As if he wanted his only son—my only brother—permanently erased from existence.
I fidget uncomfortably in my seat. I try to withdraw my hand from my father’s, but he doesn’t let go.
“You played well tonight, you know,” he murmurs. “The men from Colombia were impressed.” He’s smiling, but the warmth of it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Gracias, Papa,” I mumble, only because I know how irritated he gets when I don’t respond to him.
He tsks in annoyance anyway. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
He’s still smiling, but I know that look of his—it’s a deliberate smile. He called me out here for a reason.
“Yes, Papa,” I say respectfully.
“My beautiful daughter,” he continues. “What a prize you are.”
I look down, say nothing.
“I’ve seen all the women in the world,” he tells me. “There are plenty of beauties out there. You are pretty enough, yes, but there are many women who are prettier.”
He reaches out with his other hand, grabs my chin, and turns my face side to side like he’s studying me for flaws.
He releases my chin and brushes back a strand of hair from my face. “I have good news for you, my doll.”
My body tenses up. This is it. We’re getting to the point of this late-night visit.
His grin broadens, but there’s still no warmth in his eyes. There never has been. It’s just like a wolf smiling at you before he takes a bite.
“The time has come,” he announces, “for you to get married.”
His words engulf me with ice-cold dread.
No. Please, God, no.
This can’t be happening. Not yet.
I thought I had longer.
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them: “Please, Papa, don’t make me get married.”
The smile never wavers off his face.
Not even when his hand rears back in the darkness and then swings through the air, making harsh contact with my cheek and the left side of my jaw.
The sharp crack of knuckle on flesh rings out.
He slapped me.
I collapse backwards, skull rapping against the back of the chair. Pain sears through my face and my eyes start to water.
Don’t cry, I hiss inwardly. Don’t you dare cry in front of him.
“What a shame, Esmeralda,” Papa continues calmly, as if nothing had happened. “You sound ungrateful. I did not raise you to be an ungrateful child.”
My instinct is to lay my hand across my stinging cheek, but I resist the urge and blink back my unshed tears.
I let my mask slip. I should’ve known better than that.
“Papa, I didn’t mean to be ungrateful,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “I know you will only ever do what’s best for me.”
I hate myself for saying it, but it’s what he wants to hear. And as sick as it is, that’s the only thing that will make this nightmare stop.
Tell him what he wants to hear.
Wait until he’s gone.
Only then can I cry. Only then can I retreat into my room, scream into my pillow, and pretend none of this is happening.
“You are young and beautiful,” Papa continues, his eyes glazing over. He wears the same look anytime he is trying to broker a new deal. “You must do your part for the family. You will do your part for the family. Won’t you, Esme?”
He turns to look at me. The smile is back, the cold sneer that cuts like the sharp edge of a dagger.
I nod, not daring to look up at him. “Yes, Papa. I will do my part.”
“That’s my little bird. Now, come with me. I want to show you something.”
I frown. Surprises from my father are never good. But he’s still clinging tight onto my hand, and just like everything else that’s happening around me, I don’t have a choice in the matter.
Robotically, I follow him out of the drawing room. I expect him to turn right, but he turns left instead and goes downstairs. My heart thuds unevenly as he leads me to a room at the bottom of the staircase.
The thick steel door is flanked by two of Papa’s guards. One of them opens the door for us to pass through.
The moment I walk into the room, I scream, my voice cuts through the quiet of night like a siren’s wail.
“No!”
Miguel sits limp on a chair. He’s bound and gagged and his head hangs low on his chest. His clothes are ripped, bloodied, and his features are marred by the vicious beating his face has taken.
“Miguel,” I whisper as hot tears roll down my cheeks.
He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t look up. I don’t even think he hears me at all. He’s just groaning softly as blood streams from the many cuts on his swollen cheeks and forehead.
I turn to my father in horror.
He’s regarding me with cool detachment. “You see what your actions have caused?”
“Is… is he dead?” The words feel like acid coming out of my mouth but I have to ask.
Oh, God, his wife, his newborn daughter. What have I done?
“No,” Papa replies in a bored voice. “But the next time he disobeys one of my orders, he will be. He understands that now. Do you?”
His eyes bore into mine. I nod slowly. “Yes, Papa.”
“There will be no more midnight outings for you, my daughter,” he continues. “I have turned a blind eye for too long. But you are not a child anymore. It is time you learned to obey. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Papa.”
He smiles. I wonder if there was ever a time when I had loved the man standing in front of me.
All I can see now is a monster.
“Good.”
I glance towards Miguel but I dare not move any closer to him. I only hope he knows how sorry I am.
I flee the room as fast as I can and run to my bedroom. Then I throw myself down on my bed and cry until sleep takes me.
“Señorita Esme?”
A
