Page 28 of Descent into Madness

The insanity of it all has me giggling when I see a large puffy cloud pass by in the window above the toilet. I repeat, Holy. Fucking. Shit. I’m not in coach. I’m not even in first class. I’m in a jet the size of a commercial airliner with a bedroom and bathroom nicer than most people’s homes. Richer than god.

In a daze, I find myself in the shower beneath a steaming hot spray of water, washing away the hours of sex with my gorgeous husband. A husband who couldn’t love me, but who needed me the way he needed his next breath—if he felt the same way I did. And it sure as hell sounded like he did. I feel oddly proud of myself as I find the numerous bruises and remember how he made each one. God, he was amazing. I never believed my marriage could be…pleasurable.

Marriage was to consolidate power, provide respectability and heirs in the mafia. I’m a good girl. I was going to accept my role as a pawn in a game of the world I was born into. I’m going to support my husband who is a good man, father, and citizen.

When he leaves our home in the middle of the night, I won’t notice. I won’t question if it’s business or a woman. To our children daddy loves them and is sorry he missed your game, play, concert, he’s working to give you the things you want. Our home will shine and show off the success of my husband’s hard work and what he’s able to achieve while I make sure his children are fed, clothed, and raised to say please and thank you, and no sir or no ma’am.

I’m a good girl. Because when I was a bad girl, I made my brother do a bad thing. A thing so bad, my mother killed him. I ruined everyone’s life. For years, I was the good girl. When I wasn’t, it happened again—someone died. So now I have to be a good girl. If I’m a good girl nothing bad will ever happen again.

In the dark hours of the night Josh died, I promised I’d never be a bad girl again. Deep down I grieved for the woman I wanted to be, strong, brave, fearless, and the things I barely admitted to myself—sexy, desired, loved. Good girls were none of those things. Only now, I find I was wrong. I get to be a good girl and have a marriage where I get to love my husband and have amazing sex that went on for hours.

We made love for hours—okay, several times were hard core fucking. I run my finger over the bruise he gave me when he bit me on my right nipple. Yet once for sure…I close my eyes. So slow, so sweet, his tongue tasted every inch of me. He whispered he was going to enjoy showing me how to be a little more selfish. I was already on the right road considering the way I grasped his cock when he tried to pull out of my mouth. He was trying to be considerate.

The painful memories of Eddie telling me I was fat and disgusting, how even if he weren’t gay, he could never want me are burned away by the heat of Manuel’s desire for me. Manuel didn’t think I was disgusting. He had more than half a dozen women who were at his beck and call for sex, and he let them all go so he could have only me.

He wanted to make me happy because I was like sunshine on his skin. I press a hand to my chest, a little afraid of how deeply it aches again from those beautiful words. I’m pretty sure what makes them even more beautiful is he didn’t intend them to be. It was simply his truth.

In the bedroom, I find my carry-on has been brought into the walk-in closet and unpacked. Why in the world would someone need a walk-in closet on a plane? I shake my head as I attempt to process how deeply my life has changed. Curious now, and with my stomach demanding food, I dress in a silk wrap amethyst dress.

A full breakfast of eggs over medium, bacon, toast, and orange juice is put in front of me less than a minute after I sit down. I eat quickly, wanting to see the plane before I have to sit down and get strapped in.

The flight attendant shows me around the huge plane. I cannot believe how large it is. There are two other bedrooms—one with two queen beds and another with a king bed. All of them have attached baths. A gym with a treadmill, free weights, a rowing machine, and a heavy bag is off-limits. Annoyance flares through me, does he think I’ll hurt myself or something?

It’s like any other home with a lounge and a separate film room, and I do mean film room. There’s a projector, white screen, and three rows of four velvet recliners. Another area I’m not allowed in is the office area where I’m told there is an office and a conference room.

When we land outside of Medellin. I’m met by a tall, elegant woman who speaks English as she ushers me to the back of a luxury SUV waiting on the tarmac. “Mrs. Rodriguez. Hello. I’m Catherine. I run the households for the Rodriguez family. With the number of homes they have all over the world and how all three are constantly moving between them, I arrange things so their homes are always prepared and ready for them. I’ll be coordinating your update and any changes you want to your home. Anything you want or need, I will assist in making it happen.”

How many homes do they have? I decide it’s not important when I need her to explain the landing strip. And the massive hangar beside it. “I’m sorry. Were those two planes and helicopter theirs?”

She nods as she gets out. “Yes, Joe, Manuel’s father, is adamant transportation is always available. Since Manuel and Felix spend so much time in the air, having a back-up plane is a requirement for them.”

“Joe? I thought his father’s name was Jesus?”

“He goes by Joe. His father was Jesus. Joe went by Jesse as a teenager, but he didn’t like it. Joe stuck,” she explains.

The driver is making me nervous with the way he’s eyeing me. We’re on the side of a mountain. I see the city of Medellin below us. I would rather his eyes were on the road. It’s not as scary of a road as I thought it would be, but we’re far up.

I don’t know. I guess I thought you couldn’t live hanging off a mountain but as far as the eye can see, I can’t tell we’re on a mountain. Through the windows, I see what Manuel referred to as a village. It looks like any small town in America. There are some children playing in a pretty, picture book park with women sitting on benches around the park watching them.

“Do you live here?” I can’t tell if she’s Colombian or American her accent is so neutral she could be a native English speaker or simply had an extremely good education.

She shakes her head. “I’ll be in Colombia assisting with anything you need until I’m needed elsewhere.”

“Manuel mentioned he travels a lot. Does he really spend most of his time out of the house?” I ask the question plaguing me since he said it.

“Yes. He spent four months in Europe last year alone.” Her soft brown eyes run over me. “His wife cared he spent time away in the beginning, but by the time she died she didn’t.”

I’m not sure if it’s a warning or…

I take in the information on the amount of land and employees and how well the Rodriguez family treats their employees dimly. All my focus is taken up by the enormous homes only now coming into view, even though we passed through gates a while ago.

The houses are huge. These aren’t McMansions, they are actual mansions. I always took pride in our three-story brick home built for the richest in Chicago. The home I grew up in isn’t a quarter as stunning as these homes.

“That home belonged to Joe’s father.” It’s a white two-story home in the older Spanish style of a plain front that has no windows on the bottom floor. A front door the size of a garage door tells me it’s the kind of home built around a courtyard.

She points out another house more hidden behind a line of trees and big bushes. “That is Joe’s home.”

Holy crap. I’ve been to Paris twice with my mother for shopping. The house appears as if it were lifted from Paris and set down in Colombia. I can’t get over it, from the Corinthian columns to the black wrought iron over the windows, even the roof is perfect to Parisian buildings.

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