Page 17 of Cartel Cobra

I hate plantains. I don’t know how many times I have to tell Domingo that. He loves them and loves the plantain and eggplant with tomato sauce dish. I loathe it. He once scolded me like I was a child and told me I had to have at least a bite. I walked out of the restaurant. He tossed some money on the table and rushed out after me. He tried to scold me for that too, but I pulled out my phone and pulled up Enrique’s contact. He shut the fuck up the moment he realized I would tell my brother.

I’m not prone to temper tantrums or running to hide behind my brothers. But the ink was barely dry on the marriage contract, and I wanted him to understand his family might have bought the marriage, but he didn’t buy me. I wanted him to know how close I am to my brothers that they would defend me over something as trivial as a dish I don’t want to eat. That they’d make time for me if I called and was upset. It worked. He still offers the shit, but he doesn’t insist.

“Your mind is somewhere else tonight. Are you finally thinking about all you need to do to get ready? You need to sell your condo. It’ll be good practice.”

Practice? Like the career I want is some game. I’m not interested in residential real estate. I’ve always wanted to do commercial. When I was younger, I thought it would give me a chance to work alongside my dad since he’s in commercial development. I understand now that he won’t let me near that business, even if it’s legit. Before my engagement, I planned to move to NYC or stay in LA, where I went to college. Miami would have been nice, but far more dangerous than the other two cities, since it would be obvious I’m a wealthy Colombian woman.

People would automatically assume—rightly—that my family is Cartel. It wouldn’t take much to discover my father’s the most powerful man in Latin America. Nothing happens in Latin America or the Caribbean without him knowing about it. Legal or illegal. I could blend in better in NYC or LA.

“Ana, for fuck’s sake. Would you pay attention?”

“Don’t swear at me, Domingo.”

“Then pay attention when I’m speaking. I don’t like this awkwardness. It’s not attractive.”

“Is that what matters? That I’m attractive? What happens when I age or get stretch marks from being pregnant? You going to be more flagrant about your infidelities?”

He stares at me for a moment before sneering at me. “What I do is my business.”

“Birth control doesn’t just keep a husband from impregnating his wife.”

I thought I would never cheat, and part of me argues what I did with Esteban was way wrong, but not truly cheating. Maybe I’m justifying myself, but it was nothing more than a couple way too passionate kisses. I didn’t sleep with him. I didn’t get him off, and he didn’t get me off either. There was no emotional connection before or since, even if I think about him constantly. But to call it an indiscretion is so fucking trite that it only makes it feel worse.

“That’s not funny, Ana.”

“Am I laughing?”

“Don’t test me. You won’t like the answer.”

“You cannot keep me under lock and key. You cannot control everywhere I go or everyone I see. Not if you want to live and not if you don’t want my father or brothers to destroy your family. Push me too hard, and you won’t like where I land.”

I’ve known he’s been unfaithful from the start. It’s not some shitty cultural stereotype. He’s just that selfish. He pretends to dote on me, but he’s never intended to give up anything for this marriage while expecting me to give up everything. I was prepared to give up plenty, but not because of another fucked-up cultural stereotype.

I would’ve turned a blind eye for my family’s sake. For the people they protect. For the mouths they feed, the roofs they keep over people’s heads. Thousands of people rely on my father. Money spent fighting a rival family is money that can’t be reinvested into our people. My loyalty to my family and our people is the only reason I’m going through with this. For better or for worse, my father employs people around the world. Theyand their families depend on their jobs. I won’t keep a penny from them just because I don’t want to marry Domingo.

Thinking about this makes me feel guilty for dragging my heels. I talk a good game, but I haven’t lived up to my pledges. My conscience doesn’t scream at the thought I betrayed Domingo, but it does when I think I’ve betrayed these people. I talk a big game, too. Domingo might be fine breaking a holy sacrament, but I never will be. Sure, I’ll promise him my fidelity, and I suppose that means something to me. But I wouldn’t break my vows because of my faith, and I wouldn’t break them because I’m promising in front of my parents, brothers, and sister. I won’t destroy their trust in me.

“Ana, you’re as good as mine already. A priest is the least of my concerns. You will obey, and if you think about embarrassing me with some affair, you’ll learn how unforgiving I am.”

This is escalating fast. Part of me wants to see how far he’d go before we’re even married, when I can still break things off without a divorce and too big of a scandal. But we’re at his place, so I don’t control this location. I know the place inside and out, but I only have the gun and knife I carry in my purse that’s in the living room. I have nothing else to defend myself with like I do at my condo. I don’t have my security team either. They’re staked out around my building. I only have Santi outside in the car in the driveway. He won’t hear me scream.

I twist in my seat as though it’ll make it easier for me to see him, but it gives me enough room to jump out of my seat. I know I can’t beat him to the living room, but it’ll make it easier to fight him if I’m free of the chair. It also makes the chair a potential weapon.

What the ever-loving fuck?

I’m not just thinking about how to flee his house. I’m considering how to kill my fiancé if this argument gets out of hand. This is beyond any level of fucked-up I expected.

“Just because I won’t fight you about your mistresses doesn’t mean I’m not keeping a tally of your transgressions. Remember who needs who more, Domingo.”

I notch up my chin and stare down my nose at him. I won’t show a moment’s hesitation.

“This argumentative side of you is unappealing. I suggest you tame it before you say, ‘I do.’”

“If I’m so unattractive and unappealing, you can walk away.”

We both know he can’t. Neither can I, but he really can’t because his father can’t afford the war he started withpapá.

“Once we’re married, you won’t be so brave. You think you can push me away, but you can’t. You sure as fuck won’t once both my rings are on your finger.”

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