Chapter 1 Thalia
Past: Day of Wedding
Light brushes sweep over my face as I stare into the mirror. My eyes are blank before me, and my face is pale. Red blotches linger on my cheeks from the dried tears I shed all night. I’ve always enjoyed looking the part of the living dead, but now, I can feel it in my soul.
Do?a Clara holds back tears as she continues to apply my makeup. Her face is grim, a similar expression to everyone in my family. The same sad and sullen expression. Pobrecita. Poor thing , the maids would whisper when I passed by. I hated that word. It made me feel weak and helpless. A catalyst for my life. The poor little girl whose father never loved her and whose mother had died resenting her. Pobrecita.
The days leading up to today had only created more whispers behind my back and more saddened expressions. I had a black cloud looming above me. It followed me all over the hotel, and everyone would stop and stare. It is why I spent every night slamming my fist into a punching bag and hiding from my family. What did they expect? Today feels more like my funeral and less like my wedding day.
Most girls my age are receiving their driver’s license, and here I am being pampered to walk down the aisle. My father had no problem using me as a peace offering for a rival cartel. My tios fought like hell against my father, but like always, he had the final say. I have no idea who the groom is, and I’ve spent days worrying about the suitor he has picked for me.
A knock sounds at the door, and I look up to see an older woman letting herself into the bridal suite. Her frame is tall, and her features are soft. She flashes me a smile in the mirror. Do?a Clara freezes at her entrance, and when the two of them make eye contact, I see the way her stare turns cold toward the woman.
“Con Permiso,” the woman whispers. Excuse me. A smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes take me in, and I look away. She must not see the black cloud.
“How can we help you, Se?ora?” Do?a Clara’s voice is courteous, but her glare is not. Do?a Clara has been my nanny for as long as I can remember. Shit, she is the closest thing I have to a real mother.
The woman walks to the vanity, picks up a brush, and begins brushing my hair. My hair barely passes my shoulders, with chunks of green and short choppy layers. My bangs are short and swept to the side. The layers alone make it difficult to create an elegant look for the day, and I’m not sure what she’ll do with my bangs.
If she’s worried, she makes no sign of it and continues to brush my hair. I look at the clock and take a deep breath. Eight more hours. We have eight hours to go. Eight hours to transform my grunge look and to turn me into something more presentable. Something like the mystery woman standing in front of me. Bold. Sophisticated. Confident. She’s most definitely a narco’s wife.
Another laugh escapes the woman, who is now pulling small sections of my hair and twisting them upward. She secures each one with a bobby pin. I look up and try to rationalize what she’s laughing at. If she is laughing at me, then I am far from offended. My style choices are made partially to keep people away, and partially a tribute to Alejandra Guzmán.
My father hated Alejandra Guzmán. He called her music distasteful and labeled her a slut for the way she dressed. His hatred for her alone is enough for me to want to be her. My aunt, Olivia, is five years my senior, and growing up, we clung to each other like sisters. Our rooms were next to each other at my grandma’s house. At night, I would sneak into her room so I didn’t have to sleep alone.
During the day, we would dance around my grandmother’s living room every time one of Alejandra Guzmán’s videos came on Bandamax. I was always inspired by the singer’s eccentric dance moves. She was confident and stylish. She made the typical male chauvinist cringe but made women like Do?a Clara feel powerful. When people called her crazy she gave them crazy. Not one fuck given. I wanted that. I learned early on that to be feared was better than feeling loved, better than being pitied.
“You are very beautiful,” the woman says before turning to Do?a Clara. “Clara, I can handle it from here.” Do?a Clara stiffens at the dismissal. I know the look in her eyes. She’s enraged, but whoever this woman is, she has some type of authoritative position. That is the only explanation for the way Do?a Clara bites her tongue and exits slowly. Confused, I look up. The woman offers me a genuine smile.
“My name is Josefina Macias.” Her introduction is an answer to the confusion still on my face. She walks to the front of me, blocking my view of myself in the mirror, and grabs my hand. I know the last name. I have made myself very familiar with it over the last few months. It was scattered over all the invitations we sent out. It was attached to various Facebook Posts of news outlets in both the United States and Mexico.
Estevan Macias is much more than a Real Estate Mogul; he is the kingpin of Los Reyes of Tamaulipas, a branch of the gulf cartel operating outside of Tamaulipas, Mexico and up through Hidalgo, Texas. Their influence expands up into Arizona and California.
“I know what you’re feeling right now, but I promise you, my son is just as nervous as you are. When he sees what I see, it will put his fears to rest.” Josefina searches my eyes as I sort through the anxiety rising in my chest.
What could her son have to fear? I am the one signing my life over and leaving everything I know to join this family.
“Would you like to meet him?” she asks.
“Isn’t that against the rules?” I am far from excited about this wedding, but I know there are traditions in place where the groom has to wait to see the bride. My abuela said it was bad luck if he saw her before. I have enough bad luck going on at the moment, so no need to summon anymore damnation to my life.
“We make our own rules.” A smirk forms at the corner of her mouth, and a mischievous twinkle sparkles in her eyes. I’m not sure if I can trust her.
I let the silence fill the room as I take in her proposition. I want to see him, but I don’t know if it’s safe. Most of my life has been spent learning to decipher what to do should a situation pose a threat to me. While other girls were playing with dolls and dressing up, I was practicing trick shots with an M-9. But this doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like an opportunity.
“I can have one of your aunts accompany us, if that makes you feel more comfortable?” She squeezes my hand she still has in hers. I go against my judgments and trust she’s being sincere. I don’t know why, but I do. I am nervous. No, that is an understatement. In the last twenty-four hours, I have experienced every emotion known to man. Sad, angry, nervous, and sad again. I am worried about everything and anything. I am worried about how I will initially react to Silas in front of a large audience. If he is hideous, I know my facial expressions will easily betray me. The wedding pictures alone will haunt me.
I can’t imagine the son of this beautiful woman could be unattractive. If he isn’t ugly, then I will still have the fear of him looking at me and finding me hideous. I’ve lost sleep at the thought of how he could humiliate me in front of my family. It only makes sense to get this over with now. Meet my husband and quiet the torment of the what-ifs in my head.
“Okay. Could you bring in my Tia Olivia?” I rarely call her the formal title of Tia, but Josefina doesn’t need to know that. If anyone can calm me down right now, it’s her.
“I’ll be right back.” Josefina releases my hand and exits the room. I take deep breaths, waiting for her to return. I am relieved when I see Olivia walk in. She smiles at me. Of all the sad looks I received this week, it was hers that broke me the most. She tried to stop my father, but she was already forced into a marriage because of him. She knows his orders reign supreme in the Consuelo Family.
“Are you okay with this?” she asks. I nod, looking at her through the mirror.
“I’ll be right here, Corazon de Melon.” I smile at her silly name. She’s been calling me that since we were little girls.
The door opens, and Josefina walks in. My heart stops when I recognize the boy beside her. No, not a boy. A man. I scan the memories of the articles I had read. Right. He is eighteen, and I will be turning seventeen next month. I continue to look at him through the mirror. My back is facing him, but he meets my eyes in the mirror. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
He looks different from last night. Today, he’s fully dressed in a black shirt with a large pagan star on it, black jeans and shoes. There’s no way in hell my father knew what he looked like beforehand. Silas is everything my father hates. He takes me in. I’m in black pajama shorts and an old flannel shirt. I look like a damn hobo. A small laugh escapes me at my own roasting session in my head. Silas’s head snaps to his mother’s. Her soft smile meets his scowl.
“Silas, this is Thalia, the bride to be.” She gives me a reassuring smile as she motions a hand to me.
Worried I insulted him with my laugh, I jump out of my seat and walk toward him. I laugh again, just from nerves, and Olivia’s eyes widen toward me. Shut up, Thalia . I make my way toward him, his eyes on mine. Everything about him sends chills through me. His dark eyes cast shadows around us. Nothing exists in this moment, in this room. Just him and me.
“Nice to meet you. Again,” I say.
To my surprise, he offers a smile that would etch itself into my heart for eternity. The sickening feeling I had this morning is now replaced with butterflies. He is perfect for me. He is the hope I envisioned last night. I continue to take him in—his full lips and dark eyes. Something about his eyes feels like staring into the night sky—a hollow reflection of my own. I stick out my hand in an effort to keep my mouth from embarrassing me any further. The sinister glint in his eyes meets mine as his hand envelops mine. It’s warm and firm. I don’t want to let go, and the butterflies turn violent inside me.
“Why don’t you two play a video game? Olivia and I can run and get you both something to eat before the events start and your father comes looking for you,” Josefina says to Silas.
We’re an hour into Grand Theft Auto, and I have mastered the game. I have also learned Silas is quiet compared to me. Quiet, but far from shy. He fills me in on all his hobbies. The ones he’s forced into, like gun training and combat, as well as the ones he chooses—drawing, motorcycles, and horror movies. With every minute that passes, we inch closer, until our thighs are touching. I kept my eyes on the monitor despite the heat radiating around me.
“Dammit! You wasted me again!” He shakes his head and sets down the remote. He lets out a small laugh, and my heart pounds fast against my chest. I have killed him three times since he taught me how to play. He hasn’t gotten frustrated with me, though. He’s acting like he is proud. He has been the one to teach me everything, and now I have gone from student to master. I smile so big my cheeks hurt.
“Bruja,” he says, handing me one of the chili dogs from the table.
“That’s what the kids I ate last night said,” I tease. He holds his laugh in with a full bite in his mouth.
I have never had a boy laugh at me. Especially at Saint Rita’s, where I was considered a freak for my unique style. I had been called Bruja by many people, but it never made me feel the way I felt when Silas said it. I had never even flirted before today, and I’m not even sure if I am doing it right. In a few hours, this handsome and obscure man is going to be my husband.
Nervously, I reach for the condiments and begin assembling my chili dog—onions, jalape?os, pickles, and my signature touch, cream cheese. I feel eyes on me and look up to meet Silas’s.
“Did you just put cream cheese on that?” His eyes are wide, and his face is twisted. “That looks disgusting.”
“It’s actually amazing,” I say. He watches as I shove the chili dog into my mouth. There’s really no sexy way to eat a hotdog, so I look away from him.
“You’re a food terrorist! I can’t marry you,” he says.
“Don’t knock it until you try it.” I roll my eyes. I do have some weird food combinations. Hopefully, he will adjust once we are married. I don’t want to stop dipping my sausage links into my orange juice or eating peanut butter and jelly on jalape?o bagels.
I watch as he assembles a chili dog the same as mine. He repeats the exact same steps in the exact same order, saving the cream cheese for last. He takes a bite, and I watch him chew, like a creep. I’m staring at his mouth. The way his tongue licks the crumbs from his lips. His throat moving as he swallows the bite.
“Okay, it’s not bad,” he finally says.
“I told you.” I take a bite of my chili dog, and we eat in silence. It isn’t an awkward silence, but we are both deep in our own thoughts, staring at the paused video game. I have spent the last few months dreading this day, and now, I want the hours to drag on. I want more moments where I can feel this ease and explore every type of butterfly that has taken residency in my stomach. I want to know him—his quirks, his fears, and everything he loves. I want him to know all of me and make it onto that list.
When he feels the weight of my stare, he looks up. He inches toward me and rubs his thumb over the side of my mouth.
“You have chili on you.”
When he pulls his hand away, I can’t help but miss the jolts of electricity from his touch. His face is still near mine. He doesn’t bother wiping the chili off his thumb, but instead, he brings it up to his full lips and licks it.
“Should we practice our first kiss now?” he whispers. I have never kissed a guy before, and my only experience has been through Do?a Clara’s daily telenovelas. I stare at him, and those eyes pull me back in. Anxiety builds in the pit of my stomach as the butterflies begin fluttering manically like they are possessed. Maybe I’m the one possessed. I inch toward him, hell bent on conquering my fear, when the squeaking of a door sounds. I quickly pull away from him and look up to see Olivia. Heat warms my cheek as I offer her a forced smile.
“Thalia, we’ve got to go!” Olivia gives me a suspicious look, and I return it with a grotesque one of my own.
“Say goodbye, Thalia. We need to get you into your dress. The photographer is here. Silas, your father is looking for you.” She exits the room and my nerves pick up again. Silas stands and shuts off the video game.
“I’ll see you out there,” he says and walks back toward me. He brings his index and middle fingers to his lips and kisses them before pressing them to my lips; the gesture a match to the fire building inside me. Watch out, little butterflies.