Chapter 78 Celia
CELIA
The best part about this whole fundraiser gala was that all I had to do was throw money at it. An absolute joy for someone like me who needed minimal interaction with people outside my personal circle.
At the end of the day, I just wanted to tell my people what they needed to do and expect it to get done. It was a fair request to keep myself out of social situations unless they absolutely required it.
The gala demanded it unfortunately, but at least all I needed to do was show up and look hot.
Which I was failing to do.
The Prada box was opened, and the dress was already laid out on the bed for me. Ronan’s choice, because I’d still yet to develop a sense of personal style. I really was more of a sweatpants and someone else’s T-shirt kinda gal. But this was the event of the year, and it was a big fucking deal.
I painted my lips a dark plum color, opening my lips into an O shape to let the matte shade dry. I was never quite fucking sure if you were supposed to do that or press your lips together to spread the color around.
I was really inept at all this feminine stuff, but it’s not like I had someone to teach me. I spent most of my childhood as my father’s shadow and when we were forced to be apart my mother wasn’t discreet in her desire to keep me at a distance.
Her own fucked up way of protecting herself.
I guess I wouldn’t want to get close to my kid either if I knew the chances were high that they were going to grow up to kill my husband.
I loved my papá, but I was glad he died because, in reality, the odds would have been against us.
Historically, time proved cártel seats weren’t passed down in peace, they were taken with blood and glory.
The birth control implant in my arm itched from the thought of breeding.
The idea alone was laughable. I was thirty years old and probably hadn’t even processed a third of my childhood trauma yet.
Was I gonna pop some kid out and chain him to that dungeon like my father did to me for the sake of making them a ‘better person’?
Was I going to force my child into something they likely wouldn’t have chosen on their own if they could understand?
No.
I wouldn’t be bringing a child into this fucked up world.
I stuck on the sticky strapless bra to my left boob, hooking it onto the right to create the insane illusion of cleavage that I’d never achieve on my own.
I wasn’t even fully dressed for the night yet and I was already looking forward to taking all this shit off and crawling into a pair of Ronan’s boxers and one of Mateo’s shirts.
The three of them walked into the room just as I stepped into the dress, pulling it up to my shoulders and giving them my back so one of them could do the clasps. I gasped looking into the mirror just as Santos finished.
“I-I can’t wear this,” I said, completely horrified at what I was looking at.
The dress was stunning. Black, strapless with a sweetheart neckline and a tight bodice that hugged all the way down to my hips before the fabric dropped loosely to my ankles. It was essentially backless, stopping right above my ass and leaving my back completely exposed.
That was a problem.
Part of my vault of traumas—I needed to keep locked up tight.
“Yes you can,” Ronan said, turning my back away from the mirror and forcing me to look at my own face.
“I can’t. Find me a jacket if I have to stay in this dress,” I told Mateo, knowing he wouldn’t argue.
“No.” I watched Santos step behind me in the reflection of the mirror, my eyes following him as one of his hands ran up the front of my body, while the other trailed softly along the scar on my back.
It looked worse than I thought possible. It didn’t heal right. It had re-opened so many times in that basement just from the way they had me chained up, hanging by my wrists that it didn’t allow for it to scar and fade. No, it was raised up, purple in some places and red in others.
It was a reminder of the women still in that Bratva den, locked in cages and waiting to be sold. I would find a way to go back for them.
“No?” I asked, turning away from him as if he’d never seen the scar before.
He wrapped his hands around my shoulders and turned my back towards the mirror again, this time turning my chin to force me to look in the reflection.
“Fucking look at yourself.” He sounded angry, his fingers gripping my chin a little too hard, but it was a welcome kind of pain.
The kind that was supposed to wake you up from a bad dream.
“Don’t cover it up. Show them exactly why you’re the most feared woman on the planet. Show them why they should be grateful for the opportunity to bow at your feet.” He licked his finger and wiped the makeup that covered the scar on my cheek. “There, that’s better.”
He gave me a soft, sideways smile. It was always sideways now. With the way the scar on his own face pulled at his skin it didn’t let it be anything but perfectly crooked. He was right, I couldn’t ask him to accept the way he was now if I couldn’t give myself the same amount of kindness.
“Fine,” I relented before turning back to face him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “You know, she wasn’t wrong…” I admitted.
“Who?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.
“My sister…” I said with hesitation, unsure if she was even that to me anymore. “You do look more handsome with that scar.” I brushed his curls out of his eyes so I could see it better.
I reached up onto the tips of my toes and pressed a kiss to his eye.
“Te quiero,” I whispered.
Mateo cleared his throat, reminding us we weren’t alone, and I shrugged, walking back to the bathroom to do one final cloud of hair spray over the curls I knew weren’t going to hold all night.
No curl could survive the genetics of heavy, pin-straight, Indigenous hair.
I was practically Cinderella now, fighting the clock until they’d dissolve back to normal.
El Palacio would be full of civilians at this time, but as the guest of honor it was expected that I would be late. Dominico said it was important to make them wait for me, to make an entrance.
Seemed pompous as hell, but if I recalled correctly that about summed up Rafa.
I’d almost forgotten there was almost no distinction between politician and drug lord in these parts. It wasn’t until I was greeted by the military police that I remembered I had paid them to be here.
Funny how that worked.
They kept their faces covered, too afraid of ending up in my ledger.
It was alright, I didn’t want men on my side who had too much to lose.
I wanted the ones who had already lost it all.
There was a distinct difference in the kind of work ethic the two groups put in.
The door to the limousine opened up from the outside, a valet waiting with his hand stretched out for me to take.
Ronan slapped it out of the way, getting out first and helping me out himself.
“Play nice now, or I’ll swap you for the other white boy,” I teased.
Mateo and Santos followed behind, a sizable difference to not draw any suspicions but still close enough that anyone who saw knew they were with me. People likely thought they were my own private bodyguards.
Not a wrong assumption either.
“Excuse me? You think they won’t be able to tell if your date suddenly goes from blond to black haired?” he asked.
“Not the time for an ‘all gringos look the same’ joke?” I winked, biting back my laugh.
“You’ll pay for that one later, flower. Mark my words,” he whispered into my ear as he led me up the steps to El Palacio.
One of the grander buildings in the city.
Photographers’ cameras went off nonstop, the constant flash lighting up the dark night sky for us as we walked down the red carpet to the government building.
It was beautifully decorated inside. They’d gone all out with my money to make it so.
Beautiful black roses covered every banister, and decorative ribbons hung all around made from silk and paper tissue.
Bar tables filled the space covered with black silk tablecloths with decorative white lace layered above them, a centerpiece of large candles on each one.
“Senorita Flores.” A man tapped my shoulder.
“I was instructed to show which way you will make your entrance from.” He spoke in spanish, pointing down a tiny side corridor with a set of narrow stairs.
“The steps will take you to that balcony there,” he showed me exactly where I would be appearing in front of the public for the first time.
I really was Celia Flores again.
I couldn’t dig up Cecilia if I tried. That bitch died in Sokolov’s trafficking ring.
That was the thing about my enemies, they kept trying to fuck with the dead, but they didn’t realize I was the queen of can’t fucking kill me. They were going to have to hit me harder than that if they were going to keep me down. Only Santa Muerte knew the day of my death.
I took a deep breath, knowing only one of them would be able to come up there with me.
“Take Santos,” Ronan said, as if knowing I wouldn’t be able to decide between the three of them.
I nodded, looking over at the balcony again, lined with gold and draped in black and white that wrapped around a spiral banister that led towards the grand staircase. It poured out into the gallery where everyone else waited for me to appear.
It was a bit of a whimsical moment, something I would have been prepared for if our lives had never gone awry.
I would have grown up here. I would have likely had my quinceanera here.
My papá would have introduced me to the world and made some sort of announcement about me someday following in his footsteps. Letting enemies and allies know.
But that was all ripped away from me.
I would be introducing myself to these people.
These strangers.