Chapter 9 Dancing With Fate: Part 2

As I stand before Marcel, behind the closed doors of the room I’ll be calling home for the next month, the tension between us weighs heavy, suffocating like that night, 6 years ago. He had scooted closer to me after I’d wiped the tears from my face, and despite knowing that it was evident—with or without crying—that something was eating away at me inside, I wouldn’t look at him. I wouldn’t dare to. I was afraid that if I did, he’d see right through and break me in half, giving himself free reign into every thought and feeling that I had. However, when the knuckle of his index finger found my chin, bringing my eyes to look into his, I didn’t feel like the world around me was collapsing or as if I was collapsing with it. Instead, I found comfort—a sense of safety. “I want a girl like you,” he said softly. I furrowed my eyebrows, confused, but before I could mutter a sound, he explained, “Quiet, smart, cute enough to be pretty but not pretty enough to be sexy. Keeps to herself, stays out of trouble,” he paused. With a small smile on his lips, he playfully added, “—for the most part.” Cute enough to be pretty but not pretty enough to be sexy..? At the time, it’d gone completely over my head. I didn’t know that what he meant to say was: cute enough to be pretty but not pretty enough to arouse the naked eye or blatantly attract attention from men looking for something to look at. In the midst of my insecurities, I pretended that I wasn’t bothered by the fact that I believed that he’d subtly called me unsexy, and I fought to keep what I thought was a blank expression on my face until he said, “I need a girl like you, and if it were up to me, I’d put you in my truck and take you away.” Then, I couldn’t hide my confusion. I narrowed my eyes on him, my voice low as I confronted him, “I know who you are…so what’s stopping you?” It isn’t that I wasn’t afraid of him or of the power I knew that he had. It’s that as I sat there, knowing that I was sharing the couch with the heir of the Saldívar Mafia empire, all I could think about was: what could possibly be standing in the way of him doing whatever he wanted? “Unfortunately, as of three days ago, you’re off limits,” he said as though it wouldn’t confuse me more. Then, he explained, “Your brother made my father an offer he couldn’t refuse, so you are to be left alone for the foreseeable future.” An offer he couldn’t refuse..? What the hell did he do now? I knew better than to ask about my brother’s business from other people. Levi made that abundantly clear the day he found out that I had asked one of his friends about his weekend endeavors. Needless to say, that’s the day I learned what “curiosity killed the cat” means, and Levi learned how easy it was to “put me in my place”. I shook my head ever-so-slightly, pressing Marcel, “Then why are you here?” “Because like you, I don’t always do what I’m told,” he was frank and unapologetic. He studied me, lowering his hand from my face as he breathed out, “I can’t take you away, but technically, you could come with me.” There it is. I didn’t want to admit it at the time, but there was a part of me that was tempted to. Not because I was unhappy with where I was or because I thought I could be happy with someone like him, but because I knew that if I left, my brother wouldn’t have to worry about me anymore. He could live his life without having to look over my shoulder too. But as selfless as it seemed, I also knew how hard he had worked to provide and protect me for 4 years. If I left with the man who may very well be no better than the man who killed our parents, it would destroy him. I would destroy him. “I can’t just leave. I have school and Levi…” my voice trailed off. As displeased as I could tell he was, he was also well-composed. He didn’t lash out in anger the way that I expected him to. He didn’t lash out in frustration the way that I was used to Levi doing so. Instead, he held his silence and continued to eye me until it dawned on him, and he gently said, “You love him like he’ll be here for always.” At first, it took me aback. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. “What’s that supposed to mean..?” I muttered. I was used to the pitiful glances and apologetic looks. I spent all my life receiving them from neighbors, teachers, and friends that I had before my parents died. However, the sympathetic gleam in Marcel’s eyes beat them all when he told me, “Come graduation day, your brother’s moving up the ranks. He’ll be working closely with my father, so you probably won’t ever see him again. That’s what he agreed to when he asked that you be left alone.” It was all for nothing, because I ended up right where Levi wanted me not to. But, of course, at the time, I never imagined that I’d be standing where I am now. And, of course, I begged. I looked up at him as he stood from his seat, straightening on his feet. With my head thrown back, furrowed eyebrows, and tears running down the sides of my face, I cried as my voice quavered, “Please, don’t do this…” He looked down at me, and in the second it took for his hand to uselessly wipe the tears from my face, he was back to wearing his stoic mask. Nevertheless, his voice was sincere as he confessed, “It’s out of my hands, Mercy. Your brother doesn’t work for me yet.” Yet..? But I knew that it didn’t matter. I knew that it didn’t matter that my brother didn’t work for him, because whenever my brother would eventually get to working for him, it would be too late. He’d be in too deep, and the only two places fit for someone who dropped everything at the age of 17 and joined the Mafia were prison or a 6 foot deep hole. If life’s taught me anything, it’s that Levi was never the exception. The only exception to the probabilities of our realities is me. Well, it was me. Now, as I stare up into the eyes of the man who managed to reel me back in only to drown me, I can’t help but wonder if I should’ve taken his offer that day instead. “What’s on your mind?” Marcel’s steady voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and as well as I know not to lie to him, I choose not to answer. I can’t. I can’t tell him that all I can think about, in this moment, is how I wish I hadn’t been so hopeful 6 years ago. I can’t tell him that I wish I had given him an answer before I let him walk out that door. I can’t tell him that all I can think about is the possibility that beneath my hate for him, there’s a sliver of willingness to grant him redemption. He shot you. Don’t you forget that. “I should get to work,” I mutter as I turn on my heels. I take a step toward the desk with the laptop sitting on it, but a single step is as close as I get before I feel him grasp my arm. He pulls me back into him, my back flushed against him as he brings his unoccupied hand up to pull my hair away from my ear. My heart flutters in my chest, my breath drawn unevenly as I feel his own brushing my lobe. This is it. This is the control he’s always had over me—the effect that still paralyzes me. It’s here now, and it was there that night. After he had helped me off the couch, I walked closely behind him as he said, “Think about it. I’ll be back next week, same time.” Between sniffles and the heartbreaking truth of the reality of my brother’s choices, I found a small light in Marcel’s words as he said, “Lock the door behind me.” I was conflicted, and I still am. Because while he didn’t know anything about me—or at least, I thought he didn’t—he cared enough to remind me to stay safe. “Marcel?” My watery voice stopped him before he could open the door, and as I stood there, imagining what I’d be to him if I left with him, imagining that I’d be just another tool for him to use when he got bored and tired of all of the women I was sure were throwing themselves at him, I stammered over my desperate need to not feel self-conscious, “D-Do you even like me?” I watched his muscles visibly tense under his leather jacket, and I almost regretted it all when he suddenly turned around and backed me into the wall. With one hand planted beside my head, the other holding my chin steady, his hungry eyes held me as he said, “I want you. Sweet…innocent.” A soft, half-hearted chuckle emitted from the back of his throat, and he murmured, “I want you all to myself.” My erratic heart pounded in my chest, my breath caught in my lungs as his lips trailed ghostly touches against my own, to my cheek where he planted a tender kiss. There was no excuse. A part of me craved a taste of what I knew was no good for me, and it only made me want him more when he shifted to my ear and whispered in a perfect Colombian accent, “Lo quieras o no, un día, serás mía, muñequita.” (“Whether you want it or not, one day, you’ll be mine, baby doll.”) “I warned you, love.” His voice strikes a string of chills down the base of my spine, a reminder that all of the time in the world could pass, and he’s still not letting go. He’s not letting go, so I won’t let go. I can’t let go, because it’s hard to let go when the person who hurt you is the person who you’re tethered to in ways you never thought you would be—tethered without even knowing it. He doesn’t have to say it. I see it happening, and it’s my fault. He’ll bring the battle to me and he’ll fight until it’s his. He’ll fight until I am his all over again. It’s inevitable. Only, this time, there is no one keeping him from me. This is where the good girl in me dies. “You’re mine now,” he whispers.