join Diego at Calentar or spend quiet evenings at the penthouse. Everything is luxurious, true to Diego’s style. I’m never without anything I need, and the small staff who take care of us when we’re in the city seem to anticipate my every need before I do. I start to feel less like a prisoner and more like queen.
Weekends at home are filled with girl time by the pool with Marcella, or outings to the country club. I’m in constant contact with my sister and the handful of friends who didn’t abandon me when I went silent.
The more freedoms and privileges Diego allows me, the harder it is to think of escape. The more he takes me to bed and worships my body without restraint, or makes those sly, sarcastic jokes that make me smile, or shows me just a little bit more of who he is … the more I begin to think I don’t really hate him at all.
I think I might actually like him.
However, it occurs to me on a quiet night after work that I don’t really know him—not as well as he knows me. Most of my background he found out through Jaime, who’s a valuable source of information. Anything he can’t find with a few keystrokes eventually gets dug up as he hacks and pilfers data. Everything else Diego has learned through random questions and close observation. But no matter how much I watch my husband, no matter how many questions I ask, he still remains an enigma.
I set aside my wineglass and push away my empty plate. We ordered Thai takeout for dinner and chose to stay in rather than go to the club. Diego’s been busy lately, leaving me alone most nights to oversee shipments at the docks meet with men from other mafia families. Being this close to the operation shows me how similar running a cartel is to owning a corporation. It’s not as hard to reconcile my life as a mafia boss’s wife when he seems more like a CEO … that is, if I ignore the guns and the occasional bloody soldier who needs tending by Diego’s personal doctor.
“Tell me about your parents,” I ask before I can lose my nerve.
Meals between us are usually filled with light conversation. It’s rare for me to poke and prod beyond surface level questions, but I can’t take it anymore. I submitted to this marriage under duress, so I figure I’m owed something.
Diego glances up from his own wineglass and raises and eyebrow at me. “Why the sudden interest in my parents, gatita? They’re dead. You should be glad not to have them for in-laws.”
His voice doesn’t hold any anger or annoyance, but I can see the resistance in his eyes. The dark depths are as hard and impenetrable as ever, showing me nothing. It’s all I can do not to hurl my glass in frustration. Why is he so difficult to know?
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh and shake of my head. “Maybe because I’m your wife now, and I’d like to know something about you other than your favorite Scotch, or your favorite guns.”
Diego smiles, something I’m still having to get used to. It seems to come easier to him when we’re alone now, and it’s so beautiful I can hardly look away. His teeth are white and straight, the grin slightly crooked and boyish. It makes him look younger and softer, less intimidating. The fear that used to rule our relationship has dissipated, and I’ve come to see him more as a wounded, moody panther as opposed to a hungry, feral one. At least, he seems that way when it comes to me. I’ve seen him chew out one of his men for slipping up, or threatening an enemy over the phone. I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be on the other end of that rage.
“My father was an asshole,” he says without a bit of inflection in his voice. It’s as if he’s talking about the weather. “He was cruel, uncompromising, and distant. You wouldn’t have liked him.”
I can’t help a teasing smile. “Sounds like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
Diego laughs, slouching and loosening the top buttons of his shirt. “He was far worse than I am, gatita. He only took an interest in me because I was the heir to the throne. Marcella was only a baby when he … died, but he treated her like a ghost. She would