I took a drink, questions popped in my head, many of them refreshed after drying out. I had a time window to clarify my situation, but what should I ask next? I had a sense that each question was worth a credit, and I had only so many to use.
There was no evidence Renato would answer my questions. He might dodge some of them as he had already done, or simply make up some excuse. My mind was full of doubts still demanding answers.
I dragged a wooden chair from under the dinner table and sat on it. It required a proper upright posture to digest whatever I was about to hear.
Renato took a place across from me at the table. He sat stiff on the chair, watching me. The cup in his hands, instead of hydrating his body, would find a better use in humidifying his anxious throat.
And, God-be-damned, Renato looked terrific. He squinted at me, his black hair crossed his forehead on a lovely arch. His lips opened, on purpose, and then my questions washed out of my mind.
Renato exhaled a faint scent of fragility, emboldened by all the care he dedicated to his grandma. In contrast to his muscular, powerful body, it only made his whole picture more desirable.
Since we had departed Praia Palace, I did not have so great a chance to admire his features. My life had been turned upside down, yet the sex appeal of this man cast some sort of spell over me that brought my shaken up existence into a perfect balance—or maybe it was the other way around.
A girl laughed on the TV. I felt my cheeks heating up from the self-consciousness his caramel eyes had brought onto me.
“What am I running from?” I asked.
“Drug dealers.” He sipped his water.
I faltered on what to say next, my eyelashes fluttering on the absurdity of the moment.
“Why? What the hell they want me for?”
Renato stared at me.
“These guys are cold and cruel, they hardly take anything personal, Emily, like most successful businessmen do. They want you not because of who you are, but due to the value you can deliver to them. You’re an asset.”
“A valuable asset, like you’ve said before.”
“Highly valuable.”
I was a broken writer who had to earn a living writing about things I disliked, yet drug dealers from across the world seemed to have a great appreciation for my assets.
I just wished I had discovered earlier this gold mine I had suddenly turned into. It would have been great to know while still in Atlanta.
I had no choice but to laugh aloud from my inner joke. Renato, however, disliked my manners.
“I’ve put my grandma at risk for you. Do you think this is some kind of joke?” he said.
“Aren’t you the guy who brags about the risks he dare to take?”
“I don’t risk other people lives.”
Renato frowned. I felt ashamed for messing with the feelings he demonstrated for his grandma.
“I’m sorry. This is surreal, as if from a romance with a foul plot.”
“Perhaps it’s because what you find unbelievable is our daily life,” he replied, his eyes still fixed on me.
He might be right. I decided to go back to my questions. Instead of pushing the valuable asset matter. I would plunge into more practical things.
“I understand you are worried about me . . . but now that we’re safe, I need to let people know about my situation. I have a couple of calls to make and—”
Renato interrupted me.
“That’s not possible. No phone for you in Gloria Santa.”
Panic loomed, but I kept myself together.
“Am I being held captive?”
“I’m not a kidnapper, Emily. You can’t use my phone because they keep track of it. And if they ever suspect I’ve brought you here, we’re dead, all three of us.”
This was the first time he addressed the situation as us.
“What about your grandma’s phone?” I said.
Renato chuckled.
“The only gadgets she possess are a television from the nineties and a radio from the seventies.”
Looking around, that appeared to be the truth.
“So, are you also a valuable asset?”
Renato frowned.
“Not that I am aware of. Why do you ask?”
“Well, you just said your Sim card is trackable, just like the one you gave me.”
His eyes roamed to different places inside the building—the TV behind me, the cup on the table, my watch, the staircase on my right—as if he pondered what to say next, a made up story or the facts. After a couple of seconds, his gaze returned.
“I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but you also must understand that I had no other option.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighed, shifted over his chair before speaking.
“Mosts favelas in Rio are controlled by drug dealers.”
“What about Gloria Santa?” I asked.
“Gloria Santa is somewhat . . . pacified, reason why I believe we are safe in here. But there are favelas in Rio heavily controlled by drug dealers, and people unlucky enough to dwell them usually have two options to choose from: either oblige to drug rules or die. And given that dying is not a conscious option, people end up with only one, which is basically how I’ve been grabbed by them.”
“Ok.” I said and paused. “So you have no choice, you get dragged into a drug dealer’s crime web and have to do jobs for them. Like picking me up at the airport? And having your own phone busted. But how do I fit in this situation?”
“My job was to pick up an American tourist at the airport, deliver her a Sim card, and while driving her to the hotel, swerve the path
