TW: This chapter contains mention of human trafficking. Reader discretion advised.

"I like the color you picked," said Pablo.

His hand brushed up my leg when I quickly moved it away from him. The nail polish wasn't dry yet, and I still had small flecks of paint stuck all over my toes. If you looked closely enough, it was obvious I had never been to get a pedicure.

I'd done a shit job at painting my toes. I had always sucked at painting my own nails, but to do it in a speeding car, with my foot propped up on the dashboard and my spine bent like a paperclip, was a level of difficulty I wasn't ready for. As a testament to my mediocrity, I'd left streaks of pink paint all over Oso's car, because of that one time we hit a pothole and my foot flew up and hit the windshield.

Pablo had found me before I could fix all the smudges. I was still busy picking at my cuticles when he barged into the bedroom without knocking. Pablo never knocked.

"What's wrong?" he frowned.

"Nothing," I muttered.

He reached for my foot again, and I jerked it to the other side of the bed, somehow almost kneeing myself in the face.

"Don't touch my feet, you fucking pervert," I spat.

Pablo let out a surprised laugh. "Why can't I touch your feet?"

"I don't like it," I replied. "It makes me self-conscious. I think they're ugly."

"You're self-conscious about everything," he chortled. "How do you live with yourself?"

How do you live with yourself, after massacring little children? I wanted to answer. But I didn't.

"I'm not self-conscious about everything," I mumbled, words staggering past my lips.

"You are," he chuckled softly. "Every time you walk past a mirror, you pucker your lips to make them look bigger."

I instinctively brought my hand to my mouth, running a finger across my lips, which I'd always thought were too thin. "Well, that's just one thing."

"And when you're standing next to me," he continued. "You cock your hip to one side to make yourself look shorter."

"Geez, Pablo. How long do you spend staring at me every day?" I scoffed.

Pablo smiled. "Too long, maybe."

His brown eyes locked with mine. Their color was a rich brown, just like chocolate cake batter, sparkling only with wholesome mischief.

If all I could see were his eyes, and not the flashbacks of blood-soaked toys in a child's bedroom, I could have easily forgotten who he was.

A liar, a cheater, a backstabber. A human trafficker, my kidnapper. A ruthless murderer, who sipped champagne at lavish parties with his mind at peace, while he sent his men to kill little kids and entire families, and then get rid of their bodies.

He was a narco, a violent criminal, and far, far worse than a glorified farmer.

The corner of his lips curled up. "And then sometimes, you squish your boobs together–"

"Alright," I huffed. "That's enough."

"Seriously, Gordita, don't be so insecure," he crooned. "I like you how you are."

"I'm not insecure," I mumbled. "I'm probably out of your league, actually."

He laughed as if I was joking. "Out of my league?"

Of course he was out of my league. I deserved much better than a piece of shit like him. He belonged with someone equally as awful as him. Like Mafer.

Perhaps I should have let them live out their stupid little romance together. They could have run away in the sunset, never to be seen again, and hopefully fallen into a six-foot-deep hole in the ground.

"Yeah," I answered. "You're like, really fucking old."

"Old?" he scoffed. "I'm forty-three, you bitch."

"Well, I'm twenty-three, so you're almost twice as old as me."

"Twenty-four," he corrected me. "We're in May. Your birthday was last month."

I sighed. "Emilia Kovács was born in August."

"Right," he mumbled. "I keep forgetting about that."

He leaned back on the bed, letting out a tired breath. He laid his head down across my thighs, and wrapped his arm snug around my hips.

"Do you think anyone even believes the whole Emilia thing?" I asked, a worried tremble in my voice. "I mean, I don't know a single thing about Hungary, you don't even remember she exists, half of the time, and everyone who knows acts really shady about it. I can't believe your whole plan hasn't crashed and burned yet."

"No one's ever said anything about it," he shrugged. "Aside from Juan, but you know, that's just Juan."

"How can you be sure?" I mumbled. "Maybe they're just not telling you."

"Well, it's not like I can run around asking everyone if they think you're a real person," Pablo groaned. "Plus, you passed the Sandoval's background check, and that means something, because he's the most paranoid son of a bitch I've ever met."

He dipped his head back to look me in the eye, and I squirmed as his messy hair tickled the skin between my legs.

"Why are you asking me all this?" he mumbled.

I could feel my heart picking up speed, and my cheeks turning bright red.

"I'm just nervous, that's all," I answered, after a split second of hesitation. "I just don't want any more bad things to happen."

"I won't let any bad things happen to you, Gordita. I promise," he murmured, hooking his little finger with mine. "Pinky promise."

I smiled at him, and he closed his eyes as I gently scratched his head.

When I was a kid, Ana and I used to pinky promise each other that we wouldn't tell anyone about each other's school crush, or that we wouldn't make it too obvious when we copied on one another's school tests.

I pinky promised I'd stop cutting myself, she pinky promised that she'd always be my best friend. We pinky promised we'd travel the world together someday, or that we'd move to California and be roommates.

Pinky promises meant nothing, and they only worked when we'd commit to do something easy. I'd stopped believing in them years ago, probably even before I stopped believing in the tooth fairy.

They were nothing but empty promises. I knew Pablo couldn't stop bad things from happening, simply because he was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

Pablo sat up suddenly, and his eyes shot wide open.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he hissed. "I completely forgot about Juan's bachelor party."

I felt a pang in my heart. I had been ignoring any talks about Juan and Manée's wedding, probably hoping that if I turned a deaf ear for long enough, I'd miss out on the whole thing. But if the bachelor party was soon, then so was the wedding.

"When is it?" I asked.

"Right now," he muttered, scowling at the time on his phone's screen. "It's just starting."

I gently pushed him off my legs, holding in a bitter sigh. "Maybe you should get ready."

He unbuttoned his shirt and looked around the bedroom, searching for some clothes to change in.

"You too. You're coming with me," he said, as he sniffed a pair of pants to check if they were clean. "Don't wear something too short. It'll mostly be guys, and they're all going to be insanely drunk."

Pablo was wrong. Half-wrong, at least.

Sure, the guys were drunk, but they weren't the only people there. The Sandoval's house looked more like a brothel than a bachelor's party.

It was a sight to make a nun drop dead. The hall of their house, once a cold, chic, and sleek piece of architecture, had been turned into a tacky strip club, full of red lights and pink lingerie.

In true Sandoval fashion, they'd invited what looked like half of the prostitutes in the entire country. My sparkly dress, with its puffy sleeves, had more fabric than anything worn by all the other women in the room combined.

A Persian cat watched in horror from a balcony two floors above, as a raunchy crowd of girls in their twenties spun around shiny silver poles, twerking and grinding against every male guest, holding thin wads of cash between their unsettlingly white teeth.

Two topless women, one with a terribly botched boob job, approached us with platters of champagne, appetizers, and tiny bowls filled with little blue pills.

The grin on Pablo's face disappeared when he noticed me glaring at him.

"Just stay close to me, Gordita," he murmured. "I don't want anyone mistaking you for one of the girls."

"Wow," I muttered. "Thanks a lot."

He flashed an uncomfortable smile, and grabbed two glasses of champagne from Miss-Wonky-Tits' tray. He handed me one before dragging me through the rowdy crowd, and I tried my best not to let a bare ass or loose pair of breasts accidentally knock over my drink.

Hernan was sitting in a leather chair at the back of the hall. A naked girl straddled its back, holding the joint he was smoking while she whispered filthy words in his ear. Another kneeled before him like a famished dog, sucking peanut dust off his grimy fingers.

I'd only had a single sip of my drink, and yet I could already feel my stomach churn.

"Damn. What a party," Pablo complimented.

"Tell it to that ungrateful cunt," Hernan muttered, pointing at his own son.

Juan slouched on the couch opposite his father, staring into the distance as he unenthusiastically squeezed a whore's buttcheek.

"Is he not enjoying it?" Pablo asked.

"He's been acting like an ass all evening, I don't know why," Hernan sighed. "You'd think he'd be like a kid in a candy shop, but all he's done is sit and mope in a corner."

Pablo shrugged, and smiled at a fully naked blonde as she brushed past him. "Well, his loss."

By the time that short conversation was over, I had already gulped down my entire drink. Unfortunately, champagne wasn't strong enough to asepticize my insides and protect me from the floating stench of sweat and sin.

Aside from those three men and Oscar, who was awkwardly leaning away from two girls as they lustfully made out with each other, I didn't know anyone at the party.

All the men here had a fashion style that rivaled Pablo's in distaste, and oversized blinged-out crosses ironically hanging from their necks. There were a few guys of Juan's age, but the majority seemed more likely to be Hernan's friends.

"I need a drink," I whispered to Pablo. "I'll be right back."

"Don't go too far," he answered, squeezing my hand before he let go.

I quickly found the bar on the other side of the room. An unclothed barmaid glared at me from head to toe as she poured me a glass of rum.

I slipped out into the garden as fast as I could, searching for some peace and fresh air. The ear-drilling music inside wasn't even loud enough to cover the sounds of incessant moaning, and the high-pitched squeals the girls let out whenever someone groped them.

I stared through the bay window at a young woman in tears, cowering in a corner as she desperately tried to cover her naked body with her trembling arms. A taller girl, who looked only a few years older angrily wagged her finger at her, throwing nervous glances over her shoulder every now and then.

Some guy wearing sunglasses, studded boots, and a Versace shirt walked up to them, and before either could speak a word, he dragged the crying girl down an empty corridor. Once the taller woman was alone, the look on her face turned from anger to worry.

As much as I despised Pablo, perhaps he wasn't the worst thing that could have happened to me. I wondered how many of the girls at the party shared my memory of their worst day, how many of them had sat in a basement with their hands tied behind their backs, knowing full well no one would ever pay their ransom, gnawed by the sheer terror of what might happen to them.

Either though they all pretended to be having fun, I doubted most of them were here willingly. And all those poor girls being pimped out to dirty old men would probably envy me.

Still, 'at least he doesn't whore me out' wasn't big enough of a green flag to cover all the red ones Pablo constantly waved at me.

I felt a painful, spiky lump grow in my throat, and washed it down with a bitter gulp of liquor.

"Emily Smith, you came to my party," Juan drawled.

He came in stumbling through the door, tripping over his own legs, followed by a young girl wearing nothing but a hot pink G-string, who giggled as her claw-like nails grappled at his black satin shirt.

"Get off of me," he spat.

He tried to swat her arm away, but swung his hand so high that he hit her in the face instead. The girl stopped laughing, turned bright red, and quickly scuttled away.

"Don't fucking do that," I seethed. "Don't hit her."

"I'm sorry," Juan nonchalantly hollered at the young girl, even though she was already back inside the house.

He raised his glass at me, and that was enough for him to lose his balance. He teetered backward and thumped his head against a concrete wall.

I arched an eyebrow. "Are you having fun?"

"Do I look like I'm having fun?" he slurred.

It was just the beginning of the evening, and yet his breath already stank of liquor and vomit, while the top half of his body swayed around in dizzy half-circles.

"Do you want to sit?" I suggested.

Juan tried to crouch down, and fell to the floor. The glass he was holding shattered to pieces, his hand slipped into the broken shards, and he glared at me like it was my fault.

My teeth bit down on the inside of my lip, and I felt feelings boiling within my chest.

"So do you believe me yet, or are you going to blame me for killing those children too?" I asked him.

The words came out sharper than I thought they would, shooting and stinging like little poisoned darts.

Juan's face went blank, and he stared at me without a word. I watched as his eyes welled up and turned bloodshot red, as he painfully swallowed back his tears and shook his head.

I crossed my arms, squeezing the pit in my stomach. "No, you don't believe me, or no, you won't blame me?"

"I believe you," he murmured.

He winced, looking down at his palms, where dark red blood formed tiny little pearls along every cut. He buried his head in his hands, and burst into loud sobs.

"You're smearing blood all over your face," I told him.

"Don't let my Dad see me like this, Em," he blubbered.

"I won't," I said softly, looking around for something to clean him up with. "I promise."

I watched him relive the scene behind his pained eyes, as his face froze with the same eerie look of horror he had when he was staring at the bedroom. The same dead look in his wide-open eyes, the same silent scream spilling from his parted lips, the same tremor in his helpless fingers.

"I just can't stop thinking of those kids," he cried.

I felt myself choke up as well. "I know. Me too."

I licked my thumb to wet it a little, and tried to wipe some of the blood off his face.

"I just don't know why they would do that," he whimpered. "I mean, I know why. He just wants to make sure the kids don't grow up, turn into fucking Batman, and come back to get revenge, but... how can you do that to someone?"

He scrunched his nose in disgust, either at Pablo's crimes or at the fact I was rubbing my spit on his cheek.

"They're not like us, Em," he said, raising his eyebrows. "They're not human."

I nodded. "I know."

He brushed back a few sweaty strands of hair from his eyes, smearing more blood across his forehead.

"How do we even live with these people?" he whimpered, heaving alcoholic vapors straight into my face. "We don't belong here, Em."

His words lifted my heart, sending blood coursing through my veins like a raging river on the first day of rain.

I threw a glance over my own shoulder. "No, we don't. That's why we need to run."

"I don't know," he muttered sluggishly. "I can't cancel the wedding."

"Who cares about the wedding?" I groaned.

"My Dad," he drawled. "He paid a lot of money for all of this. It's important for us to have Manée's babies. As his son, I owe it to him."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

He opened his mouth to say something, and it stayed stuck in an uncomfortable grimace.

"Gordita?" Pablo's voice barged into the garden, following a loud burst of music escaping through the open door. "Thank God you're here. I was wondering where you'd gone."

"Yeah, well," I mumbled. "I just felt kind of uncomfortable inside, with all the– you know."

"That's fine, I get it. I just wanted to make sure no one was annoying you," he said, as his gaze slowly lowered to the floor. "Is Juan okay?"

"I think he's not feeling well. He's super drunk."

Pablo crouched down. "What happened, Juanito?"

"He's just nervous about the wedding," I said.

"Well, tick-tock, tick-tock," Pablo sighed, tousling his godson's hair. "You should be enjoying your last night of freedom."

"The children–" Juan breathed.

"He told me he doesn't want to have kids with Manée," I hurriedly added before a boozed-up Juan could slip up.

"Start calling Hernan 'grandpa', maybe that'll turn him off the whole give-me-an-heir thing for a minute," Pablo jokingly suggested. "And if it doesn't, well, kids are fun. They're like tiny drunk assholes. You were, when I met you."

Pablo turned to me, bending over to hold the palm of his hands right below his knee.

"Juanito used to be this tall," he explained, "and next thing you know, he has a master's degree and a higher body count than his own country's army. They grow up so fast."

Juan frowned and his face decomposed, as if all the burning liquor he drank was melting away his features.

"Are you guys going to make babies?" he croaked.

Pablo chuckled, and playfully nudged me with his elbow. "Maybe later, when we get home."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh yeah, watching you snort cocaine off another girl's ass just makes me so horny."

"How?" Juan cried.

"Juanito, you're honestly a little too old for me to tell you about the birds and the bees," Pablo scoffed.

Juan retched, and I felt a cold drop of sweat roll down the nape of my neck.

"Married life isn't that bad," Pablo said. "At least from what I've heard. I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Are you guys going to get married, too?" Juan asked.

Pablo shrugged, and turned to me. "Would you marry me?"

"Are you proposing?" I snorted.

"Not yet," he grinned. "I think I have to get you one of those fancy rings."

I gave him a tight-lipped smile, and let out a sigh. "Can you go get me something to clean him up with, first?"

"Sure," he answered, sweeping the broken glass away from Juan with the tip of his shoe. "Do you need anything else?"

"Something to eat, if you can find anything," I murmured. "I'm starving."

After a quick nod and a soft kiss on my temple, Pablo finally left.

He wasn't even through the door yet, Juan was already glaring at me.

"I hate it when you do that," he spat, pouting like a child.

"When I do what?"

"When you flirt with him."

I brought my hand to my chest, clutching imaginary pearls. "I'm not flirting–"

"Are you proposing?" Juan repeated in a nasal, mocking voice. "You make me sooo horny."

"I was being sarcastic," I groused.

"You look at him like he's your Lord and Savior," he drunkenly seethed. "You smiled when he asked if you'd marry him."

"Because it was so stupid," I protested. "He knows I would never marry him."

"I bet you he's on his phone right now, looking at tacky diamond rings he thinks you would like," Juan rambled. "And I bet you'll fuck him when you go home tonight. And then you'll come back and tell me 'Come on, Juan, let's run away to Budapest', and then you'll fuck him again."

For better or for worse, and in this case the latter, Juan had a talent to always find the right words to drive me crazy.

"Well you keep telling me you'll help me escape," I spat back, "but all you ever do is come up with shitty plans that don't work, or tell me you don't trust me because I was the one who got Mafer killed."

"Sometimes I think it would just be so cruel to take you away from your one true love," he snickered. "Your handsome, lovely, child-murdering Pablo."

"Are you jealous of him?" I blurted out.

Juan raised his eyebrows, a spark of consciousness shining through his dead drunk eyes. "I want you to be with Pablo as much as I want to be with Manée."

"And," I asked. "do you want to be with Manée?"

"No," he muttered, and his shoulders slumped.

I knelt down next to him and held his hands tight, looking straight into his eyes to make sure he'd listen.

"Then fuck Manée, fuck Pablo, and fuck the wedding," I whispered. "We can run away before the ceremony, and leave them all behind. We'll make our plan as soon as you sober up."

"We can't do that, Em," he sighed. "I'm getting married tomorrow."