Cartel Heiress

Dance for Me

[Baila para mí]



The loud thumping of the music amplifies the anxious cadence of my heart as I stand on the stage, surrounded by an ocean of leering eyes. The spotlights overhead blind me, their brilliance so overpowering that I must wrestle the urge to shield my eyes with my hand.

I blink, momentarily dazed.

Everything-every detail about me-is illuminated to such a degree that I wonder if they can all see the flush on my cheeks or discern the faintest traces of imperfection on my thighs. I don't feel human, I feel like a rare specimen getting examined under the microscope.

What are these people seeing?

My unease.

My inward turmoil.

The unbearable, stifling sense of shame that crashes down on me.

Despite knowing better, I clasp my hands over my chest as if to shield myself from view. This instinct is overpowering, an adversary I can't seem to conquer. I don't feel at ease with baring myself, exposing who I truly am-flaws and all. It's as though in doing so, I give away a fragment of myself to anyone looking, relinquishing a part of me that I'll never get back.

Shards of Catalina Ferreiro.

I can't fathom how Isabel does it. Where does she summon such audacity, such courage, and that breathtaking artistry? Her body becomes an instrument of allure and enticement, a siren's call that pulls in every soul with each sway, each twist. It's a dance of desire that she performs with a mastery that defies explanation.

But me?

I'm no match.

I can't even begin to comprehend how to emulate it. I am nothing more than a self-conscious bundle of frayed nerves and trembling limbs. I stand no chance.

The only thing I seem capable of is blushing, averting my gaze to the floor and my chipped nail polish, stumbling, and making a ridicule out of myself. If I were to muster any movement, if my legs hadn't turned to lead and my body hadn't transformed into an ungainly weight, perhaps I'd resemble Isabel, even if just a little.

After all, she's my sister.

We both have long, dark hair, although hers cascades sleek and straight, while mine flows in waves. Hers is a couple of shades darker, like midnight skies, mine's a softer chocolate hue. The shape of our faces and our bone structures are similar, almond-shaped eyes, matching high cheekbones, full lips.

Of course, there are distinctions too.

Her body is all curves and allure, mine is more delicate, lean with a smaller bosom. Her nose is flawless, mine carries a barely noticeable imperfection at the bridge and when I smile, a dimple forms on my left cheek, whereas hers remains immaculate.

We look alike, but it's not enough. I can't move like Isabel, I don't dare.

And the crowd sees it. If I were to try, maybe I could convince half of them that we're the same girl, while the other half might settle for us being different.

But I'm not trying.

Not hard enough.

Murmurs and whispers accumulate and spill around me like a rising tide ready to engulf me.

If I don't swim, I'll drown.

It's that simple.

I take a deep breath and shift forward, uncertain of what it is I'm supposed to do. I know the steps that follow, I know the moves, but I hesitate. Slowly, I try to follow the rhythm, syncing with the tempo, morphing into the heroine of the story we hear. I must become La Estrella.

Raising my arms, I sweep my hair back, letting it cascade into chestnut curls on my shoulders and back. I bend my knees and sway my hips. The crystals on my panties tinkle languidly, like ethereal bells, brushing tenderly between my thighs. This is the best I can do, but I doubt the impact it has. I'm somewhat disjointed, a tad bewildered, my thoughts lack coherence.

Should I aim for poised grace, or embrace my nervous energy?

Which path holds the key to captivating the crowd?

My every motion feels like a tightrope walk between elegance and awkwardness.

What's the right course to go about this?

What would Isabel do?

Mercy, I think, have mercy on me. I don't know how to do what you're expecting of me. The fact that I've managed to restrain my impulse to flee should be considered an achievement.

I don't know how to stand, how to move, how to use my body for such a purpose. Seduction.

Asthe music wraps around me, I strive to mimic Isabel's confidence, to dance likeshe does, to embody the enchantment she effortlessly exudes.

But I'm not her.

Iwill never be.

Every step feels like a struggle, a battle with my inner fearsand insecurities. The expectant gazes of the audience bear down on me, theirmurmurs adding pressure to my every motion. Where is the real Estrella? Who are you? What's going on? I want my money back!

I try to ignore them and focus solely on my purpose. It's difficult at first, but in an instant, it becomes the most effortless thing in the world. Because I have just found him.

The enigmatic stranger from before.

Cielo Nocturno is vast, filled with blinding lights and artificial mist, packed with hundreds and hundreds of people, but somehow, I've found him again.

He's here.

Our gazes meet and they hold each other.

The kaleidoscopic lighting sends red, neon green, and yellow beams on those panther-like eyes of his, giving them an otherworldly depth. Shadows dance across his features, accentuating the masculine lines of his jaw and capturing the subtle hollows beneath his cheekbones. The dark halo of his hair makes him look like the elven prince of some dark realm that can only exist in tales lost in time.

Who is this man?

He might be asking the same question about me, because he blinks, once, twice, thrice as if he's trying to see me clearly. His gaze is like that of a sailor searching for the beacon of a lighthouse through the night haze. He looks surprised, slightly dazed. He certainly hadn't pictured me as the exotic dancer when I stumbled into him earlier.

I don't blame him. I hadn't pictured myself in this role either.

He lifts a short glass to his lips and takes a deep swig from a sparkling, amber-hued drink. Whiskey, perhaps? Whatever it is, it goes down the wrong way, and his brooding facade shatters. He chokes, coughing. Did I catch him off guard? It's oddly comedic. The enigmatic man with the dangerously seductive aura has just been blindsided by me. A revealing bralette, a shimmering barely-there thong-apparently, that's his kryptonite.

I can't help a smile.

He scowls.

My smile widens. Ha!

My smile disappears.

A man before me at the stage motions for me to come closer, signaling that he wants to put money in my skimpy outfit and get more intimate. It would almost be possible for me to ignore him if the money wasn't that much. And if the man wasn't Leopoldo Cortez. But it is and as vile as he is, he is my target for the night. Isabel's target. Victor's.

I hesitate, feeling sick to my stomach, but I know I have to do this; it is the reason I got here in the first place. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and kneel down in front of the him. He reaches out, his fingers grazing my skin as he stuffs money into my outfit. His touch makes me shudder, his fingers linger on my bare skin under the garment. I know he wants to pull it aside and touch me more.

But he can't.

Not here, not like this.

I force myself to endure it, knowing my family needs the money. Tiny tremors rack my hands and legs, a droplet of sweat runs down my spine. All my senses are hyperaware, and his fingers between my legs, stroking me, tracing the little nerves around my loins is torturous.

I avert my gaze and look at the stranger. I avert my gaze and look towards a different direction. My panther is still there, at the rear end of the club, his back against the wall. His jaw clenched like he's biting something really, really hard. His brows lower, his eyes glint dangerously. A vein in his forehead pops up. Is this his enraged expression? I believe it is.

He looks like he knows what's happening inside me, like he understand I don't want to be treated this way. Nobody does.

I tell myself the stranger would be treating me differently, and that's comforting. I imagine it's him touching me down there, exploring me, making me feel wanted. He is a man I don't know, but he must be around my age and that makes it feel more appropriate. The way the air between us crackled with electricity at the dancefloor makes is less forced. And so does the fact that he didn't try to feel me up like Cortez is doing now.

"She your sister?" he asks. His voice drips with sleaze, his breath hot and wet and stinky is all over me.

"Mmm?"

"She your sister?" he repeats. "La Estrella."

"S-si."

He nods. "Thought so. You're almost identical. But she looks fierce. You on the other hand..." He tsks, "not so much."

As if I need another reminder of how imperfect, awkward, and scared I am!

I try to stand, but he grabs my thigh and forces me to stay down, on his eye level. His fingers dig deep in my skin and I can already imagine the bruises forming. I stifle a cry.

Cortez's eyes glint with sinister lust. "I like it," he says unexpectedly. "I feel like I could crash you with my own fingers." His eyes lower to my mouth, and from there to my neck and my cleavage. My panicked intakes of breath make my bosom rise and fall inside the tiny push-up bra, and that seems to intrigue him even more. "Come to my room later. The Golden Suite at the El Palacio hotel." He stuffs a golden key-card in my bra and before he pulls his hand back out, he squeezes my breast. I gasp. "I'll destroy you," he promises.

Hijo de puta! Like hell you will.

I push him away but that only makes him pull me in more. My disgust intensifies, but again, I can't do much. "Don't touch me," I hiss.

It does little to stop him.

"I've asked for your sister," Cortez adds, "but you're both welcome. I've never been with two sisters at the same time."

I finally break free from him, but he has the audacity to say: "Come. Dance for me."

Dance? I don't think so. I am infinitely more inclined to kick him in the face.

Yeah, I think I will.

I will kick him in his ugly, nasty, conceited face.

I-

I have no time to do it.

In fact, I barely have enough time to react and jump of the stage as the first gunshot is fired. And then another one. The explosive sounds draw my attention right on...

The green-eyed stranger.

He is crossing the dancefloor with a decisive, almost military stride. Sparks dance through the air, trailing the gunfire's path he is blazing. A mixture of fear and awe ripples through the crowd, and they split in two for him like the Red Sea. Nobody wants to get in his way.

This man is no ordinary partygoer. He is a force to be reckoned with, a terrorist, a mercenary, an assassin, a sicario. Whatever he is, whoever he is, he is yielding two loaded guns.

And he is coming right...

At me.

?

Hey you! I see you came back & that makes me so happy! :D

What song do you imagine Catalina dancing to?

Tell me in the Comments and help me pick a track for this chapter.

?