27. Lucia
27
LUCIA
T he Mendoza residence isn’t quite what I expect.
My arms wrap around myself even though I’m sweating as I’m led over the lush green up to the impressive but not overly so home of my enemy. The property sits on what must be a private golf course. There are plenty of guards around the house, but I didn’t spot any by the gate or roaming the outskirt of the property. This place isn’t quite a fortress or even a mansion for that matter.
But we aren’t in Mexico. We’re in Chicago. This can’t be where the boss lives.
Mario shoves me forward when I don’t move quickly enough for him, making me almost stumble to the patio, but I regain my footing and pick up the pace. He leads me inside to a sitting room where the soft strings of a harp play a soothing tune, contrasting sharply with the deadly energy in the air.
I think the music must be coming from a speaker, but as we enter, I catch the harp player in the corner, the eyes closed lost in their art.
And then I see the severed head on the drink cart.
My stomach revolts, and my heels dig into the carpet as I stare into the lifeless eyes of a young woman with flowing hair just like mine. The resemblance is striking. Too striking. Like there’s no way they killed her for any other reason than to give me a preview of what’s to come.
“ Walk ,” Mario commands, his voice so harsh I can no longer imagine him as the kind, caring man who tricked my heart. I walk farther into the room and sit on a sofa when prompted. Mario and another man who brought me continue to stand.
Minutes must pass while my nose picks up the scent of decaying flesh. That’s what I was sensing in here before. I could smell it even before I knew what it was.
It makes me think of Piper. Of trying desperately not to taste her corpse. I failed then. I wonder what Mendoza would do if I vomited on his carpet.
I’ve never seen his face, but I know it the moment he arrives. The air changes, a tension pulling Mario’s back straighter as the older man with salt and pepper hair enters.
I was ordered to sit, but for some reason, I feel I’m supposed to stand at his arrival, so I bolt to my feet. I let my hands hang at my sides and raise my head, pretending this man is just like my father. Because he is just like my father. He just doesn’t love me like my father does.
He’s going to kill me. Decapitate me.
Will he send my head back to Papá?
I frown at that thought because the answer is, of course . It’ll break Papá’s heart.
“Lucia Valdez,” Mendoza says, his hands spreading as if to welcome me. “In the flesh. How are you, my dear?”
“Nauseated, I’m afraid. Exhausted. Frightened. And, at the moment, rather homesick. How are you, senor?”
He smiles wide, revealing white teeth that look unnatural for his age. His skin has the same unnatural look, just a little too tight not to be botoxed. He’s handsome, really, but it’s apparent that he tries too hard to be.
“Homesick? I thought you were set on running away from Ricardo. He locked you up like you were some sort of mental patient. It’s telling that I never knew how beautiful you were until just now.”
When I feel my cheeks heat, I get the urge to look away but don’t. He’s just lying. That woman’s head is there for me to see. He knew exactly what I looked like.
“Sit,” he says, extending his hand toward the sofa. When I do, he sits next to me, making the air feel thinner. I fully intend to banter with him, if for no other reason to ensure he knows I’ll never beg, but I wish he’d skip this. I wish he’d just kill me.
“My nephew tells me you value your freedom… Let me ask you, Lucia, do you value it more than your life?”
Nephew.
I can’t help but glance at Mario. He looks smug, like he’s happy to finally pull the mask off, to have his royalty revealed to me. I bet he speaks fine English, the son of a bitch.
I don’t answer Mendoza. He wouldn’t like the one I had to give.
My life without freedom no longer holds any value to me. I’d sacrifice it in a moment for the chance of happiness.
“You were willing to run away with one of my people for the sake of love… That makes you special to me, my dear. So special that I’m willing to make you an offer...”
He pauses, waiting for a reaction that I don’t give. I’m not excited for his offer. Whatever it is, it isn’t mercy.
“The truth is, my beautiful Lucia… I’m willing to put an end to the war with your papá. I’m tired of the blood and the… the indecency of it all. And I’m beginning to believe if your papá has it his way, neither of us will have anything left when this is over.
“But you can change that. You cannot have your freedom, but you can have your life. If you agree to be mine. Publicly. With the enthusiasm you had when you ran away with my nephew. You will live here with my son, Manuel, who will spoil you for the rest of your days as long as you remain obedient and enthusiastic. In exchange for this simple act, I’ll let you live and end the war with your papá. What do you say? Is that not kind?”
I move my eyes to the other man in the room. Manuel, I’m assuming. His neutral expression doesn’t change when I look at him, his arms crossed over his chest. I didn’t think of it as consequential before, but I recognize him from that night at the bar. He was the one outside with Mario, giving him and the others’ commands. He doesn’t look kind . He doesn’t look like someone who spoils . But that isn’t the point.
The point is maximum damage. The point is to hurt my father in every way they can possibly think of, and my head in a box is absolutely the last step. The first is my betrayal. They want it public. They want him to know that I chose his enemies over him, that I handed them his prized possession, that they defiled me before they sent me back to him ruined.
Unless of course, he chooses to end the war, handing them the victory. It would look so much sweeter if, to our world, it looked as though my father handed me over then bowed down to Mendoza.
This is not kindness nor mercy . This is the ultimate slap to my dignity. To my intelligence.
He does not want peace. He wants victory.
My ears burn as anger coils my chest, tightening it to the point of pain. I don’t say anything for a long time. If I do, I think I’ll explode, but that only causes the tension inside me to build.
“What do you say, senorita ?” Mendoza prods, his voice deceptively gentle.
“I don’t know what to say, senor .” I take a steadying breath, the smell of decay no longer turning my stomach. “You’re correct, I was desperate to leave my father. I wanted to find my own way, discover who I am without him. But I’ve always thought him wise. My father once told me you can learn everything you need to know about a man based on his fears… I’m trying to consider your offer, but it’s hard to take seriously the words of a man who suffers with such a severe case of Gerascophobia.”
I can feel his confusion form a cloud beside me. “What?”
“Fear of aging, senor .” When I turn to look at him, his eyes are bugged and angry, but I pretend not to notice. “Your heavy botox and implanted teeth make me think you believe you should fear saggy skin more than you do death. It’s pathetic, senor . I could never respect a man like you, let alone serve one.” I sigh and rush before he reacts. “So I suppose that means I choose...” I point to the severed head, my nausea returning.
When I catch Mario’s eyes, his jaw is dropped open, confusion bunching that ugly scar on his ugly face.
Knuckles connect with my cheek before I ever turn back to Mendoza.