Corrupt

by Elena M. Reyes

  “Of course.” My smile is fake, but so perfected over the years that they can’t tell the difference. That, or they don’t care. Something that over the years I’ve come to understand.

  If it benefits a person, they are willing to overlook another’s misery. Because who cares, as long as it doesn’t affect their end goal.

  His smirk is nothing like the one Alejandro effortlessly wears. “You ready, beautiful?”

  “It’s Miss Quintero. Please remember that.” My voice is low but he hears, and the smarmy smile only broadens as I take his hand and hold the position.

  “Of course. My apologies.” His arm goes around my waist, pulling me in closer when the alarm in the studio goes off. Thank God.

  “Everyone out. We’ll cancel today and reconvene tomorrow at the same time,” I hear her call out, but I’m already using the opening to step back, rushing away and toward my bag on the floor beneath the chair I’d been sitting on. The exit to the building is outside the room’s door and down the hall, and I curse my need to please others in this instance. My security’s usually across the street waiting for me, something that I’ve asked them to do so that others don’t feel uncomfortable, but as Gabriel calls out my name, I regret it.

  “Solimar, wait up.” His shout catches the attention of the last stragglers still around. They look but continue on their way; not even the instructor seems to be around. One second I’m walking with the crowd, and the next, I’m alone.

  Where the hell did everyone go? “Sorry, I’m in a rush. My guards will…hey!” I’m whirled around by a hand on my arm, the grip a little painful. “Let go.”

  “What’s the hurry? I’d love to spend more time with you.” Gabriel doesn’t release me. Instead, he walks closer, body almost pressing, but I don’t let him corner me. For every step of his, I take one back, all the way until we reach the building’s main exit. “Maybe catch a bite?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be like that, Preciosa,” he says, and I shudder, hating the use of Alejandro’s nickname coming from this idiot’s lips. “I’m in town for a few—”

  Gabriel doesn’t get to finish as Carlos and a man I know works for Alejandro stand over his limp form. They kick him once, twice, before the sudden crack of a bone snapping rings through the air and I lean back against the nearest wall.

  Gabriel’s arm is bent at an odd angle, his face a bloody mess as blood pours from a gash at the bridge of his nose. Each man is wearing an expression of anger. Each one positioned in front of me so I can’t see the full extent of the damage as a pitiful whimper slips past the overeager man’s mouth.

  I should be afraid, but I’m not. I should be yelling at them to stop, but I don’t.

  Something warms my body and the calmness that seeps through leaves me breathless for a completely different reason. He’s here. I know this. Feel it in the air around us, this dominating force that takes over every square inch of the room and my eyes dart around, looking. Searching. Needing to see his face.

  To bask in the knowledge that he’s watching out for me. Doing what no one else ever has.

  Footsteps come closer from another entrance, a private room that only those who work here are allowed inside. I’m counting down each one in my head. I’m vibrating with nervously excited energy—an overwhelming need to fling the door open and confirm what I know to be true.

  Not that I have to wait long. All movement ceases the moment the door is pulled open and Alejandro Lucas steps through, his face and mouth set in an impassive expression as he takes in the man on the floor. There’s fury brewing beneath the surface of his calm. I see it, and it grows hotter as he takes me in against the wall, bracing myself.

  He doesn’t say a single word, just holds a hand out toward me, one that I walk toward without hesitation. At this moment, I don’t care who’s watching or what they might say; I welcome the safety he brings.

  My palm in his, he pulls me closer. “Are you okay?”

  “I am now.” And I mean it with everything I am. “How did you get here so fast?”

  “I’ll explain later, little flower.” Alejandro leans down, just enough so his lips can skim over my temple. “Expect my call.”

  “Okay.” It comes out breathless and accepting and excited.

  “Good girl,” he says it so low only I hear, before straightening to his full height. Those soft cognac eyes now burn with fury. And while his hold on my hand remains gentle, the tick of his sharp jaw gives away that the feared man most have nightmares about is very much present. “Carlos, take Miss Quintero home, and no deviations. Report back when it’s done.”

  “Of course, Patron.”

  There’s no protest from me when I’m led out. Nothing.

  However, there is a smile of satisfaction that graces my lips when I see Alejandro’s fist connect with Gabriel’s face before the door closes and the lock is engaged. What does that say about me?

  The faint sound of cutlery scraping against plates as those around the table dig into their meals grates on my nerves. So does the sound of multiple conversations happening at once. Everyone’s talking about inane subjects—stock market prices or who has the most expensive car—while I sit here and try to swallow the bite of chicken I’ve been poking at for the last thirty minutes.

  My father’s enjoying the attention given by his campaign manager and the head of the political party our family is backed by, while the vice president and his wife listen. While they look at each other every few minutes as the others continue to wax poetry about my father. He’s a modern-day revolutionary in their eyes. The suit-wearing guerilla champion of the people.

  And yet they don’t mention those in need. The poor of this country go without.

  The citizens that have been set aside and forgotten because greed and excessive lifestyles are more important.

  Every single person at this table outside of the president’s children have let Colombia down, and that’s only because we have no say. None. We’re mere props to make him look better. Give him the illusion of the approachable family man.

  “How was class, Solimar?” the woman who’s been chatting with my mom asks, and I force myself to swallow before offering a smile. “I heard you’re quite the bailarina.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Salinas. And to answer your first question, not much happened today.” It’s the truth, but not enough it seems, and the minute purse of my mom’s lips tell me to elaborate. “We had new students today, six in total, and Mrs. Garcia had them run through basic steps. You know, just to gauge their ability and knowledge of counting notes and coordination.”

  “Were they any good?” She leans toward me as if I have some kind of juicy gossip. As if I’ll divulge names and their lack of rhythm. “Or should they be on one of those blooper videos you kids love to watch?”

  “They were okay.” My face scrunches up, thinking about Gabriel and what occurred after class. My lack of care for his well-being and the acknowledgment that there is a hint of depravity inside of me. “Nothing memorable, but they could improve significantly with some dedication.”

  “Spoken like a true politician’s daughter.” The others around us laugh, the joke being me. “What about that fiancé of yours? Does he attend these classes?”

  My initial reaction is to snort, but I bite that back when my father’s eyes turn our way. Now he’s interested. Wants to see if I’ll embarrass him. “No…” I add a small girlish giggle as if it’s preposterous that he’d be caught in one of my dance lessons “…he’s much too busy to join me. His business takes a lot of his time, and its success is all due to his hard work.”

  The lie tastes like battery acid on my tongue, but the woman buys it and nods. “I know that’s right. These men are always busy.” She’s chuckling while playfully elbowing the man beside her, her husband, who’s a known real estate mogul and lobbyist. He’s also an adulterer with two children born outside of their marriage and five months apart. “Always starting something new.”

  That
“new” would be the affair made public by a national publication due to the lawsuit by the mistress after he demanded she entertains his associates.

  Those around the table laugh at her ribbing. No one calls him out for being a pig, and I shudder internally. It’s getting harder and harder to bite my tongue, but I do. I sit dutifully and wait for the next uncomfortable question while my brother rolls his eyes and eats his dinner.

  “Claudia, my girl is beautiful, smart, and has Signio wrapped around her little finger.” My father seems pleased with my mother’s response, entwining their fingers atop the table as she looks right at me. Daring me to not say a word. To follow her lead. What are you trying to pull? “So much so that Mr. Cortez is Solimar’s date for the gala next week. It’s their first public appearance as a couple.”

  What. The. Hell?

  My throat constricts and my chest feels tight as beads of sweat gather at my brow. I know my face is flushed, the heat across my skin making me look embarrassed by the attention when that’s the furthest thing from the truth.

  I’m angry. Feel betrayed. Hurt.

  “Oh, how marvelous! It’ll be the talk of every media outlet and society page for weeks.” Mrs. Salinas is giddy with the urge to spread the word. Gossip rules these circles. It’s how the women entertain themselves. “Have you picked a dress?”

  “Yes, my daughter will cause quite the stir with this.” It’s the first time my father speaks to anyone on this side of the table. He’s watching my reaction while rubbing his thumb along the top of my mom’s hand. “She’s been begging for weeks to make things public, to ease up on some of my restrictions until marriage, and I’ve obliged. Isn’t that right, baby girl?”

  “Thank you, Dad. You’ve been so understanding.” To my ears I sound normal, maybe even a little sweet, but on the inside I’m dead. Choking on the pain. “It’ll be wonderful to make our relationship public and spend time together.”

  This appeases him, makes him beam with pride, while Carlos enters the room with a large box. It’s grand and all white with ribbons and a bow atop. A blank canvas I can embellish.

  Could it be? Would he?

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President, but this arrived for Solimar by courier.” Could he have waited? Yes. Will my father reprimand him? It depends on the sender. “It’s from Mr. Cortez.”

  “How wonderful,” Mom gushes, waving Carlos deeper into the room. They exchange a look, but it’s gone before anyone notices their exchange. “Go ahead and place it in her room. Just leave the card.”

  “Of course, Madam.” He bows to the room and walks over, placing the envelope in my hand. His eyes meet mine briefly, just a quick flick, and I see the amusement in them. This is not from Signio. He doesn’t like the overgrown kid. “Enjoy your meal, and buenas noches.”

  And while everyone watches him leave, I tear open the envelope and smile when I read his note. This devil with the smile of an angel is letting me know he can reach me at any time. That he’s watching.

  “Well, Solimar? What does it say?” Mom asks, all smiles yet I see the confusion in her eyes.

  With my head held high, I square my shoulders and turn the card around for the table to see.

  You will always be my beautiful little flower.

  My Preciosa.

  13

  THE WORLD REVOLVES around perspectives—decisions—interpretations of everyday problems where our capabilities are tested. Some good. Some bad. Some idiotic. These instances all pose a diverse set of problems, but they can’t be ignored.

  Because for every action, there is an equal or harsher consequence, something that my American hackers have yet to understand. They still think and act like children. Are irresponsible and full of excuses.

  “You see, Mr. Lucas...” Shawn fidgets under my stare, looking anywhere but at me “...what happened was that—”

  “Silence.” I hold a hand up and Geronimo cocks his gun. “Do you, or do you not, have an update for me? Nod if you do.” They’re still, almost frozen, but I notice the subtle scowl Jason gives Shawn as the louder of the two shakes from his place on the couch.

  They weren’t expecting me today.

  They chose to head out last night instead of working under Shawn’s recommendations, drinking until four a.m. with a hooker each perched on their laps. They bought drinks, talked shit with the other customers—Shawn sharing confidential information about our negotiation—while Jason enjoyed the lap dance given to entice him out back for a quick fuck.

  They forgot who I am.

  Forget what country they’re in. Who these people are loyal to.

  The apartment they’re using is mine.

  The money paying for the pussy they used last night is mine.

  Every motherfucking thing is mine.

  “Mr. Thorn?”

  “Yes, sir?” Jason’s voice is low and expression contrite.

  “What’s more important? The hand or the foot?”

  His leg’s bouncing, hands fidgety. “Depends on the person’s lifestyle, to be honest.”

  “Fair enough.” Turning, I walk over to the dining room area and drag a chair back with me, flipping it around so the back faces them. I’m ignoring the duo for the moment as I undo the button of my suit jacket and take it off, handing it over to the guard. He takes it with the hand not pointing a Glock at the idiots, while I roll up the sleeves of my shirt and then take a seat, straddling the chair.

  “Patron, if you give us—”

  Shawn’s lips snap shut at my murderous glare. “My conversation is with Jason at the moment. Not another word.” Shifting my gaze away from his shaking form, I level his partner with the same expression. “Now, humor me. The average man who works in an office all day and has a somewhat normal social life. Hands or feet?”

  “Hands.” Sweat beads at his brow and he wipes the droplets with his arm. “He’ll need his hands to work and to take care of himself.”

  I nod. “Good answer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I appreciate the input.” For some reason they both let out a sigh at this, becoming less rigid. It’s the wrong move, and on their next intake of breath, my 1911 is in my hand and I’m pulling the trigger. Two bullets, and screams rend the air. Two holes that ooze blood and pool on the floor below.

  It’s a clean entry and exit that leaves one man with a horrified expression and the other crying, a whimpering mess down on the floor where he’s slipped to. A bit overdramatic, but then again, I expect that from men like him.

  A cocky, overbearing, and idiotic frat boy with the common sense of a roach.

  “Quiet, or the next one will be to your head,” I hiss out and Shawn bites down on his bottom lip, hard enough to break the skin. A few drops of blood roll down from the torn skin, but he does remain quiet. “Much better.”

  Looking over at Geronimo, I signal for him to play for them a recording from last night. It details the night, the people at their table—the talking and laughing. You can hear clearly when Bosdell tells Thorn to be quiet and live a little.

  “We work for El Patron, fucker. We’re untouchable.” There’s a small gasp or two, the sound of chairs scraping against the terrazzo floors of the establishment. People are moving, Shawn’s voice becoming louder as less noise surrounds them. “I could literally piss on the owner’s cash register and still be protected, Jason. It’s a dream come true.”

  “Jesus, Shawn! Shut up!”

  “It’s not like people don’t know Alejandro Lucas is a corrupt son of a bitch.” There’s a bit of a slur in his response, followed by a harsh smack to a solid surface. “He has no morals, so why should we?”

  “You’re stepping out of line—”

  “Sweetheart, suck his dick and remove the stick from his ass while you’re at it.”

  “That’s enough, Geronimo.” A click follows, and I arch a brow. Waiting. “Anything you’d like to say?”

  “I apologize, Mr. Lucas. We messed up and should’ve been more responsible.”


  “Jason, I appreciate your acknowledgment and apology.” My eyes turn to his associate, a man whose eyes are closed and writhing in pain. “Mr. Bosdell?”

  “I’m sorry.” That’s it. No remorse. What he’s sorry about is getting caught and chastised like the toddler he is.

  Standing from my chair, I walk the few steps that separate us and look down. “Not good enough.” His eyes snap open at my response, and now we get an emotional response. Fear flashed across his eyes as my finger twitches over the trigger and it engages, a bullet exiting the chamber. One second. One blink. The projectile enters his skull and his head bounces, the lifeless eyes stuck on horror as they gaze at me.

  His blood bathes—splashes across the men standing present, each wearing a fragment or two on their pants as it pools beneath Mr. Bosdell. The puddle becomes larger with each passing moment.

  “You were right about choosing the hand, Mr. Thorn. You’re useful while your partner was a liability.” Placing the gun back in its holster, I smile. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  “No, s-sir. I won’t.” His entire body is shaking, face ashen.

  “Let’s hope so.” I look over at Geronimo. “Get him the cleanup kit and walk him through the disposal process. It’s time Mr. Jason Thorn learns something other than hacking if he’s to be of use to me.”

  There’s something eerily calming about taking a boat into the Amazon jungle early in the morning. It’s quiet and peaceful and meant to give a false sense of calm. It’s untrustworthy yet lulls you into the serene landscape as predators watch from behind the cover of trees.

  Or beneath the surface of the calm water. They watch while you lose yourself in the silence.

  And if you’re not careful, they take your life before a call for help can be screamed.

  It’s a danger I recognize in myself. A yearning for blood that I welcome.

  “We’re almost to the embankment, Patron. Will you be calling Mr. Emiliano?” Geronimo says, bringing me a bottle of water and a moist towel to wipe my face. We’ve been on this river for a few hours now, navigating through the densest section of the Amazon that’s within the Colombian border. It’s an uncharted area, unexplored because of the dangers it possesses when the nearest hospital is hours away and the chances of something going wrong are high.