Alluring - Suzanne Steele Page 0,12
try to trade fuckin’ a woman for rent again. I’m putting the word out on the street, and if word gets back to me that you’re trying to fuck any of your tenants or bullying senior citizens, I’ll visit you again. I won’t be in such a good mood next time, asshole.” Calix pressed the sole of his biker boot down harder on the man’s neck for emphasis.
As quickly as Calix appeared, he vanished, but not without leaving the man in the wake of violence with Calix’s signature on it. If the dirtbag had any sense at all, he would know he was lucky Calix hadn’t cut his throat from ear to ear and left him drowning in his blood.
Rum was too busy packing to realize the thud she thought she heard from upstairs had anything to do with her. She had no idea Calix was going to be her knight in jagged armor, whether she wanted him to be or not. Calix wasn’t the kind of man who would allow someone to talk him out of anything. Once he got something in his head, there was no changing his mind, and Rum had gotten into his head—both-of them.
Chapter Seven
When Altagracia was born, her mother gave birth in the Dominican Republic. It was the reason her mother had named her Altagracia—the definition of the patron saint of Santo Domingo—the city where the child was born. In Latin culture, nothing was done without meaning. When it came to your offspring, designating a name was of the utmost importance. It was believed your child’s name would reflect and define their personality. It would also be the words that were spoken over them for their time allotted on earth. It was a matter that was taken seriously and given much thought. Names were not only discussed, but they were also prayed about; divine guidance was sought with earnest hearts and willing souls.
Altagracia’s life hadn’t been easy. The family had moved to Sinaloa in hopes of a better life. Growing up poor was like a burden—a heaviness that shrouded people’s hopes and dreams until they were resigned to their fate and no longer tried. Too many hopes and dreams made people think you were haughty. Hopes and dreams were for children. The reality of Sinaloa stamped out dreams of a better life. There were two ways out: working for the cartel or education. It wasn’t easy to not fall into the trap of organized crime. Watching the men who dressed well and carried guns as they peeled off hundreds from their stacks of money was a temptation to young minds. Morals took a backseat when hunger pains were a brutal reality. Only children who were lucky enough to be born into a prosperous family were able to go to school. If it hadn’t been for a missionary who had taken the child under her wing, Altagracia would have been just another statistic; an illiterate child forced to work in fields.
She had begged her father to let the white woman tutor her. He had only agreed when the missionary had concurred with his schedule. She would tutor the child in the evenings so Altagracia could work the fields. Though the missionary was a religious woman, she was also shrewd. The supplies she provided to the family insured Altagracia’s father wouldn’t change his mind about the classes the woman provided his daughter. Food on the table and clothes on the backs of his children took a load of worry off a man who had broken his back working the fields. Any reprieve from the daily grind was welcome. A hard life was passed down from generation to generation as if it was an heirloom. Altagracia would be the first in a long lineage to escape the brutality of being a picker.
It hadn’t taken long for the missionary Eleanor to bond with the child. The feelings were reciprocated. Eleanor brought out something Altagracia had never experienced: joy. Sure, there had been brief moments of happiness, but they were few and far between. Poverty, hard work, and fatigue had ensured Altagracia grew up much faster than any child should have to. Eleanor, who soon became Ellie to the child, brought a sense of stability and something she didn’t know she could have up until that point: a future. If Altagracia could learn to read, then maybe someday she could escape the cruel Sinaloan streets. The dreams that had laid dormant were now resurrecting like the sprout of a