Page 48 of No Sweeter Poison

“So if it isn’t drugs and it’s not human trafficking then what is it?”

“Just about anything else you can think of. Predominantly illegal gambling, arms dealing, black market contraband, and in the last fifteen years, anything tech related. Diego’s mostly arm candy but he knows his way around a computer.”

When I don’t respond right away, she lifts her head and frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t believe you’re telling me all this.”

“What are you going to do?” she asks. “Call the police?”

I purse my lips at her.

“Besides, I’m getting a little tired of you hating us all the time. It’s exhausting and inconvenient.” She returns her attention to her magazine. “The sooner you realize you’re a guest and not a captive, the better it’ll be for us all.”

Admittedly, I’m torn between accepting my fate and fighting back tooth and nail. I won’t deny that what happened last night put the fear of God in me. Sure, I was brought here against my will and my association with Alejandro has compromised my safety, but I’m pretty comfortable for a captive. All in all, it could be so much worse.

Say I do give in…what happens to Dahlia Rosario? What happens to the girl I was before I ever crossed paths with Alejandro Narvaez? That’s the part that scares me.

Whether or not I’ll remain intact or if corruption will slip through the cracks of the armor that can no longer protect me. I already feel the shift in my moral compass, knowing the deaths of four people should weigh on my conscience, but ultimately don’t. Callie and Ron were supposed to be at their niece’s birthday party today, if that story was even true. They were bad people who intended me harm but they were still human.

Doesn’t that count for something?

L ettie treats me like her own personal Barbie doll and we run up enough charges on her brother’s credit card to make my soul leave my body.

She blows through money like her life depends on it, never satisfied with the number of zeroes after the comma, as if competing with herself on how much she can spend. We go to an atelier where every inch of my body is measured and rows upon rows of clothes are laid out for us to choose from. Lettie assembles outfits with matching shoes, purses, and hats, the accessories almost as important as the garments themselves.

Her taste is exquisite and not just designer. Anyone can pick from the likes of Chanel, Versace, Dolce and Gabbana, and Armani, but it’s all mainstream. Flashy name brands fake rich people like to brag about. Lettie comes from real wealth that spans generations.

A mafia princess through and through.

She dresses me in brands I don’t know and couldn’t pronounce the name of even if I tried. We spend hours wandering through store after store, accumulating so many bags that the bodyguards with us have to keep going back to the car to drop them off. With a few hours of sunlight left, she drags me into four different jewelry stores where she picks out pieces whose price tags are in the millions and bring her final total somewhere in the seven figures.

I almost faint.

We don’t make it back to the villa until half past eight and we’re late for dinner. I skip the meal and instead ask for Doña Ana to bring a tray to my room. I spend hours opening boxes, sorting through purses and shoes, and reconfiguring my closet to fit everything. Luckily, I didn’t have much with me and the walk-in closet is massive. The size of half my apartment back home.

As I put dresses on hangers and undergarments in drawers, I do my best to force down the panic I feel rising in my throat.

I feel so detached from everything—like I’m in survival mode. Earlier today, it felt so good to look at something I wanted and know I could have it, no questions asked. That’s never happened before. Everything I own I either saved or budgeted for if it wasn’t borrowed or given to me. There was something so satisfying about sitting in a salon chair while being waited on hand and foot.

Lettie took me everywhere with her today. We got our hair and nails done, and our faces put in those big red-light machines before a makeup artist sat me down in a chair and turned me into someone unrecognizable. Doubt started to creep in.

Maybe this isn’t so bad?

You should thank Alejandro.

This is so much better than your life back home.

Aside from the fact that almost twenty-four hours ago, I watched Alejandro brutally murder four people with the same calm indifference one might have when putting butter on toast, I can’t ignore what Lettie told me today. These people are criminals. Everything they have is bought with laundered money that someone, somewhere along the line, paid for in blood. How can I stand here amongst my pretty things in this beautiful villa and not feel remorse? Fear?

Disgust?

I can’t conjure up any of those emotions. Only relief and gratitude and that’s what’s making me panic.

A knock on the bedroom door almost makes me leap out of my skin. I rush out of the closet. “Come in.”

Alejandro sticks his head in. “You weren’t at dinner.”

I glance at the clock by the TV. It’s past midnight.