Cartel Heiress

[Nunca] I never thought it would come to this; to be on the run, outlawed, abducted, hiding for my life, trembling beneath the bed, struggling to remain invisible. The world around me is caught in a maelstrom of bullets, blood, drugs, revenge, and the cartel war. Inevitably, the question arises: what am I doing here? Seriously. What. The. Hell. Am. I. Doing. Here? The deafening roar of gunfire pierces my ears, every click of the trigger sends shockwaves of terror through my body. Somewhere nearby, glass shatters, and the fragments rain down on the floor, shining like shooting stars. Was it the mirror? The window? I can't tell. Wood splinters into pieces. The nightstand, perhaps? Amidst this pandemonium, it's impossible to make sense of anything. I cover my mouth, desperately trying to stifle the irregular breaths coming out like little sobs threatening to betray me. I can't give myself away. If I do, I'm dead. Death. I didn't think it would be like this. Not my own, at least. I never delved into it, but the few times I entertained the macabre thought of an end, I never envisioned it this way. How could I have? What person in their right mind anticipates their life will end in the blood-soaked battlefield of an unrelenting cartel war between the two most infamous drug lords of Mexico and the Drug Enforcement Agency? No one. Of course, I did have my reasons to contemplate how I might die in recent months, to attempt to guess my life's epilogue, to ponder my destiny and whether I had already fulfilled my purpose. Whoever I was before, I was a completely different person. One of the good ones. Quiet, docile, never a trouble maker or a trouble magnet. Had someone asked me "what do you expect from the future, Catalina? What do you want in life?" I would have offered a restrained smile, while absentminently tucking my hair behind my ear. I would have lowered my gaze to the floor and replied, "I want peace and quiet, that's all. I want just enough to keep the ones I love safe and sound. I want my papá to get healthy, my sister to leave those pretentious night clubs behind and never to have to dance for unknown men again. I want to provide for them, keep them blissful. That's enough for me. Some people wish for greatness, for money, and power, and fame. They want to leave their mark behind. And me? I don't. I just want to survive. I don't aspire to leave any marks." To find myself a captive of warlords and drug traffickers, entangled in the underworld's web, trapped amidst an incredibly brutal war between rival cartels, just to die in their crossfire –as another one of countless collateral losses– certainly wasn't part of my future plans. But fate seems to have chosen otherwise. So here I am, in the golden suite of the "El Palacio" hotel, huddled like a spineless creature beneath the planks of the king-sized bed, trapped in the small, suffocating space between the floor and the mattress. Tears blur my vision as I peer out from my hiding spot, and my heart thunders so loudly in my chest I fear everyone can hear it. The opulence that greeted me when I first entered the room is long gone, transformed into a battleground strewn with wreckage and remnants of a bygone grandeur, all smothered in smoke and destruction. Chandeliers spin on the ceiling, casting colorful glimmers everywhere, intertwining with the fiery muzzle flashes of guns. From my place beneath the bed, the only thing I catch is glimpses of the hurried footsteps of men pacing back and forth. Their dark shoes with ornate buckles, their swift movements as they seek cover or step forward, armed and ready for attack. I feel dizzy, as if each step they take generates seismic vibrations on the floor beneath me. The air becomes heavy with the smell of smoke, gunpowder, blood, and despair. Bullets blast, their echoes reverberating across the marble floor as they hit the ground. I shut my eyes and cover my ears, attempting to contain the nightmare surrounding me, to keep it out of my head. How did my life end up in such horror? How did an insignificant, ordinary girl from the slums of Tijuana become part of a world filled with bloodshed, intrigue, and betrayal? Fear tightens around my throat, constricting like a noose, as I struggle to make sense of it all. I fail. Suddenly, the bed creaks, and the mattress above me bends under the weight of something —or rather, someone— that landed there with force. I see two legs dangling lifelessly from the edge of the bed just as a deep crimson stain, the color of rust, pierces through the mattress in front of me and drips onto my hand. I crawl deeper into the shadows. Another thunderous noise startles me, and I look to the side, terrified. Another man has just collapsed next to the bed, ten or twelve inches away from where I am. He has been shot in the belly and makes one last, desperate effort to keep his wounds closed, pressing his palms over them with all his might. I know it's futile. He knows it too. A small spurt of blood shoots from his mouth as he coughs his final breath. His head falls to the side, and his eyes meet mine for the briefest moment before the light fades from them. I bite my lips so hard I taste blood. I try with all I have to hold back the scream building up low in the pit of my stomach, climbing up my throat, threatening to suffocate me. This is too much. I can't bear all of this. I can't bear it. I can't bear it. The man is dead. They all are. And soon, so will I be. A part of me, the most cynical, has already surrendered, finding a slight solace in the thought that my end will at least be unexpected and spectacular. Almost cinematic. I can already see the headlines: "Young Female Falls Victim to the Narco Lords." The other part of me, the one still incompatible with the unimaginable turn of events, desperately digs into the past through memories, attempting to retreat to simpler times, calm, sluggish, impoverished, and mundane. Safe. It seeks refuge in a life that was stolen from me; one I will never get back. That was my life before I met... him. The Devil with the green eyes. Enzo Morales. ...