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My father sneers, a deep hatred for the young kingpin darkening his features. “You let me worry about Cruz. When we get home, you pack. I want to be out of here by five am. We’ll go to the airport in Ponce for a flight to the mainland.
The rest of the way home, my stomach churns. Battling for supremacy in my head is hope for escape and fear that all will be lost. My bag is soon packed, and I spend most of the night worrying through all the possible disastrous scenarios. What will happen if we’re caught? What will happen if we’re not?
I wake early despite getting little sleep. My nerves are shot, and I nearly jump out of my skin when Apá knocks on my door just before five. He bustles me through the garage, where Ruiz waits, parked next to the closed bays.
Ruiz hands over the keys to his Mustang and takes my bag from me. After placing it in the trunk, he enters the garage, opening the door hiding the BMW I tried to drive last week.
Ruiz rejoins us at his car and squeezes my shoulder before dropping into the BMW and rolling down the driveway with the headlights off. Apá must have told him.
Ruiz must be acting as a decoy for us to have a real chance at escape. Apá urges me into the passenger seat of the sports car, and a few minutes later, he steers the Mustang through the open gate.
No cars wait at the curb anywhere near the driveway. The streetlight is out near the guard shack, and the Mustang’s dark tinted windows mean anyone who sees us will assume Ruiz is driving his car.
From our neighborhood, we turn toward Condado, headed for the expressway and, ultimately, the airport in Ponce. We drive beneath the overpass to reach the onramp, but a car squeals into a U-turn from the other side, angling across the lanes ahead of us.
My father swears and shifts the sports car in reverse. Another car turns behind us, blocking the other side. We can’t get out.
Several men exit the cars, and the darkness erupts in gunfire. “Get down!” Apá yells.
I drop my head to my knees, covering my ears and screaming at the deafening sounds. Glass shatters, raining over my head. The thundering blasts seem to go on forever, but in reality, they only last a few seconds.
The barrage ends, and the driver’s door is pulled open. A terrifying sound carries over the ringing in my ears. “Did you think I was playing? That I wouldn’t do it?”
I lift my head and turn in time to see Dario pull my father’s still body from the car. He’s covered in blood and doesn’t move when dropped onto the pavement. I scream and grasp the door handle on my side, but Dario reaches inside to grab my arm to stop me.
“No, no. You’re not going anywhere. I think you’ve proven that you can’t be trusted.”
Fighting the rising panic, I imbue venom in my reply, “I can’t be trusted? What do you think El Gran is going to say when he finds out my father is dead? He’s the one who promised Apá I wouldn’t be forced to work with you. Otero will ask who killed him. What will you say?”
“Who killed your father? That would be you, sweetheart. I told you what would happen if you ran. If Cirilo dies, I’ll show El Gran pictures of us and tell him how you left your father to be free from his control. You returned to San Juan, only to be told how to manage your life. You set up this ambush to be free of him once and for all.”
I look at my father, who still hasn’t moved, and tears roll. I underestimated Dario. If he sells me out to El Gran, his revenge, my fate, will be much worse. Dario is right. I did kill my father.
“Aww,” Dario says mockingly. He reaches over to wipe my cheeks, but I swat his hand away.
Dario grabs my throat and slams me against the window. “You’re mine now, bruja. Play nice, or I’ll give you to my top enforcer. He likes his women feisty… so he can break them. After all, it doesn’t matter who marries you as long as they work for my father.”
“Marry? I thought after you killed my father, I was to become your whore.”
Dario grips my upper arm hard enough that I yelp. “Your father’s not dead, Marisol, but if you try that again, he will be.”
I’m dragged over the console and out the driver’s door. One of Dario’s men collects my bag from the trunk. I pull against going with them, but Dario is too strong. “My father is a smart man. He figured out that I was being coerced. He will come for me.”
Dario looks unbothered by the threat. “Maybe, but not for a while, I think. By then, it will be too late.”
“El Gran won’t stand for this,” I say, playing my last card.
All the men chuckle. “Have you forgotten the narrative already? He will when you tell him how much in love you are with me and that your father tried to keep us apart.”
This is it. Either I die a slave, or I die making a stand. I plant my feet and say through gritted teeth. “I won’t do it.”
“Julio,” Dario barks.
A man dressed in dark clothes approaches my father’s prone form and racks a pistol before pointing it at his head. “You will, Marisol.”
They deem the discussion over, and Dario jerks me forward, away from my father. “Where are you taking me?”
“I’m taking you home. You have thirty-six hours to get ready. You and I are getting married tomorrow.”
