Chapter 6 #2
“Thank you for insisting upon protecting me. What happened in the car doesn’t make everything perfect between us.
It’s confusing as fuck, actually. But I feel safer with you than I have since meeting Humberto.
I’m too worn out to question things right now.
I’m trusting you with more than just my body. ”
“I know, little one. I’m trusting you too.”
I let my eyes droop closed, letting my guard down entirely. As I drift off, I feel Pablo’s body relax beneath me as he sighs.
I watch as we fly over a river and plains.
I have no idea where we are. I recognize nothing below us.
I look up at Pablo, who’s watching me. He offers me a soft smile before he gazes out the window.
He looks so at ease. The air of danger and darkness that usually surrounds him isn’t there anymore.
He appears youthful, and it makes me wonder for a moment if he’s younger than me. But I know he can’t be.
He’s older than me by two years. He’s nearly thirty-six, and I’m nearly thirty-four.
I’m practically an old hag because I’ve never been married.
I’m nearly twenty years older than the Colombian national average for women marrying.
I’ve gotten plenty of comments about that from my abuelos and abuelas.
Both sides of the family. It gets old—just like me.
“Where are we?”
“Arauca.”
Holy fuck.
That’s one of the most isolated regions of Colombia.
It’s extremely north—practically Venezuela.
There are people here who don’t speak Spanish, only indigenous languages.
It’s bordered by the Ele, Cuiloto, and Lipa rivers.
I’ve definitely never been anywhere near here.
I only know about it from grade school geography.
“You really wanted to escape from the city.”
“My family descends from the Macaguán before they migrated to Bogotá.”
I look back out the window. The term middle of nowhere comes to mind. Never has there been a truer description.
“Your family has a home out here?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do if you need something?”
“There’s a city not too far from the estate. It’s Villa de Santa Bárbara de Arauca, but we have most of the things we need already there.”
There’s a long stretch of flat land that comes into sight.
Close to it, there’s a sprawling estate with a wall higher than any I’ve ever seen around a residence.
It has barbed wire around the top. Even Humberto’s home doesn’t have that.
It makes it look like a prison, yet the house—if you can even call it that—is more like a palace.
“We’re a large family, Flora. Once upon a time, it was Tío Enrique, Tío Esteban, Tío Matáis, Tía Catalina, Tía Luciana, Mamá, Papá, my brother, Abuela, my cousins Alejandro, Jorge, Joaquin, Javier, and me.
That’s fourteen of us. Before my brother, cousins, and I came along, my abuelo was still alive and went there too.
Tío Enrique is married, and my cousin Javier will be soon. That still makes thirteen of us.”
His brother Juan.
His tío Esteban.
They’re both dead, and my family is the reason for one of them no longer being with Pablo’s. I tuck my chin and pull my lips in.
“Chiquita, you had nothing to do with my tío’s death. Do you blame me for your father’s?”
I shake my head. “It’s not the same. You remember your tío. I never knew my father.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t miss him or at least having one.
If I blamed you, you wouldn’t be sitting on my lap.
None of what happened today would have. I’d still have helped you, but I definitely wouldn’t want you the way I do.
I don’t think you’d have agreed to any of this if you blamed me for Domingo’s death. ”
“True.”
“When we land, a car will meet us and take us to the house. I know what it looks like from above. It’s not to keep anyone inside.”
That doesn’t reassure me.
“How many people have attacked that your family feels like the estate needs concertina wire to keep people out?”
“None. They know they’re not welcome. We have a staff who’ll be there, but they’re local. They don’t speak Spanish, only Macaguán.”
“And you speak that?”
“It comes in handy.”
I shift my attention back to Pablo, and I know he means it’s a language his family speaks that no one else does. There’re probably only a few hundred people who speak it in the entire country. It surprises me his family’s passed it down for so many generations.
“How long has your family been Cartel?”
“Since they began in the seventies. They had other—endeavors well before that.”
“Did people relearn the language back then, or did your family continue speaking it even after they migrated to the city probably a couple hundred years ago?”
He watches me, hesitant to let me in and to share so much about his family. I look at my lap. I’m prying, asking things his family likely never shares with anyone outside their immediate circle.
“Chiquita, I’m not used to telling people things about my family like this, but I don’t want to shut you out and make you feel like I’m hiding more from you than I have to. Telling you we speak Macaguán isn’t a secret I need to keep.”
“Because it’s not like I—or anyone else—will suddenly know how to speak the language. It won’t compromise your security.”
He nods.
He doesn’t stop watching me, and I think he fears he’s hurt my feelings.
“Sir—”
“Pablo.”
“We said twenty-four seven.”
“I know, but it’s obvious already that we won’t have a regular D/s relationship.”
It’s my turn to watch him before I nod.
“Pablo, I don’t think it’s just tradition that makes your family keep the language alive.
I bet you use it when you’re on missions or when you need to speak privately.
I’ve been angry and scared today. I’m still building up to trusting you about more than just my immediate safety and fucking.
But I don’t wish you harm. If I did, I would’ve told Humberto or my abuelo that you visited me at the pharmacy.
I would’ve screamed my head off when we went outside.
I would’ve fought you harder. I would’ve shot you. ”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Shoot you?”
“Definitely that, but I’m glad you didn’t tell anyone, and that you didn’t scream. No one outside my family comes here. We don’t bring guests.”
I sensed this, but hearing him admit that makes the weight of the significance even heavier.
Our conversation’s put on pause as we land.
We watch the flight attendant open the door and lower the steps.
Pablo helps me to my feet and stands. He pulls his gun from his lower back holster.
There’s an SUV waiting for us. There are metal grates over the front and rear bumpers.
The windows are nearly as black as the frame.
It pulls so close to the stairs I can practically step straight into it.
Pablo’s gaze sweeps over our surroundings as I slip inside.
He follows me, and a bodyguard closes the door.
There are two men in the third row, and the driver’s in his seat.
The guard climbs into the front passenger seat.
They’re all wearing tactical gear with helmets and bulletproof vests.
They carry rifles, and there’s a spare for the driver between Pablo and me, leaning against the center console.
We ride in silence to the front gate, which slides open.
Men patrol the property. It’s more secure than any embassy.
I look out my window, then turn to look out Pablo’s.
He’s still completely at ease, which lessens the sudden spike of anxiety I feel.
He remains relaxed because he knows he’s surrounded by security.
It looks over the top, but nothing about him makes me think he’s prone to exaggeration or catastrophizing.
I doubt anyone else in his family is either.
If this gives them peace of mind to spend time together, then I appreciate their preparedness.
“I’ll give you a tour of the house, then I need to call Tío Enrique.”