Cartel Heiress

The Devil

[El Diablo]

I grasp the tequila shots, six of them remaining, and precariously clutch between my clumsy fingers. I wrestle with their slippery weight, their amber depths shimmering with a promise that holds both temptation and caution. A fleeting thought tempts me to indulge and simply drown the anxious flutter in my chest, but my life's creed has never been to heed the allure of reckless choices. Bad ideas may make good stories. I've heard that somewhere, but I've always been one to steer clear of a tumultuous aftermath. Even if that meant never really writing a*********s for myself.

Let alone good ones.

So, I resist the temptation, holding the shots like a delicate secret, despite the ludicrous spectacle I must surely present awkwardly stumbling around like a juggler or the king's jester.

But in the pulsating heart of Cielo Nocturno, none of these things matter. Here the crowd writhes and undulates, a tapestry of bodies that speaks an unspoken language I've never heard before. The music is a sultry whisper in everyone's ears, as feet hit the floor, hands find hips, chests press against chests, and heartbeats become one lost under the spell woven by the allure of the dance floor. It's a rare intimacy between strangers, an act that melts away inhibitions like wax under a flame. I trace the contours of limbs and gazes locked in secret promises. It's a life I've only seen from the periphery, as my day to day is punctuated by poverty, ceaseless work, and the heavy burden of familial responsibility. I have to thank Isabel's conviction for bringing me here, for allowing me to experience this even for a little while.

The music envelopes me, my heart gallops in rhythm, harmonizing with the melody and the pulsating lights. In this collective ecstasy, I fixate on a young couple. They must be around my age, nineteen, maybe twenty. They hold each other tight, their lips colliding and melding in an embrace both fervent and tender, a choreography of longing and connection. Tongues glisten in a tantalizing dance, all hot and pink and wet. I think the guy moans a little into the girl's mouth. It's intoxicating, private. I know I should look away, but I can't stop staring, observing, taking it in. It's a moment that transcends the hedonistic haze, a vignette of unspoken promises and shared vulnerability, leaving an indelible imprint upon my senses.

Maybe it's their union, maybe it's the tequila's warmth through my veins, molding my insides into scorching lava. Whatever it is, it burns me, igniting desire in my brain, longing in my heart, sending a rush of wet heat between my thighs. I am so turned on right now. Instinctively, I press my legs together and look down, realizing I want this.

I want this badly.

I want someone to just grab me and–

"s**t!" My trajectory takes an unforeseen twist as I collide with a man emerging from the haze and shadows. The liquid offerings in my hands splatter the ebony canvas of his shirt like shooting stars. "s**t," I gasp. "s**t, s**t. Oh, God. I'm sorry."

It would help if he offered something in return, if he'd say: "Don't be," or, "Happens," or even, "Are you blind, chica?" but he doesn't.

He doesn't say anything at all.

He only stands here, towering over me.

A formidable man cloaked in darkness. A silent stranger, mysterious and alluring.

His presence is striking, captivating. He makes the surrounding chaos eclipse and the only thing I can see now are those emerald eyes of his, burning into mine with a primal intensity. It's like his gaze pierces through the layers of my guarded composure and reaches somewhere deep, to the very depths of my soul. Nobody has looked at me this way before. It's haunting, scary, unexpected, beautiful.

What is he seeing?

Probably a clumsy fool with flushed cheeks and disheveled hair, ruining his night.

"I'm so, so sorry," I repeat. I stack the tiny glasses one on top of the other and hold them to my chest with one hand. I extend the other, to right my wrong and cleanse him of the tequila drops still adorning his dark attire like constellations. I hope the trembling in my fingertips goes unnoticed. I hope he–

He stops me, capturing my wrist midair.

He doesn't want to be touched.

His grip is vice-like, strong and intense in a way that gets me conflicted. I don't know if I should call him possessive or aggressive. Something in-between. Our contact sends shivers of nervousness coursing through me. As he meets my gaze, his pupils dilate, and the green irises flecked with gold mirror the ever-changing hues of the dance floor lights. He's so handsome he doesn't look human. Is he even real? He must be. His long, warm fingers wrapped around me are, the way he senses my quickening heartbeat.

Can he tell my unrest is tangled with both concern and a strange allure?

For him?

I tense up, unsure, waiting. Time itself seems to still. I stand at the precipice of something new, an uncharted territory. Who is this man? What's happening inside his head?

"Hey," I say in a voice scarcely above a whisper. I don't know if he can hear me over the loud music, but his eyes lower to my mouth. He's reading my lips. "Are you alright?"

His features remain stern, his demeanor unforgiving, but his eyes hold a fire I can't explain. His grip on my wrist tightens.

His olive skin speaks of sun-soaked adventures, but his dark black hair ripples like a midnight current. Angular lines define his face, from the sharp lines of his high cheekbones to the fullness of his mouth, a contrast of strength and beauty. He looks powerful, dangerous, inwardly turned like some kind of apex predator ready to attack.

Should I be scared?

A little voice in my head confirms the answer is yes. This touch, this eye contact, takes too long. It's unnecessary, unusual. A red flag. I am about to pull away when he finally lets me go. "Careful where you're going." It comes out like a warning.

Is he threatening me?

Before I have time to contemplate it, he's gone, leaving me behind with a thousand questions and desires yet to be realized.

"Asshole," I murmur. "Green-eyed pendejo."

The pounding beat of the music shifts and the music changes into a familiar tempo. The lights on the ceiling above begin to flicker and shimmer like a million stars spiraling in a distant corner of the universe, casting their light only on her.

Isabel.

I recognize the song she's been dancing to at home for the past couple of weeks and I know her time is here. The show is on! A concoction of excitement and worry stirs within me, and I turn towards the stage, wondering what spectacle my sister is about to unveil.

...