Page 113 of Lips On My World

Esteban is so relaxed, even-keeled, in this kingdom of his. It’s unlike myself, who lives in a constant state of fear being around the drug lord, wondering when I might come face-to-face with the side of Esteban he’s infamously known for. He’s a murderer, a sadistic mad man. My prayer is that I never have to endure his wrath, but I believe it’s inevitable.

It's been a week since I’ve arrived at Esteban’s villa. I’m now thirty-two weeks along in my pregnancy. Every day I’m away from Maceo seems like an eternity. My heart aches for him on such an extreme level it’s a wonder how my ticker hasn’t given out yet.

As much as my heart aches, my mind fights a different battle of continuously being on alert and calculating ways of escape. It’s exhausting.

Esteban believes he’s the most generous host, providing me with a lovely room overlooking the garden, a closet full of clothes, and everything else I could need—as ifthingscould replace my husband and family. No level of luxury could replace the people I love.

A small part of me feels I should be grateful because my situation could be far worse, but I bitch-slap that part of my brain. I’m only in this situation because of this man. This is his fault.

The doctor I met on my first day, Doctor Gomez, examines the babies and me daily. They’re doing well, but he worries about my stress level and what impact it could have on my pregnancy long term. I’m fine so long as Esteban is nowhere near me, but the moment he comes into view, my heart rate spikes, making my blood pressure go through the roof. Pre-eclampsia is a legit concern.

In an attempt to alleviate my stress, Esteban allows me to wander the villa and courtyards, to give me a sense of freedom. The villa is old, possibly late 1800s, and made of white stone local to this area in the mountains. The age does not reflex the updated luxury inside. Every amenity has been added to the grand estate.

The outside is vast, with acres and acres of farm fields lower in the valley. It’s cool here, only high-sixties, but we are in a higher elevation. The vegetation is lush, but not jungle-like. It reminds me more of the wilderness back home in Colorado. The sky is in a constant state of cloud cover but no rain. There’s a change in the air like the season is transitioning to the cold season. And the oddest thing is, there’s no humidity. Colombia has a muggy climate, but here in the mountain range, it’s comfortable.

As gorgeous as this remote place is in the highlands of wherever I am, with its beautiful lake down below the mountain range, I’m not a fool—I’m still in a prison.

Most days, I search for weak spots in my surroundings and execute an escape. But as soon as I step foot off the private grounds to the crop fields below, armed guards are on me, dragging me back toward the villa, fighting harder than a damn feral cat.

The first day I was able to get back on my feet, I made a run for it, stupidly running blind without taking my time to plan it for optimal success. I got as far as the outer perimeter before I was surrounded by his men. Doesn’t stop me from trying to break loose nearly every day.

Honestly, I think Esteban enjoys watching me struggle. Knowing how much of a security freak he is, I’d bet my right butt cheek he has his property monitored tighter than the FBI headquarters. The deviant prick probably watches the surveillance cameras to see how far I can get. When he feels I’ve advanced far enough, he turns his men lose like bloodhounds hunting an escaped convict.

It’s always the same. I run hard, get caught, come back kicking and screaming, only to have Esteban smirk with mild amusement at my pathetic attempts. He is a twisted man on the highest level of sociopathic tendencies.

My mind returns to the present, my stomach filling with dread with Esteban's presence. I pick at my plate, pushing the eggs around, too upset to eat.

Esteban watches me from the corner of his eyes, but I dare not look at him. The only time I make eye contact is when I’m forced, which is more often than not. The evil overlord seems to fancy looking at my eyes, often musing aloud whether his grandchildren will have my blue eyes or the Moreno dark brown.

Anytime I look at him, I get the heebie-jeebies. It’s hard ignoring the similarities between him and Maceo. They could be clones in the looks department. Though personality-wise is where they begin to differ. Maceo can be hard and domineering at times, but there’s more love in him than the cold fish, which is Esteban. My stubborn heart still holds out hope that he isn’t Maceo’s biological father.

“What’s wrong, Josefina? Is the food not to your liking? I can get rid of the chef if you’re displeased.”

Before I can stop myself, I shudder. It’s a safe assumption to translate ‘get rid of the chef’ to kill the helpless cook. “Please, don’t hurt her. The food is fine.”

“Is it the options? I’ve told you that you don’t have gestational diabetes. It was a way to get you to the hospital more to create a plan of action for extracting you. Eat the pastries if you wish. Stop depriving yourself.”

Yeah, I’m not going to believe a word he says. For all I know, he wants me to believe him just so I do actual harm by not following my diet.

Esteban puts a finger under my chin and tilts my face up. Still, I refuse to look at him. “Look at me,mami,” he demands in a deep timbre.

Slowly, I brave myself to make eye-contact with my captor, forcing myself to discount how familiar his features are to Maceo’s.

“What is troubling you, hmm?”

Is this a test? Will he beat me if I say something which displeases him?

Esteban’s thick brows pull together, casting his already dark eyes in shadows. “Answer me.”

“I—I miss my husband.”

He releases my chin and sits back against his chair, sighing heavily. “I understand your pain, what it’s like to be separated from the one you love.”

“Then send me back,” I say hastily before shrinking deep into my chair.

Keep your mouth shut, Jo.

Esteban’s lips twitch upward, not a full smile—he rarely gives a genuine smile. “You know I cannot return you. My son needs to come to his senses and embrace he is a Moreno. Had he come to me when I offered him the chance, you two would be together now. Taking you was the only way to bring him to heel, and it’s working. This time away from you has been eating at him, tearing him apart. The next time I call on him, he will not hesitate to accept my invitation. Maceo will accept I am his father if he has any hope of reconnecting with his wife and children.”

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