Lydia
Six weeks earlier
I stepped outside my clinic door, the warm Miami sun washing over my face as I closed my eyes and inhaled the fresh air. I’d arrived that morning at six a.m. with a grueling schedule awaiting me. Not only was I double-booked on patients; we’d also had a gunshot victim arrive unexpectedly just before closing time.
The Salma Ayala Free Medical Clinic I owned and operated with my father, Dr. Esteban Ayala, saw GSWs quite a bit from local gang activity. Occasionally, we’d have to call the ambulance to pick them up and transport them to the ER, but most of the community knew to come to me if the wound wasn’t fatal. Lots of ins and outs, arm wounds, leg wounds. Sadly, most gang members knew the difference between a fatal wound and a non-fatal one.
I’d patch them up, dig out bullets, sometimes give some blood, fluids, and antibiotics, and then release them with a stern warning about where their life was headed. Unfortunately, most didn’t listen.
They also came to me because they trusted me, and they knew I wouldn’t call the police. What good would it do? My patient would split, putting themselves in danger of dying in a ditch somewhere, before the police would even arrive to take down the details. So, my help was always off the record.
Today had been strenuous—giving vaccines, tending to people with colds, and providing physicals for young and old alike. Then, just before I called it a day, Linda, my assistant, rushed in with Dante Munoz and his ten-year-old son who’d been shot in a drive-by shooting. Dante Munoz was the leader of one of the most dangerous gangs in Miami, Los Discípulos—The Disciples. He was not one to be messed with.
I knew that not only would I need to be worried about saving the boy’s life, but if I messed up somehow, I’d pay with my own. The additional pressure wasn’t new, but it still added a layer of stress that had my hands shaking a little more than usual.
The bullet had entered his leg near his femoral artery, which was bleeding profusely. It was an injury that should have required him to go to the ER, but Dante had insisted I treat him. When I saw how much blood he’d already lost, I knew he would never make it to the ER alive. It was treat him here or lose him.
That wasn’t an option.
I’d stopped the bleeding, retrieved the bullet, given him a pint of blood, fluids, antibiotics, and sent him home to rest. Not my choice. I’d rather him be in the hospital, but Dante had insisted he was safer at home. Anyone could get past the nurses and doctors and gain access to his room.
That had been four hours ago.
The sun was setting below the buildings surrounding the clinic near Little Havana, Miami, and I knew that if I could see the ocean, it would be hungrily devouring the burning ball of fire. I was late for dinner plans with my sister and father, a Thursday night tradition we’d started after I graduated high school.
I stretched my arms over my head, feeling the pull of the tight muscles, and beeped my car lock open. A foot scraping the concrete had me whirling around to see who was behind me, but before I’d fully turned around, a needle pricked my neck. My knees buckled, and I slumped to the ground. Spots danced in front of my eyes, as images faded in and out. I tried to move, but my arms and legs were paralyzed—heavy and useless. I opened my mouth to call for help, but my voice wouldn’t work.
A man’s face filled my view as he mumbled something I couldn’t hear. Then my eyes closed, shutting out the world.
***
When I awoke, I was lying on a four-poster bed, with plush, fine linens. The air smelled sweet like oranges, and a middle-aged woman was bustling around the foot of the bed. I tried to sit up but groaned when the little men in my head turned on their jackhammers and went to town.
“Oh, goodness. You’re awake, carita. Can I get you something?”
I kept my eyes closed and swallowed against the dryness of my mouth.
“Water.” My voice was hoarse and raspy as if I’d walked through a desert for miles and never found the oasis.
A cup was put to my mouth, and I took a sip, then hungrily gulped down the ice-cold, life-giving substance.
“Easy. You don’t want to make yourself sick.”
“Where am I?” I finally opened my eyes again as the hammering in my head calmed to a mild pounding.
“Señor Chavez has requested your presence. He will be in shortly to welcome you.”
“Chavez?” Fear ripped through me as the name registered. “Emilio Chavez? The drug lord?”
The woman’s face darkened at my words, and she shook her head lightly, placing a finger to her lips.
“No. Not a drug lord. He is a businessman.”
I held in a snort and rested my head in my hands. What did Chavez want with me?
“Why am I here?”
“I’m not sure.” She fussed with my blankets and then placed a tray over my lap laden with a bowl of steaming-hot chicken soup topped with pico de gallo and avocado slices, warm tortillas, and a glass of ice water. “You must eat to keep up your strength. I’m Pilar, by the way. I’m the cook here and will help you with anything you might need.”
I inhaled the spices from the soup, and my mouth watered. “Lydia Ayala.” Lifting the spoon to my mouth, I tasted the warm broth and tender chicken. It was heaven.
“Any relation to Dr. Esteban Ayala?” Pilar fluffed the pillow behind my head.
“Yes; he’s my father.”
“He’s a very good man.”
“He is.”
“I was sorry to hear about your mother’s death.”
Pilar’s face was warm and sympathetic, so I assumed she was serious in her condolences. I took another swallow of soup before answering. “We all were. She was an amazing woman.”
Pilar watched me for a moment then gave a quick nod of her head. “Okay, carita. Should you need me, just pick up the phone and dial one-zero-one. That is my extension.” I glanced at the phone hopefully. Maybe I could get through to my father. Pilar watched my gaze then shook her head. “The phone only works internally. No outgoing calls.”
Disappointment filled my heart. I needed to call my dad and sister. I glanced at the clock. It was after nine at night. That meant I’d missed our Thursday family dinner night, and they would be worried about me.
“My dad and sister were expecting me. I need to call them.”
Pilar smiled sadly. “I will inform Señor Chavez.”
She turned to leave and glanced over her shoulder. “It is not so bad here. If you follow the rules, you will be fine.”
With those ominous words, she left the room, pulling the door closed behind her. I heard the lock click into place, and it became even more obvious that I was not a guest in this house. I was a prisoner.
I moved the tray from my lap and stood, fighting off the dizziness still remaining from the remnants of the drug they’d injected into me. The back of my neck was tender, and I hoped I wouldn’t get some kind of infection. Maybe I could bother Pilar for some ibuprofen.
Moving around the room, I took in the lavish decor. Terracotta-colored walls shot up to high ceilings with a beautiful, hand-blown glass chandelier in the middle of the room. Large, dark wood furniture lined the perimeter of the room, and a plush Persian rug encircled the floor.
The bathroom was calling my name, so I slipped inside and turned the lights on. A large jacuzzi tub sat in the center; double sinks and marble countertops gleamed bright as if they’d never been used. I used the toilet in the small room that was tucked away next to the large shower with clear walls, then rummaged through the drawers, taking in the expensive brands of toiletries.
Don’t get me wrong—I was grateful I wasn’t in a hole somewhere with bugs and snakes and mice, but a prison was a prison all the same.
A knock sounded at the door of the bedroom, just before the door opened, and I emerged from the bathroom. A man in his late thirties or early forties with a stocky build, close-cropped hair, and tattoos peeking from the neckline of his shirt walked in, and I immediately recognized Emilio Chavez.
Had he not been a creep of epic proportions, one might say he was dangerously handsome. He was tan and muscular and had an air of confidence about him that women found attractive.
He was also a killer, a rapist, sold women into slavery, and sold illegal drugs and weapons. Chavez wasn’t the kind of man you got into bed with.
“Ah, Ms. Ayala. Thank you for joining me.”
“I wasn’t exactly given much choice.” I couldn’t help the snarky reply. Fortunately, instead of killing me, Chavez just laughed.
“You have spunk. I like that. It will come in handy when you become my wife.”
Ice-cold dread poured down my spine, goosebumps erupting over my skin. My knees wobbled a bit, and I sought out the small settee across the room. When I was seated and no longer afraid I’d pass out, I looked at Chavez’s face.
“Your wife?”
“Yes. My wife. It seems I’m in the market after my last one had an unfortunate accident.”
I’d heard rumors about how his wife had died. I stared at the man who’d been accused of having his wife raped, tortured, and killed in front of him, wondering if that would be my fate one day.
“Why me?”
“Well cara, you are most beautiful. You are a talented and skilled nurse practitioner and have a fine standing in the community. I need someone with that kind of reputation.”
“So, you want me for my connections.”
“That’s just an added benefit.”
“You do realize that it is my father with the connections, not me.”
“Semantics really.”
“Mr. Chavez—”
“Please, call me Emilio.”
“Emilio, I only attend charity functions for the clinic. I know very few of the big names in the city. My father is the one held in high esteem, and was quite disappointed that I didn’t follow in his footsteps as a doctor and instead chose the life of a nurse practitioner and nonprofit owner. My life over the last ten years has been consumed with my work. I’m afraid you’ve kidnapped the wrong woman.”
His nostrils flared as he took two steps toward me. I fell back against the settee, trying to figure out what I’d said that had angered him. His fists were clenched tight, as if he was attempting to rein in his temper.
“I assure you, I’ve not invited the wrong person into my home, cara. I’d appreciate if you didn’t use such language as ‘kidnapped.’ It might give people the wrong idea.”
“But I’m not here of my own free will, am I? What else do you call it?”
“I’d call it incentive.” He held out a phone. “You will call your father and your sister and inform them that you have accepted my proposal of marriage.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t ensure your family’s safety. If you accept my proposal, they will remain unharmed.”
It felt as if I was caught in a movie—kidnapped, my family threatened, my future freedom gone.
“What about the clinic?”
“It will stay closed until I can trust you to live up to your duties as my wife. After a year or so, we will negotiate terms on when and how you will continue your work there.”
“But I have patients who depend on me.”
“Yes—patients like that thug Dante Munoz’s son?”
“He’s not a thug. He’s a ten-year-old kid.”
“The apple does not fall far from the tree, my dear. Now, what will it be?”
I had no choice. Either I became Emilio’s wife, or my family would die, and I was certain I would too. The tears would come later, but at that moment, all I wanted to do was strangle the man standing so smugly in front of me.
I held out my hand for the phone he’d produced. He handed it over, then pulled it away just as I reached for it.
“Remember, not a word about how you arrived here. You will only inform them that you’re getting married and that you won’t be available for a few months as you make preparations for the wedding.”
“They’ll never believe that.”
“Make them.”
I took the phone from his outstretched hand and dialed my father. He answered on the first ring.
“Lydia! Where have you been? We’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Papa. I lost track of time at the clinic and then fell asleep for a few hours.”
“We checked your apartment. You didn’t answer the door, and your car was still at the clinic.”
“I, um, I had my fiancé pick me up from the clinic.”
“Fiancé?”
“Yes, Papa. I’m getting married.”
“I had no idea you were dating anyone.”
“It was rather sudden.”
“Who is this man I have not met?”
“His name is Emilio.”
“Emilio what, mi flora?”
“Emilio Chavez.”
Papa cursed creatively in Spanish. The phone went silent for several seconds.
“Tell me it’s not true.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I will get help. Stay strong, mi flora, and I will find help for you.”
“No. You don’t understand. I am marrying him. And if you want to remain in my life, you will have to accept that.”
A long pause.
“I see.”
“Is Lina there?”
“Sí, mi flora. She is right here.”
There were whispering and shuffling sounds as Lina took the phone.
“Lydia, what the hell is going on? Papa said you’re marrying Emilio Chavez. The drug lord?”
“He is a businessman, Lina. And yes, I am marrying him.”
“There has to be another way. You can’t be serious.”
“I hope you’ll be happy for me. We’re planning an extravagant wedding, and I’d love for you to be there.” I raised my brows at Chavez, who only smiled and nodded his assent. Seemed like I might have a bit of leeway in terms of delaying this thing for a little while.
“When?” Lina’s voice sounded strained, and I knew that neither she nor my father believed that I was willingly marrying Chavez. But from my veiled warning to my father about staying in my life, I hoped he realized that in order for us all to stay alive, we had to play our roles.
“Six months from now.”
“Two.” Chavez’s hard voice cut through the air, and I jerked my attention to his.
“Five.”
“Three. And there will be no further negotiations.”
“Three months, Lina. I’ll send someone to get your dress measurements.”
“If you think for one minute I’ll be a witness to this self-sacrifice, you’re crazy.”
“Please, Lina. I need you to be happy for me. I need you in my life.”
I could hear the ragged breathing on her side of the phone and wondered how much of a protest she’d put forth. I just hoped she’d read between the lines and hang tight and give me some time to think of a way out of this mess.
“Okay. We’ll come up with something. Just hang in there.”
“I love you too.”
I ended the call and faced Chavez. He reached for the phone, and I handed it to him.
“You may call them once a week to let them know you’re okay. Someone will be with you when you do. Your bodyguard will begin soon—until then you’ll remain here. Should you need to go someplace, he will go with you. If you try anything—to escape or harm anyone in my employ—there will be consequences. Do you understand?”
I nodded. Chavez closed the distance, grabbing my arm and jerking me against his body. “You answer me when I speak to you.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Good.” Then he lowered his head and kissed me. Bile rose up my throat as his tongue darted past my lips, entering my mouth without my permission. I struggled to keep my panic under control, tried to rein in the disgust that rolled over me.
Chavez pulled away, his hand tracing my cheek. “So beautiful. You will do quite nicely.” Then he held out a box containing a ring with a large pink diamond solitaire. He didn’t get on one knee, and I imagined that had a lot to do with Chavez never looking weak in front of anyone.
“Lydia Ayala, you will be my wife.” I noticed he didn’t ask me for my consent, but simply stated his will. He placed the ring on my left ring finger, and it felt a lot more like shackles than a piece of jewelry. Chavez bent again and took my lips in a forceful kiss before turning to go.
When he reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder. “It’s all very simple. You obey the rules and please me; no harm will come to you.”
With that veiled threat, he left, closing and locking the door behind him.
The tears started then, rolling down my cheeks before the sobs grew to a violent shaking that racked my body. How was I going to do this? How did I play along? Could I pretend to love or even tolerate the man? Would he require me to sleep with him?
The answer to that was, of course he did. I had to think of a way to prevent that from happening anytime soon. Would he go for the virginal-bride angle?
Possibly. It was the best I had at the moment.
On wobbly legs, I made my way to the bed, sliding under the covers and pulling them up to my chin. I hadn’t finished my soup, but the hunger had passed and was replaced with a despair that threatened to crush me.
I had to be strong. I had to play the role so well, Chavez would never believe I didn’t love him. He’d forget that I was his prisoner and instead would see me as an asset.
That had to be the goal.
And then maybe, just maybe, I’d find a way out of this mess and gain back my freedom.
Freedom.
It was a concept I’d seldom pondered except on the Fourth of July or Memorial Day. It was something most people took for granted.
I knew, deep in my heart, I never would again.
***
One week later
A knock sounded at my door, and I waited for Emilio or Pilar or one of his many goons to push it open and come inside. So far two of his guards had walked in on me changing. I hadn’t seen either since the occurrence. I had a bad feeling that meant they were no longer breathing.
Chavez pushed open the door and walked in with a man behind him. The man’s face was down, his strong shoulders broad, and his dark hair cropped close to his head, a bit longer on top than military style.
I stood from the small desk where I sat writing in a journal Pilar had secured for me. I placed the book down on the table and joined Chavez across the room.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I smiled brightly, not feeling it but doing my best to sell that I was happy to see him.
“Ah, mi amor. You look radiant today.”
Chavez had ordered me an entire wardrobe of expensive clothes. Since I ran a free clinic in my normal life, I usually existed in scrubs and yoga pants. Unless I was attending a charity function, I’d had no use for fine clothes.
But Pilar explained that Chavez had very exquisite taste and expected me to dress every day for him. So, I stood there in black designer cigarette pants and a bright-red silk sleeveless top that dipped low in front. Emilio’s eyes immediately dropped to my cleavage as he took my hands and kissed each cheek, then paused at my lips before placing his there.
When he tried to deepen the kiss, I took a step back and placed my hand on his chest. “Emilio, we have company.” I nodded towards the man still hovering just inside the door.
Chavez’s eyes darkened momentarily before he plastered on his fake smile. “Yes, indeed. Please forgive me. Cruz Ortiz, you remember my fiancée, Lydia Ayala.
I stepped around Chavez with my hand extended just as Cruz raised his eyes to meet mine. I stopped, a gasp ripping from my throat, and my hand dropping to my side. It had hit me the day before when I’d met him, but it was more striking this time.
Lorenzo.
I cocked my head to the side as I stared into the face of the only man I’d ever loved. Lorenzo Gallos.
I opened my mouth to speak when he interrupted, his hand out to shake mine. “Call me Cruz. Nice to meet you again, ma’am.”
Cruz. Not Lorenzo.
Of course it wasn’t him. Lorenzo was dead and had been for three years. But the resemblance was so striking. As I looked closer, though, I took in the too-perfect jawline, the very straight nose, the eyes that were a bit too symmetrical, the voice that wasn’t smooth and mellow like Lorenzo’s.
He was gorgeous, but almost too perfect, as if he’d been cut from stone and his features hand-fashioned by an artist.
Not Lorenzo.
I recovered myself, shaking my head slightly to clear my thoughts and then reaching for Cruz’s outstretched hand. “Lydia. I’m so sorry. You looked so much like someone I used to know. It took me off guard.”
Cruz’s warm smile lit up his face. “I get that all the time.”
“Cruz will be escorting you to wherever you might need to go, cara. He will protect you.” Chavez’s gaze turned hard. “He will also ensure you don’t get yourself into any trouble.”
My prison warden. Got it.
“Of course, Emilio. Whatever you wish.” I plastered on a smile that I definitely didn’t feel.
“Very good.” Chavez’s smile met his eyes, apparently glad to have his way and my submission. “I have meetings today. You will meet me for dinner this evening. Wear something suitable. We will have guests.”
I inclined my head in obedience as Chavez left the room. Cruz’s eyes seemed to take me in before he lifted one side of his mouth in a smile, and exited after Chavez.
When the door closed, I threw myself onto the bed. My heart was pounding, and I felt cold and clammy, as if I’d just seen a ghost.
It had felt like that. A shockwave to my system as I’d taken in a face so familiar to me and yet… not his. The differences so subtle that I was hard-pressed to find them.
Lorenzo Gallos was dead. I knew that.
So, why did I get the feeling that maybe I’d been wrong?