Page 54 of Empire of Carnage
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.
“Señorita 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.
