’d visited an orphanage today, and when a staged reporter outside of the building asked about the pending nuptials, the first lady gave an exclusive.”

  “What kind?”

  “That Solimar has been dress shopping, which is the furthest thing from the truth.”

  “Why would she do that?” The plastic in my hand groans, the phone’s case cracking at the center in my tight grip. “Is there something I don’t know, Carlos?”

  “No, Patron. That was a lie and Solimar became so upset, letting her emotions out once they were both seated in the back of their SUV.”

  “What was said?”

  “Solimar demanded to know whose team she was on? If she’s ever really planned to help her get out of that sham of an engagement.”

  “And did Veronica Quintero ever have her daughter’s best interest at heart?” We both knew the answer, but I needed the verbal conformation on this betrayal. Something is going on with Solimar’s mother, and I’m beginning to think she’s playing a dangerous game.

  “The first lady told her in plain terms to buck up and accept her fate. That there’s no getting out.”

  “Thank you, Carlos.” Undoing the first few buttons of my shirt, I release the tie’s knot and let the ends hang over my shoulders. “Keep me informed, and I’ll have a little something extra for your troubles.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Disconnecting the call, I walk over to the small bar inside my office and pour myself a drink. I’m giving myself a second or five to compose myself before reaching out to Solimar, swirling the amber-colored liquid around the glass twice before bringing it to my lips.

  Her being upset doesn’t sit right with me. Eats at me. It makes my chest feel tight.

  I throw back my drink and then pour another. And another.

  My first instinct is to ram an eighteen-wheeler through the security gate of the president’s home and shoot every single fucker inside, except her.

  She’s different. Innocent.

  “My vow of vengeance will never touch a single hair on that little flower’s head.” Back at my desk with the decanter in hand, I set it down and pick up my iPad, opening the FaceTime app. I’m looking for the contact information her guard gave me a few days back. A quick press to her picture and the phone connects, ringing twice before her beautiful face appears.

  At first, she doesn’t say anything. There’s shock and maybe a bit of awe, but behind the surprise expression, I see amusement. It’s in the curl of her lips and the brightness of her eyes. In the way she sighs my name before shaking her head and climbing atop her bed.

  Once situated, her back against a headboard with a mountain of white and pink pillows cushioning her body, she arches a brow. “Should I even ask?”

  “No, but if you do, I’d tell you.” She’s appeased by my answer, her eyes dancing between my chest and face. “Does it matter?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Good.” Refilling my glass, I take a sip. “You ready to play?”

  “Play what?” The question is coy, the expression on her face inquisitive. Fuck, she’s beautiful. Solimar is all soft and decadent in her tight, light blue tank top and matching sleeping shorts. She’s dangerous curves and a happy smile. However, I do notice the bit of red around her eyes. The bit of wetness that still clings to her lashes. “Is there something I’m missing?”

  “Twenty questions, Preciosa. You owe me,” I say instead of questioning her. Not today.

  “Do I, now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know about that…”

  “Are you going to deny me?”

  “No.” Solimar mumbles don’t think I can under her breath, but I don’t call her out on it.

  “First question?”

  “Hit me,” she replies, nodding enthusiastically, and I chuckle.

  “Favorite color?”

  She’s pensive for a moment, finger tapping her chin. Motherfucking adorably indecent. “White. You?”

  “Really? White?” Not at all what I thought she’d say. Most women like pink, or red, or even purple.

  “Yeah.” She giggles. Her fresh face and soft eyes make me want to kiss her. “I like the idea of a blank canvas and embellishing it in diverse ways. Being creative in any way is an outlet I crave.”

  “Do you like to accessorize, is what you’re saying?” Solimar tilts her head to the side, expression bordering on confusion. “What, Preciosa?”

  “Never thought you’d understand what accessorizing means, that’s all. Men don’t go through painstaking hours upon hours to put outfits together.” The mirth is back in the small quirk of her lips. “You guys are more grab and go.”

  “You forget I have a sister slightly younger than you. Shopping is her life.”

  “Touché, Alejandro.”

  “I like the way you say my name.”

  A touch of pink caresses her cheeks and she looks at me from under her lashes, an action I’m not sure she’s aware of. “What about you? What’s your favorite color?”

  “Grey.”

  Her nose scrunches a bit. “Like a cloudy sky?”

  “Like your eyes.” Her embarrassment—reactions—are so refreshing. Honest. “Next question…”

  “Keep them coming.”

  “Favorite movie?”

  “The Mummy.” No hesitation from her. “You?”

  “Scarface, for obvious reasons.” I give her a wink, and the flush across her skin becomes more pronounced, the small smile on her face becoming a smirk. “Favorite childhood memory, Sol?”

  She shrugs. “That’s a toughie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t have a childhood when you’re being molded into the obedient child of a presidential family. You don’t get to go out and play or be ‘normal’ like other children.” Her voice is flat—no emotion—and I can almost hear her father spewing this bullshit. Drilling it into her head. “You’re forced to sit down and learn the rules, expectations, and the reality that what your father says goes, no matter how much it hurts you.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. No one should live that way.”

  The smile she gives me is sad. “It is what it is.”

  “Let’s skip that for now. Next—”

  “There was this one time my mom put her foot down when I was seven, though.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “We took a trip to Disney World in Florida.” Sol is looking at me, but her eyes are miles away. At this moment she truly looks her age, young and impressionable. Sheltered and suffocating. “It was amazing to just be another kid in a crowd. To take goofy pictures and eat junk food and laugh with my parents as we rode every single attraction in the park. There were no crowds crowding or men in polyester suits trying to get my father’s attention or approval. For the first and only time in my life, we were just an average family on vacation.”

  And as the last word slips past her perfect lips, the truth hits me in the chest. There’s more than lust and want and revenge singing in my veins. There’s an uncontrollable need to protect and take care of her.

  To give her back what’s been taken.

  I’m going to give this precious girl her freedom.


  I’m going to make her crave me as I do her.

  12

  ONE, TWO, THREE.

  One, two, three.

  The instructor claps her hands with each count, signaling the three couples on the floor to start the rehearsed steps to a simple salsa choreography. And while they do so, while I play the part of the audience this afternoon, my mind lingers on my phone call with Alejandro last night.

  I don’t know how he knew I needed him, but I’m more thankful for that call than he’ll ever know. Heartbroken and full of painful anxiety that made it hard to breathe, I’d been cursing my name when the phone rang.

  He made me forget.

  He made me laugh.

  He cared.

  “Again, from the top.” The instructor’s eyes cut to the couple near the back mirror and sighs. “Please try to keep up. This isn’t a club downtown or for giggles; dancing is an art and should be respected as such.”

  Beside me someone snickers, but I pay them no mind and try to refocus on the class.

  These are new students. People of affluent wealth. Most are stiff as a board.

  However, there’s one dancer that stands out—the son of a world-renowned surgeon who’s come to Colombia to participate in a medical exchange program before opening his practice in Uruguay.

  I know this because it’s the first thing he shared with the class, pompous smile on his face. His eyes have also been searching mine out for the past twenty minutes, a tinge of frustration seeping through when I rebuff him.

  I’m ignoring him. He’s annoyed. It’s a game I’ve learned to excel at with the unwanted attention that comes from my position as the first daughter.

  “Very good, Gabriel. That’s exactly how you feel the music.” She looks pensive for a moment, her feet still moving to the beat. “I’d like to see you dance with a more advanced student. Solimar?”

  “Yes, Señora Garcia?” I answer, a feeling of dread settling in. More so when Gabriel’s face gives a smug expression. He knows who I am. My family. “How can I be of assistance?”

  “Come here and take your place with Mr. Castillo. I want to see what he can do given free reign.”