Chapter 3 – Noa #2
Magdalena Castillo does not announce herself.
She is not the kind of woman who would ever need to.
I’ve admired that about her since I first met her, even as it roused telltale gooseflesh along my arms. She’s nothing like my mama, I’d thought.
I felt so guilty. Now, confronted by her presence in a spell of perfume and power, and an inevitability that moves like a current through the walls of this place, I wonder if that’s the worst thing.
I hear the steady cadence of her heels first, unhurried, and then—she is beside me.
Not barring my path, not forcing me to stop, but walking in tandem, as if she has been expecting me all along.
I do not slow. It feels important to at least keep up a pretense of being able to hold my own against her, should it come to that.
Magdalena is unbothered and simply falls into step beside me.
In my peripheral view, I can see how the crisp white of her blouse is stark against the darkness of the hallway, pristine, untouched by the chaos that governs this world.
The silk drapes over her shoulders in a way that suggests effortless control.
A single diamond glints at her throat, small but pronounced.
Power, distilled into its simplest form. She wears it well.
“Good morning,” I greet gently, offering a faint bow of my head. Holding my own or not, I refuse to be disrespectful to prove something.
For all her elegance, there is no warmth in her gaze when it flicks to me. “Matías is unstable,” she says.
She says it so brusquely, I nearly trip on flat ground. The words are smoothly delivered, to be sure, and muted enough that no ears beyond mine will hear them. Nevertheless, they land like a blow.
I fight to keep my features impassive, as if no unease unfurls low in my stomach. “I think he’s doing fine,” I attempt.
Then I watch as Magdalena’s head tilts slightly, likely considering whether I am na?ve or simply an idiot. “You’re not paying attention, then,” she says. It sounds condemning.
I focus on the steady set of my shoulders, forbidding them any wavering when I inhale, deep but measured. The exercise does nothing to settle the distress writhing beneath my ribs.
She comes to a halt before I do, forcing me to pause. The burden of her scrutiny burrows right into my skin. “My younger son was never meant to lead,” she continues, her tone even but expression flat. “And now, he’s ruled by ghosts.”
The words coil around me, insidious, unwelcome.
I shift my weight, intending to brush past her, to end this conversation before it digs too deep, but the world tilts beneath my feet.
A ripple of dizziness drags at my senses, subtle but insistent. I steady myself before it betrays me, a second, sharper inhale bracing my limbs. Too little food, too little sleep; stress and exhaustion have made a home in my body this past week, and I can’t afford to succumb to them.
Magdalena watches me carefully, those assessing eyes seeing too much.
If she notices my hesitation, she does not acknowledge it.
Somehow, this doesn’t feel like a fortunate development at all.
Even less so when she steps closer, ready to impart the secret of some cruel fraternity I hadn’t meant to pledge – yet, apparently, have.
She’s close, and her voice drops even lower, more sinister: “If Matías breaks,” she murmurs, “you will be the first casualty.”
My pulse hammers like fists on a locked door. It isn’t as if I haven’t gleaned that my new husband is, kindly put, unhinged. The words unsettle me.
What a bland victory when I meet her gaze without faltering. A rushed breath leaves my lips. My words, somehow, come out firmer than I thought them capable: “Then I suppose I’d better make sure he doesn’t break.”
A brief tension crosses her face—approval, maybe, or the sting of disappointment. The emotion is there and gone in an instant, too fleeting to pin down. She steps back and out of my way, the second person this morning, though it has hardly been an hour of wakefulness.
She is the one to leave, leaving me the cold echo of her warning, which settles heavy in my chest.
The courtyard is awake with movement, though it lacks the frenetic energy of true urgency.
Not a single, paltry trace of the reception less than twelve hours prior remains.
There are only men who speak in measured tones, voices hushed beneath the shade of thick, calloused palms. The storm from the night before left behind damp earth, the scent of rain still clinging to the brick pathways, mingling with the sour stench smoke of freshly lit cigars.
At the center of it all: Matías.
Magdalena’s ominous warning haunts me. If Matías breaks, you will be the first casualty.
He stands with his back to me, sleeves of a crisp, black shirt pushed to his elbows, exposing forearms etched with scars in various stages of healing. His posture is relaxed, though it is the sort of ease that keeps men on edge. He doesn’t move without intent. He doesn’t allow for distractions.
The moment I step outside, everything shifts.
There is a yawning pit in my stomach where foreboding bemoans all the potential repercussions for it.
In my mind is his face in the dark last night, demanding, Take it off.
And then, only a moment after, You fucking reek of everyone you’ve touched today. Cruel and uncouth.
Will he be the same now, or worse?
Conversations die mid-sentence. A ripple of attention moves in my direction, subtle but absolute. Their gazes flick toward me, then dart away, unsure of the etiquette surrounding the presence of the cartel's newest queen. Or perhaps they simply wait for his reaction.
Matías does not acknowledge me. Not at first, at least. He lets me linger at the periphery, lets the seconds stretch into a statement. A power play, designed to remind me that my presence here is an afterthought. I can see that. I’ve been here before.
That might be what emboldens me, that makes me decide: If he expects me to falter, to wait for him to grant me space, he is sorely mistaken.
I step forward. Not behind him. Not hovering at his side like a woman seeking permission. No, I puff my chest, and I match his stance, my shoulders squared, my chin level.
Only then does he turn his head slightly, the slant of his profile cast in gold where the morning light cuts through the canopy. His gaze flicks over me once, from the sneakers on my feet to the thick braid draped over my shoulder.
Then, at last, he speaks. “You’re up early.”
It is casual and unbothered. I don’t trust it for a second.
Still, I meet his gaze without hesitation. “I always run in the mornings,” I inform him.
If I didn’t know any better, I could swear I catch the corners of his mouth twitch.
Like he’s going to laugh. The suspicion isn’t difficult to dismiss.
Matías is as tall, dark and handsome as it gets—but he doesn’t, and has never, even before being marred by the scar on his face, look like a man who laughs easily or often.
Besides, he sounds outright bored when he inquires: “And where, exactly, do you think you’re going to run? ”
I arch a brow. “Outside, generally.” He blinks at me, giving away nothing. So, “I also like to listen to music as I do,” I continue, forcing my voice to remain steady and patient. “I’d like my phone back.”
Matías’ eyes, almost pitch black, drip down my body at that.
They start at my mouth, as if questioning whether my mouth is actually the one composing the words he is hearing; it is insulting, but not worse than the way it sinks lower, past my breasts, my hips, my thighs and knees and calves, until they land on the sneakers encasing my feet. Then, he says, simply: “No.”
He turns away. The answer signed, sealed, and delivered. That’s it. Not a negotiation. Not a refusal laced with reasoning. Just a wall slammed into place, as unyielding as the man himself.
My jaw locks in disbelief, eyes narrowing.
Ridiculously, all I really want to do is kick at his ankle.
Let’s see how you dismiss me then, you oaf.
Except I can’t do that. I wouldn’t, not in a million years.
I know better. I am better than that. I’m a woman who will not resort to such childish antics.
“I may be your wife, Matías,” I try instead. At least he turns around again. That’s… something! “But I have my own life. I am used to having my own life. Tomás and I were on the same page about that. Now, I know that this is an unexpected turn of events, this arrangement between you and—”
“Right.” He has the audacity to snort at me.
Like he is a naughty horse. “Fine. Go. Stay within the compound. Ardi will give you a new burner. You can borrow your late almost-husband’s iPod from his room.
Ask someone to fetch it for you.” He shifts his attention away from me, back to his men, just like that.
It isn’t a victory, not really.
He may as well have swatted me away like a literal gnat.
My cheeks sting with blistering humiliation every step I walk away from him. I can’t imagine it fading any time soon.