Unrequited (Fallen Aces MC #1) (15 page)

EIGHTEEN

Elena

“Happy to be home?”

I address his reflection in the window before me. “What do
you
think?”

I tried calling Mama the moment I was left alone, but she didn’t answer. I tried four more times, the last after breakfast, and nothing. We only spoke yesterday morning and she was fine then. I shouldn’t panic, but something doesn’t feel right.

“You’ll thank me for all of this in the end.” Carlos’s shadowy white figure crosses behind me, reappearing in the next pane of glass.

“Is that a lie to make me feel better, or you?”

“You have fight in you, don’t you?” His voice is closer, his reflection becoming clearer as he nears me. The muted undertones of his upbringing cut through his thickly put-on American accent. He can’t hide who he really is.

“Fighting is a natural personality trait for people who’ve had to work for what they have, but I guess you wouldn’t know much about that.”

“Working isn’t all manual labor, Elena. You may think I’ve got where I am the easy way, but you try hustling and dealing your way to the top and you’ll soon see it’s actually a lot of ‘work.’”

“My heart bleeds for you.” I roll my eyes. “It must have given you a blister to pull the trigger so many times.”

“More than one,” he retorts with a grin, rubbing the pads of his fingers together. Carlos sighs, toying with my ponytail. “The world doesn’t owe you anything, you know.”

Spinning to face him, I hold my ground inches from his face despite the fear  pulsating through my limbs. “I never said I was owed anything.”

“No, your anger does.”

“I’m angry because assholes like you think they can play with the lives of people like me. I’m angry because assholes like you believe it’s their
right
to do so.”

He places his hands against my collarbone and pushes, sending me sprawling on my ass over his plush cream carpet. “Enough of your fucking runaway mouth.”

“Why? Because the truth hurts?” I bite back my tears, scrambling backward on all fours like a crab.

“You know nothing about me other than the jealous gossip that goes around.”

“Jealous?” I scoff, bracing for another strike. “You think people are jealous of your sad and lonely existence?”

“What’s worse, Elena?” He holds out a hand, offering to help me up. “Being rich, sad and lonely? Or being poor, sad and lonely? I know which I’d rather be.”

I place my palm in his, staring into his dark brown eyes, so deep they’re almost black. He gives me a harsh tug, bringing me within an inch of his face as I stand.

“Now clean yourself up. I have somebody for you to meet.” He smiles, sending goose bumps racing over my flesh. “We’ve yet to get to the best part of today.”

***

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve had as much as I can stomach of the sterile white-tiled bathroom and have got myself ‘cleaned up.’ I run my hands under the tap and smooth my ponytail back. Using the side of my index finger, I rub smudged eyeliner from under my eyes, and tidy up the edges of my top line of liner with the point of my nail. Doing what he’s told me to irritates me to no end, but what other choice do I have? The windows in this God-forsaken bedroom are locked. There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do but humor this asshole for a while.

Besides, if I did get away from him, what then? Go back to a welcoming party at Papa’s thrown by the U.S. Government’s border agents? I still can’t believe the asshole did that.
Bide your time, Elena.
He expects me to try and run. He expects me to be panicked, feeling scared. I need to wait until he thinks I’m comfortable, until he drops his guard.

However long that’ll take.

I need to do it for Mama.

“
Señorita?
”

I poke my head around the door and into the bedroom to find a woman, probably younger than me, standing in the doorway to the hallway. “Yes?”

“
Señor
Redmond asked me to collect you and show you where he is.”

Probably in his office, like he always is.

“Oh.” Giving myself a quick last look in the mirror, I briefly close my eyes and channel the anger that’s helped me survive this long. I fought my way from Mama as a baby, and I’ll fight right up until they lower my casket in the ground . . . or my body is dumped on a roadside. However this ends.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

The woman looks at me for a beat before shaking her head. “Pardon me for staring. I’m not used to hearing many others with the same accent.”

“Where are you from?” I ask her as we head toward the grand staircase that leads down to the entrance of this ginormous house. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“No, we haven’t. I’m from the Dominican Republic.”

“You came here for work?”

“My whole family did.” She holds her hand out, gesturing for me to go first.

“How many in your family?” I look back at her as I guide myself down the stairs. Talking to this woman is calming, helping to distract me from what potentially lies ahead.

“Seven now.” Her eyes light up. “My sister just had her baby.”

“Congratulations.”

She leads us to the right of the stairs and down a hall that doubles back under where we’ve just come. “
Señor
will see you in here.”

I follow her directions through a set of double doors that lead into a modern yet opulently decorated sitting room. One of the millions of rooms in this damn prison I haven’t yet seen. “Thank you . . .?”

“Maria.”

“
Gracias,
Maria
.”

She turns and leaves me, heading the way we came. The silence of the house strikes me—it always has. I stand at the windows that overlook the front lawns and try to work out exactly what it is about the quiet that disturbs me when it hits. There’s nothing. Here I am, standing before large panels of glass and watching the gardener mow perfect lines in the lawn on a ride-on, and I can’t hear a single thing.

Knocking the back of my knuckles against the glass, I have to laugh at myself. What am I trying to do? Test how thick the glass is with the back of my hand? What am I? Some instant soundproofing know-it-all?

“The silence is lovely, isn’t it?”

My breath catches in my throat as though he’d caught me trying to escape.
Iron mask, Elena. Toughen up.
“I was wondering why it’s so quiet.”

Behind Carlos, a middle-aged man with short brown hair hesitates. He’s dressed in simple black slacks and a gray button-down shirt. But it’s what’s in his hand that disturbs me—a plain white folder.

“This is her.” Carlos holds his hand toward me, looking at the man. He addresses me as though I’m cattle being readied for sale.

The man nods at the crude introduction and moves into the room, laying the folder down on a timber mosaic side table. I edge closer. His weathered fingers open the document holder and slide a couple of sheets of paper from right to left. He pats his breast pocket, looking under the folder as though he might find what he’s searching for, despite the fact he was the very person who laid the documents on the blank surface to begin with. “Do you have a pen?”

So he speaks.
His accent is thick with a southern drawl.

Carlos steps over to a built-in bookcase and pulls out a small wooden box. Flicking the latch, he opens the lid and presents the man with an expensive-looking pen—gold. “I think the occasion calls for it.”

The man smiles nervously and then darts his gaze to me.

What the hell is he here for?

“Father’s name?”

The room falls quiet, and I realize Carlos is staring at me. “Your papa’s name, Elena.”

“Guillermo,” I answer hesitantly.
He can’t be doing this now . . .

The man scribbles on one of the documents and then stares up at me expectantly. I look between him and Carlos, determined not to answer and make this as difficult as possible for the bastards.

“I thought she knew what we’re doing?” the man with the pristine slacks asks Carlos.

Oh, I know what you’re doing.
I’d just rather he wasn’t.

“She knows.” Carlos looks at me and smiles, all wolfish again. “Your mama’s name?”

“I think you know that.”

He grins, amused by my retort, and looks to the man bent over the table. “Idoya.”

“Maiden name.”

“Del Olmo.”

Feeling out the seat behind me, I perch myself on the edge.
I thought I’d have more time.
It’s over—my life is over. I’m officially his now.

“Where were you born, Elena?” Carlos asks from where he now stands beside the man.

“You know that,” I whisper.

“No, I don’t. I know where you
lived
. Not where you were born.”

“I was born in Cuba,” I murmur into my hands. It’s too late; there’s nothing King can do now. Not when I’m legally bound to this asshole.

“Speak up, woman,” Carlos snaps.

“Cuba,” I repeat, louder.

“And your parents?” the man asks.

“Ask him,” I snap, pointing to Carlos. “He knows everything about me.” Pushing against the arms of the chair I stand and frown at the poor guy. None of this is his fault, but each strike of the pen against that paper makes the fire inside me burn brighter.

Carlos tutts, waggling his finger at me. “No, no, no, my love. That isn’t how this little game of Q and A works.” He places a finger under my chin, forcing me to stay looking at him. “Tell our guest about your parents. Were they born in Cuba?”

Shaking free of his hold, I sidestep him and march across to where the man waits beside the table. “My mother was also born in Cuba. Papa was born in Haiti.”

The man hunches over the documents again, scribbling the answers.

“You happy?” I face Carlos again, irritated by his presence. Just the way he stands with his feet shoulder width apart and his hands in pockets makes me want to lash out at the bully.

Our guest taps the pen on the table beside me as he looks over the pages and then slides one my way. “Sign here.”

Taking the gold pen from him, I force myself to look down at the documents.
Marriage registration.
It’s as if the words mock me, laid out so clearly in black and white. “Here comes the bride,” I murmur as I ink my role in this farce.

After all, is my freedom worth more than Mama’s?

Carlos bursts into laughter, crossing the room to look at the pages before me. “You knew this was coming.”

“Kind of hoped I’d find a way to get away from you before it actually happened, though.” I toss the pen down on the sheets, giving a little snort. “You must have been worried I would, otherwise why rush it? Mama’s passport doesn’t depend on me being married to you, so what’s the real plan here, Carlos? Got to be more than needing something to fuck, because Lord knows you’ve got enough help around here to keep you busy.” I jab a hand toward the windows. “For all I know you’re even doing the gardener.”

The humor slides from his face, and he raises a quick hand to slap me across the cheek, hard. “Shut up, you stupid bitch.” I place a hand to the burn as he leans forward, his stale breath fanning my face. “You’re right—we don’t need to be married to get your mama a passport, but what about a Visa? Huh? Did you think about that? She gets easier entry if it’s to be with family, and if we’re not married—”

“You’re not family, and I don’t get a green card.”

“Exactly,” he says, smiling.

“What does it matter to you though, if Mama makes it here to be with me or not?” I don’t get why he’s doing this. Carlos isn’t a man to do favors for no reward. But what do Mama and I have that he needs, that requires her to be in America?

“Would you rather I left her in Cuba? Perhaps I could call somebody, let the right person at
La Muerte
know she has no intention of giving in.”

My chin quivers, but I lift my face to him, defiant. “You wouldn’t.”

His top lip pulls back as his eyes harden. He leans in, nose to nose. “Try me, you desperate little bitch.”

Our guest clears his throat from behind our spectacle. “If I could get you to sign, Mr. Redmond, I can be on my way.”

The hatred, the clear abhorrence—it all disappears from Carlos’s face in the blink of an eye. “Of course.” He fidgets with his cuffs as he turns back to the side table, and picks up the pen.

My fingernails dig into my palm as I watch him sign the line marked ‘groom.’ The two men take their time discussing the process from here, ignoring my presence. They’ve got all they need from me. Carlos has made his point. I’m redundant in the situation now. I move to the window, seeking a distraction from what I’ve just done. But nothing appeases the nausea that grows as thick as my dread. 

He never answered my question: what does he need Mama here with me for? The only link I can find in our lives, to his, is the Colombian cartel that took away my grandfather. But what of it? They made their feelings on him known when they murdered him. Why would they want anything to do with us now? I can’t see what benefit Carlos gets from al of this. Although he’s made it perfectly clear there is one, that I have a use for him.