LATE THAT NIGHT a strange noise startles me awake. I try to remember the dream or nightmare that the sound must have come from; however, I can’t remember a thing. But when I hear moaning coming from beside me, I realize I didn’t wake up because of a bad dream.
I glance over at Mateo as he stirs. I can barely make out his features in the dim light coming from the cracked door of the bathroom, but I see that his eyes are screwed shut and realize he must be in the midst of a nightmare. He groans softly, his face twisting in pain as he fights imaginary demons in his mind.
Sitting up on my knees beside him, I watch and wait. I don’t know what to do. Should I let him fight through it, or should I try to wake him? When a tortured sound comes from the back of his throat, I make a decision. “Mateo?” I call out. I gently place my hand on his chest, and it only takes me a split second to realize I made a horrible mistake.
Before I can even blink, my entire world is turned upside down as he flips me onto my back and tackles me onto the mattress. His hand is wrapped around my throat, and his dark eyes bore into me as he pants and growls like a feral animal on top of me.
“Mateo,” I gasp as I struggle to breathe.
It takes a few seconds, but his eyes finally clear and he quickly pulls his hand away. “I’m sorry, Aria,” he apologizes before sitting on the edge of the bed. The lamp by the bed turns on, and he scrubs his hands down his face while muttering something in Spanish that I can’t understand.
“It’s okay,” I tell him.
He draws in a rough breath between his teeth before slowly releasing it. “It was just a nightmare,” he says out loud, but I think he’s trying to convince himself rather than explaining it to me.
“What was your dream about?” I ask.
Several long minutes of silence stretch between us. And just when I think he’s not going to answer me, he finally says, “Mi familia.”
“Your family?” I ask.
He nods.
I don’t know what possesses me, but I find myself saying, “Tell me about them. Before everything that happened. I want to hear what they were like before.” Even though Mateo and I don’t have a conventional relationship, by any means, it still would be nice to know about his past and where he came from.
“My father was born in Colombia. He met my mother while visiting America.” He reaches up and touches a strand of my hair. “She was Italian, like you.” He drops the lock and continues on. “They fell in love and got married within a week of meeting.”
“Wow. That was fast,” I comment in awe.
“They knew the moment they met that they were destined to be together. Fate had brought them together for a reason.”
His words sink in slowly, giving me goosebumps. Did fate bring Mateo and I together? I guess, in a way, it did. But I can’t dwell on that when I’m still under lock and key with no real promise of being able to leave or going home anytime soon.
“Nine months later, my oldest sister Isabella was born. A couple of years later, Gabriela came into the world. And then me, their only boy. We all thought my parents were done having kids after me. And then Lucita was born. We all called her Little Lucy. She was the youngest. Only eight years old when she…when they…” His voice trails off, and I reach over to squeeze his hand.
“So, you lived in Colombia or America?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.
“We lived everywhere. Colombia, Portugal, America, Rome, Athens. My father’s business took us to a lot of places. We traveled the world.”
That explains why he speaks multiple languages so well and why he has a lighter accent than everyone I’ve met, including his uncle.
“What brought you to Mexico?” I question.
“After my family was…gone, I had to run. My uncle had his own business set up in California, and he suggested that I hide in Mexico. We had no idea who sent the hit out on my family,” he explains. Then, he pauses for a beat and says, “We still don’t.”
That sends a shiver up my spine. After all these years, Mateo has never gotten his revenge for his family. I’m sure that weighs on him every day of his life. No wonder he still has nightmares about it. I can’t even imagine how that feels.
“I lived on the streets from the time I was eleven until I was a teen,” he goes on to say. “Then I began working for a Bolivian drug cartel, making my way through the ranks. I met Cristóbal Espinoza soon after, and he helped me to fund what you see now,” he says, waving his hand.
“Your uncle should have taken you in. He should have protected you,” I say angrily. It’s not fair that he was an eleven-year-old boy fending for himself on the streets while his uncle stayed happy and healthy in his fortress in California.
“Probably. But maybe it was my destiny. Maybe all of that happened and led me to this point. If my uncle had taken me in and babied me, I wouldn’t have developed the work ethic I have now. I also wouldn’t have the empire I have now,” he concedes.
I sit beside him on the edge of the bed, and he turns to me. “I don’t like your uncle,” I confess in a hushed whisper.
“I’m not so fond of him myself,” he says with a harsh laugh. “I’ve only ever told my uncle about what happened that day. And even he doesn’t know all the details.”
“If you ever need to talk about it, Mateo, I’m here to listen,” I tell him gently. I rest my hand on his arm, and his muscles flex under my touch.
He nods a few times, and I think he’s going to dismiss me, shut me out like he normally does. But instead, he says, “The day started like any other normal day. We were living in Colombia at the time. Had only been there for a few months. My father was dealing with a lot of new cartel bosses, so we always had our guard up, but we thought we were safe.” His voice is thick with overwhelming emotion as he speaks. “They murdered my father last. They wanted him to watch everything that was happening to his family and carry that over into the afterlife to make his soul suffer the burden.” He spears his fingers into his thick, dark hair. “My mother and sisters were beaten and raped. I was held down, forced to watch. I could see and hear everything.”
“And you were eleven years old?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper.
“Yes,” he breathes out. “I was weak. I couldn’t fight back.”
“You were just a boy.”
“I should have done something. I should have helped them somehow!” he says, his voice raising an octave.
“It’s not your fault, Mateo,” I tell him, trying to calm him down. I stand up and straddle his lap, cupping his face in my hands. “It’s not your fault,” I say again, more forcefully this time.
His hands grasp my hips and hold fast. “They beat and whipped me until I was unconscious. Left me for dead.”
“But you survived.”
“I survived. But my soul and my humanity were gone,” he admits. His hands grip me tighter. “That’s why I never wanted to grow attached to you, Aria. You would only become too much of a liability in my fucked-up world. People will always try to get to me through you. This life is not something I would wish on my worst enemy.” He pulls me closer, his mouth only an inch away from mine, as he stares into my eyes. “If I were a good man, I would have set you free a long time ago, mi pequeña cautiva.” Then he confesses, “But now it’s too late. I’ll never let you go.”
His words should scare me. They should make me run, screaming from the room in terror. But instead, they calm me.
I press my lips against his in a soul-searing kiss as he crushes me against him, holding on to me like I’m his only salvation. I don’t know what’s happening to me, to him, to us, but it’s too late to turn back the hands of time. Even though none of this makes sense and we don’t make sense, I can’t help how I feel. When we’re together, we share this inexplicable bond that I never want to break.
Maybe this is what fate had planned for me all along. Maybe Mateo is my destiny. Only time will tell. But I know one thing is for sure — I think I’m falling for my captor.
