But then he’d carried me from a burning building and bandaged me up.
And though he and I had been alone two nights, only arousal—and a demanding need—had resulted from his hands on me. So, no. Maybe he hadn’t inflicted any physical violence or force on me, but still.
“I meant emotionally,” I said.
“I’m sorry for that,” Alejandro said. “I’ve endured physical and emotional abuse, and they’re equally painful in different ways.”
He spoke evenly, but the pain of his past came through anyway. Suddenly, my plight didn’t seem as severe. “I’m sorry.”
Shrugging, he nodded toward the house. “Come on. We can pick this back up tomorrow. Cristiano wants me to show you the cellar.”
“A wine cellar?” I asked. “Why?”
One side of his mouth curved, and a deep dimple dented his cheek. “It leads to the panic room. If you ever hear the alarm go off, that’s where you go.”
I blinked at him. “How big is this house?”
“It’s designed for a kingpin,” Alejandro said. “And a kingpin needs a place to go if and when shit goes down.”
“Then why doesn’t the property have tunnels?” I asked since my father had commissioned them in his house.
Alejandro arched an eyebrow. “Who says it doesn’t?”
It was a relief, finally, to have someone treat me normally. Jaz couldn’t seem to stand me. Eduardo, the other guard from the wedding, had a face tattoo and seemed largely unapproachable, and the rest of the staff had kept their distance.
Alejandro and I walked back side by side. “Are you married?” I asked.
He laughed. “No. It’s not easy to meet women in this life.”
“Do you want to?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Yes. But I prayed to God many times for a family, and he gave me one. This one. My devotion lies with Calavera and Cristiano always.”
I didn’t understand how somebody so cruel could command loyalty from so many people, but Alejandro seemed to be proof it was possible. He had a genuine air to him, and I believed him when he said he wasn’t in a bad situation.
I followed Alejandro back into the house and through a multi-car garage I hadn’t yet seen. We passed a Jeep with mud-splattered tires, a sleek, black Mercedes-Benz G-Class, and a monstrous Ford F-150—and that was only in the first section of the garage. “How many cars does one man need?” I asked.
“They’re for cartel use, and they’re how we get in and out. We have another garage off the premises where we keep the good stuff. McLarens, Audis, etcetera.”
Well, I supposed there had to be some spoils in exchange for the risks they took. Alejandro opened a door to a staircase and flipped on a light. “I’ll meet you down there,” he said, pulling out his two-way radio. “I’m going to have one of the guys run this like a drill so it feels real. I’ll let the staff know so nobody freaks out.”
“How will I know which alarm means to go down there?”
“There’s only one,” he said. “Trust me—you’ll know.”
I descended the stairs into the cellar. Stacks of wine bottles lined the walls, some behind glass in refrigerators that emitted a warm glow. I walked the perimeter of the room until I reached a steel door that must’ve led to the panic room. I tried the handle and was surprised to find it open.
I stepped into the dark and tried a switch. Fluorescent lights hummed to life overhead. The large concrete box had clean, gray floors, a windowed office, and multiple doorways. Industrial washing machines and dryers sat against one wall. Boxes and crates were piled next to a row of bicycles. Definitely not the panic room, but still not a place I was sure I was allowed.
I glanced over my shoulder and walked in, peering into a large closet of cleaning supplies and equipment. I was about to move on when I noticed transparent bins of women’s sneakers and sandals, separated and marked by size, stacked almost to the ceiling. I flipped on the light to see what was in some smaller tubs piled in another corner.
My jaw tingled as my eyes adjusted to what was in front of me.
Assorted sizes and colors of bras and underwear.
What the fuck?
I made my way to another doorway. This one led to whole other room, as big as Cristiano’s bedroom. Metal shelving lined the perimeter, stocked with more folded pants, t-shirts, and sweaters than a person could ever need. Even stranger, I realized as I picked up a pair of jeans, it was only women’s and children’s clothing.
Countless boxes were labeled in Spanish for toothbrushes, toothpaste, hairbrushes, and other toiletries. Down the center, on a long metal slab of table, travel-size toiletries were grouped like some kind of assembly line. At the end were boxes of plastic zippered bags stocked with everything from shampoo and conditioner to cotton balls to aspirin bottles. Like toiletry bags I’d pack for a trip.