"Juan told me everything."

A shiver gripped my body, like two cold hands on my shoulders. My legs went numb, my jaw fell limp, my eyes felt like they were melting out of my face. A piece of pepperoni sloughed off of my slice of pizza, trembling between my fingers, and fell onto my knees.

"He did?" I whimpered.

"Yes, he did," Pablo replied. "Now I want to know why you didn't tell me."

I scoffed, and swallowed back a sob. It was obvious why I wouldn't tell him. The minute he find out what I had told Juan, he'd shoot a bullet between my eyes, or pour some poison on my pizza. He'd wrap a hand around my neck, squeezing until I'd expire my last breath. He could throw me off a building, or something worse even. Something evil, something spectacular, because in his eyes, such a treason deserved a painful death.

"I knew–" I stammered, as heaving gulps chopped up my words. "I thought that you would kill me if you knew."

"Why the fuck would I kill you?" Pablo chortled.

A wry smile stretched on his lips, and his brow furrowed a little. It was just a soft wrinkle, a hint of confusion, but there wasn't a shadow of anger on his face. Why the fuck isn't he mad? I thought to myself. And why the fuck am I not dead?

I finally realized, just one sentence too late, that Pablo and I weren't talking about the same secret.

The drugs. I was taking drugs. That was what Juan told him. That was the only secret I was keeping. Nothing else, nothing worse. Juan had said he knew nothing about Emilia Kovács, and I had to trust him.

"Because I was stealing the pills from you," I answered.

Pablo stayed silent, and so did I. I waited until he spoke, fidgeting with my hands, waiting to see if he'd believe that lie, or if I'd fucked it all up.

"What made you think that?" he asked, as he placed his hand on mine.

"I don't know," I breathed. "Now that I think of it, I feel stupid."

"Don't say that," he whispered. "You're anything but stupid."

My lips twisted into a faint, self-pitying smile. Pablo was right. I wasn't stupid at all. I was actually pretty clever, and honestly quite proud of myself. My answer hadn't just fixed the slip of my tongue, it could also help me hide the bigger secret.

Because if Juan had told him everything, and everything could only mean the fact that I was taking drugs, that meant that I wasn't hiding anything else from Pablo. If he had even a small suspicion that I had told Juan the truth about who I was, then that doubt would be gone. Everything would work out fine, as long as Juan kept his mouth shut.

A tear of relief escaped from the corner of my eye, and Pablo gently wiped it off with his thumb.

"Please don't cry," he murmured. "Did you really think I'd kill you over a couple of pills?"

"Not just a couple," I mumbled. "It's been going on for a while."

"How long?"

"Two weeks, I think, but I'm not sure," I gulped. "Could be more, could be less."

I shook my head, and looked down at my feet, holding back the grin that itched at my face. Pablo couldn't know just how blissful I felt. Here she was again, the Hollywood starlet, the acting skills I'd perfected when I was trying to fool Juan into thinking I was a spy, holding back my laughter and concealing my lies.

It was euphoric, almost better than drugs, like stepping off a rollercoaster that nearly made you spill out your guts. It was a weight off my shoulders, it lifted the pit out of my stomach, and sent a breath of fresh air rushing to my lungs.

"Which pill was it?" he asked.

"Honestly, I have no idea. But it was small, pink, looked a little bit like candy. It made me feel really warm and happy," I explained. "And also kind of horny."

"Well that explains a few things," he chuckled. "So you were high on that morning, at the pool. I fucking knew it."

"Yeah, that was the first time I took it," I sighed. "Well, I took something different the day before that but–"

"Wait," he interrupted me, lifting a finger up in the air. A frown dug in his forehead and his mustache began to twitch as he quietly counted down the days. "Holy shit, Gordita, you've been doing molly for an entire week?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess," I stammered, as he stared at me in disbelief. "Was it– was that molly?"

"Does it even still do anything?" he frowned. "You're supposed to wait months in between two trips. Ecstasy's not something you binge on, it's for special occasions."

"No, not really," I mumbled. "I started taking more when it stopped working, but it just doesn't feel the same."

"Jesus fucking Christ, you're going to crash hard," he winced.

"Am I going to die?" I gulped.

"Honestly Gordita, I'm kind of surprised you're not already dead."

"My mom almost died when she tried to stop drinking," I said, nibbling my lip. "Then they gave her benzos for the symptoms and she got hooked on those too."

"Well, you're not going to die, and I'm not going to give you any benzos," he replied. "You're just going to be really fucking depressed."

"I think I'm already depressed," I sighed.

Pablo shook his head in despair, and pulled his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. "Let me see what I can do."

I breathed out as soon as he had his back turned, and sucked in large gulps of air as if it was water and I'd been lost in the desert for weeks. Pablo paced back and forth across the balcony, yelling into the phone for a minute or two, before he walked back over to me.

"So, I just called the doctor," he said. "You'll need to take a pill that'll raise your serotonin, smoke a joint, and have a nice warm bath."

"Is that really what the doctor said?" I scowled. "That I should do more drugs."

"Fight fire with fire," he shrugged, "and a nice warm bath."

"Do you have everything we need?" I asked.

"Of course I do," he groaned. "Who do you think I am?"

Faster than it took for me to answer, Pablo pulled a joint out from his pocket and lit it. I took a few puffs and handed it back. He instructed me to stay put and eat my pizza while he went inside to run the bath, and I happily obliged. It had been a while since I'd had this much appetite.

"Here are your pills," he said a few minutes later, once he walked out on the balcony. "You can take one now, and then three per day, one before each meal."

I swallowed the pill without a second thought, and followed him to the bathroom. He'd gathered a bunch of pretty things he'd found on the shelves around the suite – decorative candles, a pretty vase, and a bunch of flowers from which he'd plucked off the petals and laid them in the tub.

He'd left a bathrobe and hotel-branded slippers on the bathroom counter, as well as the leftover half of the joint I'd smoked earlier. I lit it on a flickering candle, its wafting scents of vanilla and orange blossom hardly strong enough to cover the pungent smell of burning weed.

With a belly full of pizza, and a head free from thoughts. I slipped into the bath, laying down in the embrace of hot water and fresh rose petals. I closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them, the water was almost cold.

"Feeling any better?" asked Pablo when I walked out onto the balcony.

"Feeling this good should be illegal," I said, stretching my arms above my head.

"It is," he snorted, as he wrapped a warm blanket around my shoulders. "That's why most people call me a criminal."

"You've done worse things than sell drugs," I muttered.

"Perhaps, but most people don't know about those."

"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked him as I sat down. "All the awful things you've done? If I was you, I think I'd need therapy."

"Well, you're not me, and you still need therapy," he mumbled.

"Yeah, because of everything you've done to me."

"What about everything that happened before we met?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "Look at me in the eye and tell me this isn't better than what you had back in Goose Creek."

I looked over his shoulder, just beyond the balcony. Bright lights twinkled in the city, like a mirror for the stars above. Red sparks of lava sputtered from the top of the volcano, a distant firework I could just make out if I strained my eyes a little. It was beautiful, yes, but it was still out of reach.

"It would be better if I wasn't a hostage," I mumbled.

"Who says you are?" he replied. "As far as I know, your name is Emilia, you are my girlfriend, and you've never been kidnapped."

"That's not how it works, Pablo. I'm not exactly free."

"Technically you are, you can go anywhere, walk down any street, travel to any country," he shrugged. "As long as you abide by the house rules, and those apply to everybody."

"What rules?"

"Bodyguards, filling in forms, clean passports, no extradition, all that bullshit," he groaned. "Do I need to call in Beto so he can remind you about his twenty-six-page protocol?"

"Yes, and tell him to bring a nice bottle of rum," I snickered. "I made up this cool drinking game where you have to take a shot every time he says protocol."

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to drink that much, especially tonight, but that seems like a great way to make your next security briefing a little more fun," he smiled.

"I'm not really planning on going through another security briefing any time soon."

"That's the spirit," he nodded. "If you act like a girlfriend and stick to the rules, everything will be fine. If you start running around the forest, telling every soul your name is Sarah Kennedy, then you'll live the short and tragic life of a hostage. I know that doesn't leave you with a lot of options, but still, it seems like an easy choice to make."

"Got it," I muttered, and lied through my teeth. "I won't tell a soul."

~

"Do my eyes look red?" I asked. "Is my makeup okay, or is it too much?"

"You look amazing," answered Pablo. "I can't stop looking at you."

"My eyes are up here," I mumbled, glaring at his reflection in the elevator's mirror. "On the other side of my body."

"Sorry," he gulped. "That dress just... really suits you."

"Thank you," I murmured. "I like your suit."

"I fucking hate wearing a tie," he muttered, as he scratched at the sides of his neck.

"Well, gold chains are a bit too tacky for a charity event."

I stared at the elevator's screen, watching as the floors ticked by like a timebomb's slow countdown.

"Do you remember everything I told you?" said Pablo.

"Keep a low profile and don't talk to strangers, except if you're there," I nodded.

"Right. That sums it up well."

"Can I drink?" I asked.

"Sure, just don't get wasted," he answered.

I rolled my eyes. As if anybody gets wasted at a charity gala.

The doors open, and almost immediately, we started shaking hands. A lot of hands. Those of the donors, men with big bellies and nice suits, and all of their fiancées with huge gems on their engagement rings. Those of the charity's staff, whose fingers trembled with eagerness at the idea of meeting Pablo for the first time that year. The calloused palms of little ladies in colourful dresses, who looked up at him with eyes filled by tears of admiration, as they thanked him profusely for putting a roof on their house and a school in their village.

Pablo introduced me to each of them as Emilia, my girlfriend, from Hungary. He said it enough times that it got hammered into my mind, and my lips began to mouth the words whenever he pronounced them. And every time, the guests' answer was the same– what a lucky young woman.

I tutted at Pablo when I caught him wiping his hands down the sides of his pants.

"Just one more guy," he whispered.

He grabbed me by the hand and brought me towards an intimidating man who was standing alone, smoking a cigar near an open window. His hair was as dark as his suit. His face was clean-shaven, his jawbone chiseled, and his eyes a dark shade of brown.

"This is José Galdámez, our most important donor," said Pablo.

"And you are?" the man asked me, raising his eyebrows.

"Emilia Kovács," I answered politely. "Better known as Pablo's girlfriend."

The man smiled, and his whole face lit up. It made him look ten years younger, far more friendly, and admittedly quite handsome.

"I think I've seen you at parties, from a distance," said José. "I'm delighted to finally meet you in person."

"I have to run and start my speech, but I'm sure we'll have time to catch up soon," Pablo told him. "Lots of things happening this year. We have the Golden Party in a few weeks, and then Hernan's kid's wedding in May."

As the crowd settled down around the dinner tables, Pablo dragged me to the other side of the salon, next to the buffet. He handed me a glass of champagne and a lobster canapé.

The room erupted in applause as Pablo stepped onto the stage, but I couldn't take my eyes off of the man we'd just met.

José. His name swirled around in my head.

"Hey Em," Juan's voice whispered behind me. "I like your dress."

"Thanks."

"What are you looking at?"

"That guy over there said his name is José," I mumbled. "Like Mafer's boyfriend. I'm wondering if that's him."

"I didn't know Mafer had a boyfriend," muttered Juan. "But there's like, a million guys named José, just in this city. Whoever the poor guy is, I can guarantee you he's not in this room. These big guys don't date maids."

"You dated a maid," I retorted.

"Well that's different," he groused, "because one, I'm a rebel, and two, we weren't dating. Just fucking."

"Majo's been telling everyone you were her boyfriend."

"Ugh," he winced. "I'll have to talk to her about that."

"Yeah, well, by the way, I have to talk to you about something," I murmured.

"Oh god," he sighed. "What have I done now?"

His grin dropped off his face, and I clenched my teeth.

"You told Pablo about the drugs," I muttered.

"Yeah, because I had to."

"You promised me you wouldn't tell anybody," I hissed.

"I never promised–"

"Aren't we supposed to be friends?" I spat.

"Yeah, that's why I did it," he mumbled." You needed help."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Juan?" I seethed. "I don't need your help."

The veins in his neck started to swell, and he shook his head.

"Listen, I'm just trying to survive here," I whispered. "Every time you get involved, you risk messing things up. You're putting me in danger, Juan."

"You look fine to me," he grumbled. "So I don't think I've done anything wrong."

"You don't know how Pablo will react," I murmured. "One time, I hit him on the head with a bottle. I gave him a concussion, and nothing happened. When I stole his phone and tried to escape, he fucking brought me flowers. But then, when Gustavo tried to rape me the first time, I jumped out of a car and ran away, and when Pablo caught me he locked me up in a room, gave me a Tic-Tac he told me was cyanide and left me to starve for like, an entire month."

Juan stayed quiet, but I could see his jaw jitter as he began to grind his teeth.

"He's unpredictable," I sighed. "Telling him anything is like playing Russian Roulette. So you're not helping me, you're gambling with my life."

"It's scary how calm you are, telling me all of this," he mumbled.

"I had a nice warm bath," I retorted.

"Are you on drugs again?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Yup, but Pablo gave me these ones, so don't even bother snitching."

Juan rubbed his hands over his face, and let out a deep breath.

"I give up," he spat. "I fucking give up. You win. He wins. I'm not doing this anymore."

"Good," I whispered. "That's exactly what I wanted."

"I give up, Em," he repeated. "I can't keep doing this shit."

I turned around, both to avoid his deadly glare, and to grab him a glass of champagne from the buffet table.

"Cheers, Juan," I chirped. "To giving up."

"To giving up," he muttered.

He downed his drink in a single gulp. There was a round of applause as Pablo finished his speech, and it muffled the sound of shattering crystal when Juan slammed his empty glass down on the table.

Juan stormed off, but I wasn't left alone for too long. I was the first person Pablo came to see once he'd stepped away from his podium.

"How did I do?" he asked, as he gently clinked his glass with mine. "Did I not sound too nervous? I think I stuttered a bit towards the end."

"You did great," I smiled.

He tried to take off his tie, but his fingers twitched and trembled and only managed to keep on tightening the knot.

"Let me help you," I whispered.

He stood still while I untied it, and a grin peeked through his mustache as the silk slipped off his throat. He rushed to undo three buttons of his shirt as I tucked the tie into his pocket, and I had to admit, Pablo did look hotter with his shirt open.

"How are you feeling?" he breathed out. "Are the pills working?"

"I'm a bit tired, but aside from that, I feel pretty fucking great."

"Good to hear," he nodded. "Listen, Gordita, next time something happens, I want you to tell me, okay? We can trust each other, now. We've come a long way."

The corners of my lips twitched up, and I tried to keep a smile on my face for as long as I could. Pablo wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and left a kiss on my forehead. I let the feeling linger for a while, nestling my head in the crook of his neck, breathing in the intoxicating smell of his perfume.

I didn't want to, but I loved it. The warmth of his hand caressing the bare skin on my back, the way I could faintly hear his heart beating when I pressed my ear against his chest. His prickly beard against my cheek, how his dimples got deeper the closer he held me.

Pablo's love was more addictive than any drug I'd ever take, and it would kill me all the same.

~

"Right, let's get this fucking party started," Hernan sighed as he let himself fall down on the suite's leather couch. "Lazaro and his girls are in town, call him."

Pablo tore his eyes away from the three lines of powder he'd laid on the coffee table. Rather than look at Hernan, or any of the other men who'd joined us in the suite, he stared right at me.

"We're not calling any girls tonight," he mumbled.

"What kind of fucking after-party is this?" groaned Hernan.

"We're not doing that while she's here," Pablo replied.

"Emilia, why couldn't you just go out for dinner in town with the other chicks?" Hernan sighed.

Pablo looked me in the eye, and shook his head. "Ignore him."

"Are we just all going to act like it's fucking normal that Pablo's the only one here who doesn't want to invite a few whores to the after-party?" he seethed, as his gunmetal grey eyes swept across the room.

"Hernan, just leave it," Oscar intervened. "The man's in love. He's a hopeless romantic."

"You poor motherfucker," Hernan snickered. "Love is a drug."

"No it isn't," Pablo grumbled. "Quit the sentimental bullshit."

"He's right, though, love is exactly like a drug," shrugged his brother. "It makes you feel great, but it's fucking addictive."

"Y'all gonna let him talk like that and call me a hopeless romantic?"

"I can't argue with the logic," sneered Hernan. "I've seen crackheads think straighter than this."

"Trust me, if love was a drug, I would have already found a way to shove it in a pill and sell it," muttered Pablo.

"I've heard Juan's mom sells love on the corner of the street," Oscar chuckled.

"Speaking of Juan, where is he?" Hernan asked.

"Last time I saw him he was crawling under a table in the salon," said Oscar.

"Why the fuck would he do that?" he frowned.

"He was fucking wasted. Some bodyguards carried him to his room after the guests left."

"Who gets wasted at a charity gala?" spat Hernan.

"The son of the man who wants to bring prostitutes at a charity gala," Pablo retorted.

Hernan was about to protest when the suite's door swung open. Beto stumbled into the room, with trembling hands, panic in his eyes, and thick drops of sweat rolling down his temples.

"Pablo, we have a situation," he panted.

"What is it?"

"Cops. Everywhere. All undercover, a bunch of them are gringos, and they're doing a shit job at keeping quiet," he explained, frantically checking his phone. "My guys caught a few old rats three blocks down the street, and there's two women at the hotel bar who've been flagged in my database."

"Great job, Beto," Pablo answered calmly. "Who are they, DEA?"

"CIA," he gulped.

"Motherfuckers," hissed Pablo. "Right. Who here has a warrant?"

Most of the people in the room raised up a hand, save for me, Beto, and a few of the bodyguards. Pablo started sucking on his teeth, while everyone stood around in silence. Some danced from one foot to the other, others glanced out of the bay windows. A few people pulled out their phones, but most of us kept our eyes riveted on Pablo.

"I want the boys to take the cars," he said sternly. "You guys are the decoys, so make sure you spread out and keep them busy. Beto, you'll leave last, and Gordita's coming with me. What do you have for us?"

"Guille got a bribe through to civil aviation," replied Beto. "We should get clearance for the helicopters within a few minutes."

"What about Andrea and Manée?" asked Oscar.

"I'll pick them up on my way out, but you all need to leave as soon as possible," said Beto.

The men nodded their heads, and quietly cleared their throats.

"I'll go wake up Juan," Hernan sighed.

The room cleared out in a few seconds, leaving me alone with Pablo, Beto and Oscar. The door slammed shut behind the last guard, and Pablo held his head in his hands.

"I knew this would fucking happen," he spat, frantically bouncing his knees.

"Should I, uh, start packing my bags?" I stuttered.

"Don't bother," he replied. "We need to go right now."

He snorted one of the lines of cocaine, and wiped the two others off the table.

"I have pills in my suitcase," I murmured. "I'll go flush them or something."

"Let Beto handle that," he answered as he stood up, and tucked his gun into his pants. "You need to stay with me. And get away from that window."

His eyes were wide open, and their whites streaked with blood. His nostrils were flaring, his chest swelling with each heavy breath, and his jaw twitched and trembled as he chewed on his tongue.

"Are you going to be fine in the helicopter?" I whispered, lacing my fingers with his.

"The helicopter is not the fucking problem, Gordita," he mumbled. "I think they're here for you."