••• PART 2 •••

Pablo’s definition of freedom is a strange one. In order to let his beloved hostage Sarah out of the jail cell he calls her bedroom, he has given her a new identity.

For the young girl who now lives under the name of Emilia Kovács, fear is the price of freedom, as she faces the distrustful gazes and intrusive questions of those who surround her.

As long as the truth about her identity remains untold, Emilia can enjoy a lifestyle more lavish than anything she could have ever dreamed of, but when you’re living amongst drug lords and criminals, danger is never very far away.

•••

I only had one tiny shard of freedom, and Pablo held it in the palm of his hand.

With just a single mood swing in the wrong direction, he could crush it. He could kill me, or worse, lock me back up in my lavender-walled bedroom.

My fake identity wouldn’t last long. People would keep asking questions, and I wouldn’t have any answers. They’d doubt me, they’d talk to each other, and they’d figure it all out.

I didn’t know what would happen to me once this flimsy mask eventually slipped off. At least, I didn’t know the details, but I couldn’t imagine it would mean anything good for me.

I had stared at my bedroom ceiling all morning, longing for Mafer’s hugs and advice. I’d wondered if this life was worth living if I knew I was getting dangerously close to its expiration date.

Then I remembered I had nothing to lose. I recalled Pablo’s words, when he asked me if I had anything to go home to. And so, once again, I chose to stay, to play along and see what happened.

I could try to fly under the radar. To hide in Pablo’s shadow. To make people believe I was stupid and uninteresting, and to convince them they were better off just leaving me alone.

When my time came, I’d take it in stride and greet Death like an old friend, and I would die peacefully with a belly full of caviar and expensive champagne.

So I did it. I walked out of my room and into the warm hallways, like an old, fat cow strides into a slaughterhouse–with a steady step, a tired smile on my face, and a heavy pit in my stomach.

In the garden, on a tiled patio, beneath a couple of palm trees, a large table had been set for breakfast. I was the first to arrive. The table was overflowing with bowls and baskets filled with fresh tropical fruit and steaming pastries. Clean porcelain plates and crystal cups, set up with meticulous care for geometry, glimmered in the morning sun.

Honestly, the dishes might have just been made of regular glass and ceramic. I wasn’t well-acquainted with fancy tableware, and I couldn’t really tell the difference. But it looked lavish enough for me, and if it wasn’t luxury, then the illusion was perfect.

In the fantasy I’d chosen to treat myself with, I would–now and forever more–only be surrounded with the finest things. I breathed in the ambient fresh air and smiled, as I sat down on a comfortable chair and my finger gently traced down my plate’s golden trim.

A young maid poured me a cup of hot, fragrant coffee, and my eyes settled on a pile of biscuits doused in what seemed to be honey. I reached over to grab it and indulge in the better aspects of the life Pablo could offer me.

“No Seño,” said the maid as she pulled the basket away. “For you, steak.”

A stream of insults and complaints almost escaped my lips. Instead, I sat up, coughed, and calmly stated:

“I can have both.”

She shook her head no, and moved the basket to the other side of the table.

“Too much food,” she tutted.

I quietly seethed as she walked away from the table, leaving me alone with the tantalizing mountains of food I wasn’t supposed to touch. I still dared myself to grab a small sugar cookie while no one was watching. Sue me, little lady.

As I popped it in my mouth and began eyeing the colorful macaroons on another tray, a sultry voice pierced through the quiet sound of singing birds.

“Hello, Emily Smith,” said Juan Sandoval.

I jumped, and blushed, and suddenly felt very naked in my pink satin nightie. I hid my bandaged arm in the folds of the tablecloth, and wiped away the powdered sugar left on my plate by my stolen cookie.

“What?” I stuttered.

“Emily Smith,” he repeated with a shit-eating grin. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” I frowned.

“Yes, it is. Google it. Kovács is just Hungarian for Smith. And Emily, well that goes without saying.”

I cocked an eyebrow and shrugged at him.

“Okay, but why?“.

“I’ve Americanized your name so that you can pronounce it,” he answered proudly. “Emilia Ko-vacks.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No,” I mumbled. “You do what you want.”

Juan was not only doubting my nationality. He was doubting my name, my whole identity. Emily Smith was the fakest name anyone had ever heard, and I internally cursed Pablo or whoever lacked originality enough that they had come up with it.

“Alright, Emily Smith. Let’s see... what are you drinking?” Juan asked, grabbing my cup to inspect it.

“Why are you so invasive?” I hissed, and swatted his hand away.

“I’m just probing,” he shrugged. “You’re new, and you’re weird, so I’m trying to figure you out.”

“I’m the weird one?” I scoffed. “I’m not the one probing people at breakfast.”

“Well, I would have probed you yesterday, but you left without even saying goodbye,” he pouted.

“I was really tired,” I sighed. “And please stop using the word probe.”

“Why? Am I making you uncomfortable, Emily Smith?” he asked with a sly smile.

“Extremely.”

Juan started a staring contest with the side of my face, and I could feel his gaze piercing through the skin on my cheek. I tried to stare at something else. Anything but Juan’s eyes. His beady, googly, peering eyes, burning with questions, with suspicions, with evil and malice.

A fly landed on a papaya. It trampled over it with its hairy little legs, smearing it with god-knows-who’s feces, and stared at me with its big black, bloated eyes.

The taste of vomit tinted the back of my mouth, and I didn’t know if it was because of Juan, the other pest, or the smell of yet another breakfast steak coming my way.

The young maid who’d scolded me for wanting a single pastry handed me a plate with a massive, juicy steak. A beautiful sight, in any other situation, but a nauseating one for me on that particular day.

“Rump steak for breakfast?” Juan raised an eyebrow. “Great choice.”

“Doctor’s orders,” I shrugged, but he was already snapping his fingers at the young maid who was walking away.

“Majo, yo también quiero un puyazo,” he said to her. “Término azul. Porfa.”

Majo, I want rump steak too. Extra rare. Please.

“Como el de la Seño?” she answered, visibly taken aback. “Es para su salud. Normalmente no hacemos puyazo para el desayuno.”

Like the Lady’s? It’s for her health. We don’t normally do rump steak for breakfast.

“Me vale verga, Majo,” sighed Juan. “Si lo pueden hacer para ella, lo pueden hacer para mí.”

I don’t give a shit, Majo. If you can make one for her, you can make one for me.

“Va, está bien. Te llevo tu puyazo,” she shrugged. “Pero sos bien extraño, Juan.”

Alright. I’ll get you your rump steak. But you’re a very strange man, Juan.

“¿Por qué extraño?,” he grinned. “A ti también te como el puyazo en la mañana, ¿no?”

Why strange? I’ve eaten your rump in the morning too, haven’t I?

The young maid blushed and stared at me.

“Juan, ¿qué te pasó?” she whispered. “¿Y la Seño?”

Juan, what is going on with you? What about the Lady?

“Ella? No habla español,” he chuckled, and looked up at me. “Ni puede hablar su propio idioma. Esta bien pendeja.”

Her? She doesn’t speak Spanish. She can’t even speak her own language. She’s an idiot.

“El pendejo eres tú, Juan,” she seethed. “Casi me diste un ataque.”

You’re the idiot, Juan. You almost gave me a heart attack.

“Sabes lo tanto que me gusta molestarte,” he answered with a smile. “Pues, nos vemos más tarde.”

You know how much I enjoy bullying you. Anyways, I’ll see you later.”

“Cállate Juan. Me vas a causar problemas,” she muttered. “Disfruta tu puyazo, porque hoy no te doy otro.”

Shut up Juan, you’re going to get me in trouble. Enjoy your rump steak, you won’t be getting another one today.

She gave him a disdainful glare before she turned around and stomped away. Juan watched her leave with a boyish grin, and I grudgingly began to eat my breakfast steak.

“Interesting conversation,” I mumbled.

Juan coughed as he choked on the coffee he had just swallowed. His large black eyes opened wide as he stared at me in disbelief.

“Oh, you speak Spanish?” he asked, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he tried to remain calm.

I only knew enough Spanish to understand that Juan and this maid had a thing going on, that I wasn’t supposed to hear this conversation, and that he was just as much of an asshole in other languages as he was in English. The rest of the details were lost in translation - not that I really wanted to know them anyway.

“Not really,” I shrugged, willingly underplaying how much Spanish I understood. “But I know what pendejo means.”

I had visibly managed to destabilize Juan enough for him to shut up and stop looking at me for a couple of minutes. Long enough for me to get through half of my steak and a whole cup of coffee, and for his plate to arrive. The maid quietly left it on the table, and, this time, she and Juan barely exchanged a glance.

“Next time, just ask for them to bring you the cow while it’s still alive,” I scoffed at the sight of his almost raw steak.

Big mistake. I immediately learned my lesson: never engage in a conversation with someone who makes you want to die every time they open their mouth.

“I like my meat fresh, Emily Smith,” he chuckled. “Not old and wrinkly, like you do.”

I rolled my eyes and answered with nothing more than the screech of my knife against my plate.

“I was referring to you and Pablo,” he added.

“I understood that,” I muttered.

“It’s a joke, I’m kidding,” he continued. “Pablo’s a great guy. Many would argue you’re a very lucky woman.”

“Oh really,” I sneered. “A great guy?”

Juan’s nose scrunched up, as if he was taken aback by what I had just said.

“Why wouldn’t he be?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I quipped. “Maybe because he’s a criminal?”

“All he does is grow and sell weed, Emilia,” answered Juan, his head tilted to the side. “As far as I know that never hurt anyone. He’s basically just a glorified farmer.”

“All he does is grow and sell weed?” I repeated, first with a mocking tone, and then it hit me: Juan probably didn’t know anything about the kidnappings. I wondered if he actually believed himself when he said that Pablo was a good person.

“Mostly weed,” he shrugged. “We’re getting into other stuff, like cocaine and synthetic drugs, and I guess you could argue about the morality of it, but the money is pretty good.”

“Oh well if the money’s good, who cares about the morality, right?” I sneered.

“A lot of the money goes to the charity, so I guess it kind of balances things out.”

“The charity?” I asked.

“Pablo’s charity. He hasn’t told you about it?”

“I didn’t know Pablo had a charity.”

“The Pablo Juarez Foundation for Children,” said Juan with a proud grin.

I almost choked on a piece of steak. I covered my mouth with my hand as I tried to dislodge it between two fits of giggles, and stared at Juan in disbelief.

“Is this a joke?” I asked.

“No, it’s very clever, actually.” He smiled. “Payments for the shipments are made as donations to the charity. It’s a great way to launder money and the clients can get tax deductions.”

“You guys are using a children’s charity as a front for your drug dealing business?” I gasped.

“Yeah, and then what we can’t spend, we use to fund programs. We’ve built schools, roads, and lots of stuff. I’d wager that makes us good people.”

“Whatever makes you feel better about yourself,” I scoffed.

Juan had a smug smirk on his face. The moron actually seemed proud of himself and his shady business. He probably boasted about it whenever someone was in earshot. My name is Juan Sandoval, I’m a narcotrafficker, just like my Daddy and my godfather, and I forgive myself for all the times someone has overdosed on my product because I give my clients tax write-offs. Maybe he was in fact as dumb as Pablo had told me he was.

“So, there’s just one thing I don’t understand, Emily Smith. What is a pretty, young girl like you doing dating Pablo?” Juan asked. “Are you some kind of sugar baby or do you actually have a thing for dad bods?”

“Pablo doesn’t have a dad bod,” I mumbled.

“He does, compared to me,” said Juan as he started to get up from his chair and lifted his T-shirt. “Wanna see?”

“Fuck no,” I spat. “Sit down.”

Juan grinned, and the tip of his tongue stuck out through his perfect teeth. I hated that he had such a cute smile, such a sharp jawline, and such captivating eyes, and that part of me -most of me, really- actually did want to take a peek at his abs. Juan knew the effect that his charming appearance had on women, and he certainly knew how to use it to my disadvantage.

“Emily Smith, are you blushing?” he gasped jokingly.

“God you’re annoying,” I seethed, as my fingers wrapped a little tighter around my cutlery. “Just shut the fuck up, please. Just for like, a minute.”

“Okay Emily Smith, will do.”

I counted up to sixty in my head to see if he’d be childish enough to honor that demand too literally, and only stop talking for a minute and not one second more. As time ticked by, his grin grew wider and the furrow in my brow dug deeper.

Eight seconds. He was still staring straight at me, and his searing gaze felt like a tickle on my skin. I couldn’t look away.

Twenty-six. Juan blinked. His eyelashes were long and looked soft as feathers.

Twenty-nine. He blinked again. Wait- no, was that a wink?

Forty-one. His eyes were mesmerizing, and in a very unsettling way. They seemed so warm, yet so daunting. Like an endless pit you can’t stop yourself from leaning over. An alluring abyss.

Fifty-three. I was consumed by the void of Juan’s dark, black eyes. I floated away in them, like a speck of cosmic dust in the vast emptiness of space.

Fifty-nine. I don’t want to look away.

“Why are you staring?” whispered Juan.

I opened my mouth to try and stammer out an answer, but the sound of Pablo’s voice came to my rescue. We both turned around to watch as Pablo, his brother, and Hernan Sandoval walked toward us.

“Hola Tio Pablo, hola Tio Oscar,” cheered Juan, before he added in a jokingly solemn voice: “Buenos días, estimado Padre.”

Hi Uncle Pablo, hi Uncle Oscar. Good morning, dear Father.

“Hola mi Juanito Lindo,” cooed Pablo as he gently tousled Juan’s hair.

Hi, my lovely little Juan.

Oscar smiled and kissed me on the cheek before he sat down. Hernan sighed and nodded politely. Pablo stood behind me and gently scratched the top of my head.

“How are you feeling, Gordita?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” I answered.

“How have you and Juan been getting on?”

“We’ve had a delightful conversation, haven’t we, Emily Smith?” sneered Juan.

I rolled my eyes, and Oscar laughed out loud.

“He’s one annoying little fucker,” he said, “but he grows on you. Like mold.”

“I’m sure he does,” I sighed.

“Steak for breakfast?” groaned Hernan. “Juan, seriously?”

“Let the poor kid eat,” answered Pablo. “Look at him, he’s malnourished. I think I want one too, actually. Oscar, Hernan? What are you having?”

“Majo, puyazos para todos,” ordered Oscar.

Majo, rump steak for everyone.

The men settled around the table. Juan was on my right, Pablo on my left, and Hernan sat across from me. I felt imprisoned, trapped, pinned down on my chair by the three men in this world that I trusted the least. Beto Arias arrived shortly after, adding a cherry on my coffin and a nail in my cake.

Great, I thought. This breakfast is just a repeat of yesterday’s disaster, except this time I’m stuck sitting next to Juan and I can’t leave until I’ve finished this massive piece of steak.

“I have some bad news,” began Oscar as he and the other men settled around the table. “The Zetas are pushing South again. Last I’ve heard they were about fifty kilometers away from your farms in the North-East, Hernan. They’re more interested in the-”

“Fuck, Pablo,” interrupted Gustavo as he walked towards the table. “Where did you hire these maids from? A fucking brothel? I just walked in on one of my guards railing one in the kitchen downstairs. Again.”

“You’re my Head of Security and you don’t know where the maids were hired?” frowned Pablo.

“It’s a figure of speech,” sighed Gustavo. “But this has to stop. They are constantly distracting my men. One day we’ll need them and they’ll be too busy getting their cocks sucked in the laundry room, and somebody’s going to die.”

“Then do your damn job and deal with the bodyguards,” groaned Pablo. “I don’t handle the maids, thus, not my fucking problem. Oscar, please continue.”

“Right, thanks,” chirped Oscar. “As I was saying, they’re more interested in the routes than in the land, but according to some rumors they’ve been massacring farmers who don’t work for them. Here are a few pictures we found. Intel says it’s not a hundred percent sure yet, but the beheadings seem like a very Zeta thing to do.”

The men around me mumbled as they squinted at the screen to take a better look. I declined the offer to look at the pictures, contempt enough with watching the blood seep out of my steak.

My eyes trailed off to an open pack of cigarettes someone had put down beside me. I took one out, lit it, and let the smoke fill in my lungs and drown out all of these men’s faces.

I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to talk about drugs. I didn’t want to listen to the tales of how the bodyguards are frolicking with the maids on the countertops where my meal was cooked. I didn’t want to hear about the way narco-traffickers usually kill their victims and dispose of their bodies. I didn’t want to speak to these people and sit next to them. I didn’t want to be featured in the next picture they would nonchalantly pass around a breakfast table.

I wanted to sit alone at a pretty white table and stuff my face with fruit and pastries, listening to tropical bird songs and the distant melody of a happy salsa. I wanted to drink cocktails by the pool, to stand barefoot on the dewy grass with daisies between my toes, to dance alone in my bedroom, to blabber on about sweet nothings with Mafer, over a heated game of Tic-Tac-Toe.

“Emily Smith,” whispered Juan. “Snap out of it.”

“Earth calling Emilia,” chuckled Pablo.

I all but gasped in surprise as I was pulled away from my daydream and back to reality. I looked around the table, still a little dazed, at all the men who were staring right at me with half-amused, half-confused gazes.

“Girls, this is my girlfriend Emilia,” said Pablo to the two women standing by his side.

Both of these women were mind-numbingly beautiful. The definition of stunning. The kind of beautiful that, when they walk into a room, everyone stops talking. The faces you think only exist in magazines, and once you finally meet them, you just can’t stop staring.

“Hi,” I breathed.

“This is Andrea,” said Pablo, pointing to the dark-haired girl who had tangled up her manicured fingers in his brother’s curls. “She’s Oscar’s girlfriend.”

Andrea was quite younger than her boyfriend, yet a little older than me. She had a pageant queen’s smile and looked like she had just walked straight off a stage, with her iron-curled hair and perfect makeup. She looked like an angel, with her tiny little nose, and her pretty cupid’s bow, and her kind almond-shaped eyes.

“And that’s Manée,” he continued, pointing at the other woman. “Well, her name is Maria Renée, but that’s a mouthful, so we just say Manée.”

Manée had ashy blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and a mystifying stare. She had high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a peculiar nose that tied it all together. She was tall, slender, and elegantly dressed.

If Andrea was a pageant queen, then Manée was a high-fashion model. And the only thing that it made me feel, was a gnawing sense of envy. I smiled politely, and stood up to greet them.

“Hi Emily!” squealed the dark-haired girl as she wrapped an arm around me and squeezed me in to kiss me on the cheek. “We wanted to meet you yesterday but you left just before we arrived.”

“It’s Emilia,” I corrected her with a nervous giggle.

“What happened to your arm?” asked Manée, pointing to my bandages.

“Oh,” I stuttered. “I- uh, I cut myself.”

“No way!” she chuckled. “How?”

“With a razor blade,” I mumbled.

She raised her eyebrows and smirked.

“What, while shaving?”

“Manée,” muttered Juan, who was glaring right at her.

“No,” I deadpanned. “I tried to kill myself.”

Manée wasn’t shocked. She knew what she was doing. Her smirk turned into a toothy smile, and her blue eyes dug into me like precious little daggers.

“Wow, Pablo,” she scoffed. “You sure know how to choose them.”

“Manée!” scolded everyone in unison.

Juan huffed and stood up, almost knocking over his chair. He grabbed Manée by the elbow and pulled her away from the table. They disappeared behind a small hedge of pothos, palm trees and Chinese evergreens, but even from a distance, we could hear them begin to scream. Hernan quickly stood up and joined them.

All eyes were on Pablo now, who was silently seething at the table. His closed fists tensed and pulsed, and without a word, he got up from his chair and walked over to them. Beto and Gustavo, a light panic drawn on their faces, trailed behind him.

Andrea was about to trot over and eavesdrop, but Oscar held her by the hand and gently pulled her back. An awkward silence ensued. They both stared at me like they pretended to care, and I glared at the bloody steak on my plate.

“Hey Em, are you okay?” asked Oscar.

“Yeah,” I sniffled with a polite smile. “Thank you for asking.”

“Sorry about Manée,” murmured Andrea. “She can really be a bitch sometimes. But don’t take it personally, she’s like that with everyone.”

“Everyone?” I scoffed. “Who invited her, then?”

“She’s Juan’s fiancée,” explained Oscar.

“Huh, that explains a lot,” I gulped.

Juan and Manée seemed like a match made in heaven. Both of them were incredibly attractive and shamelessly aggravating. I was glad the universe had paired the two of them together, and spared the rest of us the trouble of a relationship with either one of these terrible people.

The schadenfreude was a soothing feeling too. Manée could be as beautiful as she was, and as rude as she wanted, and it wouldn’t change the fact that her fiancé was planning on eating a maid’s rump later that day.

I jumped out of my train of thoughts, and wiped off the cold-hearted smile that had snuck onto my face. I looked up at Oscar and Andrea and, hoping they hadn’t noticed my reaction, I decided to change the conversation.

“So, uh, are you guys engaged or something?”

“Not yet,” he answered.

“But it’s coming soon,” added Andrea with a beaming grin. “Right, Oscar?”

The love in his eyes as he looked up at her and grinned was endearing, albeit a little painful to watch for someone like me. I wished that someday I’d find someone who could look at me like that. Preferably someone who hadn’t kidnapped me. In the meantime, I wished that people would stop taunting me with their nauseating displays of love and affection. I smiled at the two lovebirds, but really, I just wanted to vomit.

“Hey Andrea,” said Oscar. “You know what you should do? Take Emilia out to go shopping or something.”

“Oh my God, yes! Let’s go to San José!” she squealed with excitement.

“Where’s San José?” I asked.

“It’s like, a half-hour drive away. Haven’t you been there?” she answered.

“Not yet, I don’t think,” I stuttered. “But, can I go?”

“I don’t see why not,” shrugged Oscar. “Just tell Pablo.”

“Should we invite Manée too?” said Andrea, with a naive lift in her already high-pitched voice.

“Uh, maybe another day,” mumbled Oscar.

“Alright,” she chirped. “Let’s go right after breakfast.”

“I’ll go get ready now, then.” I smiled, pushing my plate away and standing up from my chair. “I’m not very hungry anymore.”

They answered with friendly nods, and I walked back to the house. I silently passed by the other group, whose argument was still going strong, with my head bowed down and not a single glance. Despite my best attempts to go by unnoticed, Juan jogged up to me, and I turned around as he hollered:

“Hey, Emilia! Sorry about Manée. She’s just-”

“What, joking? I don’t care, Juan. Really, I don’t give a shit. Keep your fake fucking apology for yourself.”

His face had seemed soft for a second, but my answer made his eyebrows draw together and the muscles in his jaw stiffen.

“Alright, will do,” he shrugged, and the tone in his voice turned mischievous. “Anyway, it’s been great getting to know you. I’m not yet sure how you’ll fit with Pablo, but I’m sure I’ll figure that out when I meet the real you.”

Anger bubbled up in my chest. I felt like a feral cat, cornered in a back street, and it took all the strength in me not to lash out at his smug face with my claws out.

“You know what, Juan?” I spat. “You’re very fucking mouthy for someone who’s cheating on their fiancée with one of Pablo’s maids.”

His brow furrowed and his nose scrunched up, his eyes narrowed and turned into burning pits of anger. He sneered at me and let out a humorless chuckle.

“Piece of advice, Emily Smith,” hissed Juan as he leaned in closer to my ear. “When you’re playing poker, you don’t show your cards until you’re sure you’re going to win.”

Have Me For Breakfast

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