And when Este tired of the fear, he’d fuck her with his gun. He did that to a woman once, the only woman he remotely had feelings for. He would do it again. Luisa would love the danger of it all. He knew she liked fucked up shit like that.
And then Este would pull the trigger while it was deep inside her.
And then he would rule the world.
CHAPTER FIVE
Luisa
Sometimes, lately anyway, when I thought back to the day I had married Javier, my mind got all lost and jumbled. Confused. I brought up images of my wedding to Salvador Reyes. Perhaps because I was terribly nervous before both.
Of course I was nervous with Salvador, because I knew how powerful he was. I knew he had the capacity to hurt me, I knew I wasn’t in love — or even “in like” — with him. And I was a virgin. But I hadn’t expected to be nervous with Javier.
It was only a month after he killed Salvador and I joined Javier at his compound — this same compound — that Javier proposed to me.
We were in bed one Sunday morning. Sundays were the best days. We’d awake when the sun rose in the east and streamed in through the windows, then we’d spend a few hours under the covers. Sometimes we’d make love right away, other times we’d wait until coffee was delivered. But we never got out of bed unsatisfied.
That morning, Javier was in a quiet mood. This was nothing new — sometimes something dark and heavy would befall him. I could see it in his eyes. They didn’t quite have that intensity anymore and he seemed to be tortured subtly by some inner demons. I knew he had a lot of them.
We made love slowly. He took his time, not in a torturous, teasing way¸ but as if he were trying to memorize me, hold on to every second, every moment. It unnerved me because I wasn’t used to it. I was used to dangerous, rough, wild sex, or quick and passionate sex. But not this forlorn, pensive emotion. Not from him.
After we both came with soft cries, he slid out of me from behind then flipped me over so that I was on my back. He climbed on top of me, his weight on his elbows on either side of my shoulders. He brushed my hair off my damp face, the sun and our sex heating up the room, and those wonderful eyes of his peered down at me.
They were searching, like a hawk, golden in the light, but they were sad. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him sad. It made me hold my breath and I wrapped my hands around the small of his back, brushing gently against his skin, holding his body to me.
“Do you love me?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.
I stared up at him in surprise. Of course I loved him. With everything I had. Didn’t I tell him that all the time? Even though I had yet to hear it back, I still told him because I was unashamed of the truth.
“I love you,” I told him.
“Do you want me to love you?” he asked, fainter now. He ran the tip of his fingers along my forehead, down my cheekbones, across my jaw, more gentle than a feather.
I didn’t know how to answer that. Did he not love me?
Could he?
Would he?
So I said, “Yes.”
He carefully licked his lips, brows furrowed slightly in thought.
“Do you want me to marry you?”
Now I was really surprised. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. My mouth dropped open and my brain and heart battled each other for a moment, wondering if my answer would set me up for some sort of humiliation.
But still, the truth. “Yes,” I whispered.
“Good,” he said, and only then did he give me the quietest of smiles. “Because I love you, Luisa. Even when I thought I didn’t have it in me, I do. I love you. And I want you to be my wife. My queen. My everything. Rule with me.” He leaned closer and kissed me delicately on the lips. “Marry me.”
And I said yes. The room grew brighter. The sun filled my soul. And I thought I could never be happier.
We laughed, drunk on love, on the future, and we made love several times that morning. He wouldn’t stop. He was insatiable. I couldn’t stop either. I was just so taken with him that I wanted him to keep taking me. Forever.
The wedding happened a week later. Needless to say, there wasn’t much planning. When most narcos get married, it turns into a nationwide celebration. Mayors and Sinaloan officials are supposed to show up, as well as the narco families whom Javier had good relations with. They are supposed to be huge feasts, real traditional parties. I should know — I had just that with Salvador.
But maybe because of my past, Javier opted for something quiet. In fact, it was just me, him, a minister, and Este as the witness. In a small, thick-walled church out in the middle of the hills. At least it had a beautiful view of the valley and Culiacán in the distance. A view of everything that would belong to me.
And yet I was nervous. Tapping my foot, picking at my simple white dress that was as delicate as a nightgown. I was nervous, because to me, this was it. Javier was it. If anything went wrong, if it all went south, there wouldn’t be anyone else. I wanted him forever or I wanted nothing.
I had reason to be nervous, it turned out. Because now, as I sat alone at the kitchen table pouring myself another glass of wine, the evening breeze sweeping through the screened window and bringing with it the smell of rain and relief, I realized I had nothing.
The other night, when he finally succumbed to me, I knew I wouldn’t get another chance again. I don’t know how I knew it, but I did. I saw it in his face after we were done. I didn’t care about the pain. I didn’t care about the scarring or the blood. I didn’t care if he hit me (which he didn’t, and wouldn’t, it wasn’t his style). I knew that made me sound like a pathetic, lovesick woman, but it was the truth.