My father is sitting behind his huge, long mahogany desk when I walk into his office, my mother shooing me inside as she closes the tall, carved double doors behind me, staying outside. It’s just my father and me, and his face looks deadly serious, which makes my insides quake as I walk toward him.
As a child, I loved being called into his office. Everything was so much more innocent then, all of the stakes of my life so much lower. I loved the gleaming hardwood floor, the thick woven rugs, the smooth wood of his desk, and the wood-and-leather chairs in front of it that seemed so massive to me at the time. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes seemed like more than any one person could read in a lifetime. The crackle of the fireplace was soothing. I loved to breathe in the scent of my father’s cigar smoke, sit in his lap and play with his mustache, and watch with fascination as he poured the amber liquid into a crystal-cut glass that made rainbows dance on the wood of the desk. He’d ask me about my day and about my lessons, and I’d tell him eagerly. His office had seemed like a mysterious, important, fanciful world, and being allowed inside had been an eagerly hoped-for treat.
Now, I dread it. My father is my jailor, and his office is the place where one day, he’ll hand down the terms of my life sentence. He rarely calls me in here these days, which means that every visit could be the one where he tells me what my future will hold.
“Sit down, Isabella,” he says, and there’s a tiredness to his voice that I haven’t noticed before. I don’t argue, perching on the edge of the leather seat, my hands folded primly in my lap, like an obedient lady. A dutiful daughter. Everything he’s ever wished me to be, and everything I chafe against.
“What is it, Papá?” I bite my lower lip, wondering if José tattled about the gardens. I actually hope that’s the case—that I’m being called in here to be lectured about following orders and not leading my little sister astray, instead of being given the news I’m dreading.
“As you know, Isabella, I had an important meeting today.” He steeples his fingers in front of him on the desk, and I see now that his eyes look tired, too, as if the day has worn him down. Or maybe he’s looked like this for longer than I’ve realized, and I just haven’t noticed. We eat dinner together as a family every night, around the long zapote wood table in the formal dining room, with the wrought-iron chandelier above and the fine china that my mother brought with her as a wedding gift. But even with that, it feels like my father has become increasingly distant over the years, as if the other encroaching cartels and the worries of how to protect his family and his legacy have chipped away at him, eroded him bit by bit like water lapping at a streambank.
This is the life he wants me to live in forever. The life Iwilllive in forever. One where my husband will never really be mine, where I will be a commodity, bought and sold and caged once again.
I want to scream. But instead, I sit there like a dutiful daughter, hands folded in my lap, waiting for him to continue talking as I nod silently.
“We’ll be having a gala in a few weeks’ time, after I’m finished with some other important business.”
“More meetings, Papá?” I hear the slight bitterness in my tone, and I wonder if he’ll pick up on it. More meetings with more important men means more days in my room, my leash drawn ever tighter.
“There are some men coming from the States.” He leans back in his seat, tapping his fingers against the smooth wood of his desk, and my eyes widen in slight surprise. Not just at the news of men coming from somewhere in the States, but also that my father is sharing this with me at all. He rarely tells me anything about business. When I was younger, he would ruffle my hair with his broad hand and tell me not to worry my pretty head about it, but to go fill it with stories and nonsense instead, or better yet, to focus on my lessons. Now, when I ask questions, I get a steely glare and a reminder that it’s not my place to dig into things that are for the men to concern themselves with.
“Oh?” I press my hands into my lap, trying not to sound too interested. For as long as I can remember, it’s always been the other cartels that my father has done business with, smaller ones allying with or against him. If they don’t ally themselves with us, they go to the Gonzalez cartel, our only real enemy. Diego Gonzalez would happily see my father dead and all his business consumed into his own accounts. And lately, the threat of the Gonzalez family has become more real. I don’t know much, but I’ve gotten good at listening to the whispers of the guards and soldiers as I move around the mansion and the compound, and I hear things. I hear that the Gonzalez business is spreading, that his vicious tactics have meant that more and more cartels are bending to him and not my father, who tends to be more of a diplomat.
Even I know that violence has always been the way of the cartels. But my father prefers to use his words over his fists, negotiation over torture. I think that makes him a good man. But in the world we live in, it means instead that others often see him as weak.
“They’re coming to negotiate an alliance. One that will benefit our family. Using that as leverage, I intend to make a match for you in the coming weeks, Isabella. Your engagement will then be announced at the gala, along with our new alliance.”
There it is.I have to close my eyes briefly to quell the nausea in my stomach. “So you’re going to arrange a marriage between one of these Americans and me?” I blurt out, feeling a small wave of panic at the thought. In all my imaginings about my future husband, I’d always assumed it would be to someone from a neighboring cartel, someone who wanted to strengthen their power by connecting themselves to the Santiago cartel through marriage. I’d counted on staying close to my family, to Elena most of all. But marrying an American would likely mean going far away.Veryfar.
“No.” My father shakes his head, and I feel an almost dizzying wave of relief, enough to momentarily quell my fears over the idea of being married at all. But they come back in a rush at his next words. “I will be finding you a husband from one of the cartels. But this new alliance will strengthen us against the Gonzalez family and build confidence in those who might seek your hand that the Santiago family will remain as strong and wealthy as ever.”
My stomach turns over, icy dread filling me. I’d always known this was coming, but it suddenly feels far more real, more immediate than it ever has. “I don’t want to marry a stranger,” I whisper desperately, knowing it’s useless. “If you’d just let me—”
“Isabella.” My father’s voice hardens, and I sink back into my chair, a heaviness settling over me. He’s not going to listen or change his mind. It was made up long ago, and nothing I say or do will convince him otherwise. “You’re twenty-one. Most fathers would have married you off years ago, but I wanted to give you time.” His face softens ever so slightly. “I’ll make sure that whoever I choose for you is as close to your age as I can manage—his late thirties at most, if possible. And I will ensure that it’s someone who will be kind to you. I know you may feel that this isn’t fair, but I do love you, my daughter. I have no intention of giving you away to a cruel man. You are the jewel of the Santiago family, and I will choose a husband for you that will treat you as such.”
I know that’s meant to comfort me and make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Jewel or not, it’s just another way of saying that I’m a treasure to be kept under lock and key. Years of that has started to weigh on me, making me feel like I might start screaming at any moment.
My eyes well up with tears despite myself, and my father’s face hardens again. “None of that, Isabella,” he says sharply. “You’re not a child anymore. You’re a grown woman, and it’s time you uphold your responsibility to this family just as everyone else does. I’ve been lenient with you because I know it’s not easy. I know this is unknown and frightening. But your mother did the same, and her mother, and all of the women of the cartel families. This is our life—how we do things. You will be happier if you accept that.”
He stands up then, a clear sign that the conversation is finished. It makes something in my chest ache, a feeling of betrayal, although I hadn’t really expected anything different. I’d known this day was coming, but some small part of me had hoped that something would change. That my father might come into the twenty-first century and realize that selling your daughter into marriage isn’t really the thing anymore.
Here it is, though, and maybe in other crime families too. I don’t know. All I know is that I can feel the walls closing in tighter than ever, and panic claws at my throat as my father walks past me, opening the heavy door of his office. “Go upstairs and get ready for dinner,” he says sternly, but I think I hear a small bit of sympathy in his voice, a hint of gentleness.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it.
As I trudge towards the stairs, I see my mother and Elena standing nearby, talking. My mother looks up the instant she hears my footsteps, her face spreading into a broad, ecstatic smile.
I got my features from my father—my high cheekbones, pointed chin, and elegant nose. But my thick, wavy dark hair, strong eyebrows, and full lips are all my mother. She’s softer than I am, a little rounder. Elena takes after her entirely, as if I snatched all my father’s genes. Elena is more like my mother in disposition, too—soft-spoken, easy to please, easy to convince, but with a mischievous side that neither of my parents displays.
Or who knows? Maybe once upon a time, as children, one or both of them had that. An eagerness to explore, to discover, to tease and play, and life just wrung it out of them. I have a feeling, from watching them—my father especially—that life has a way of ironing you flat under the weight of obligation and responsibility and duty, until everything that made you interesting and passionate and vibrant is gone.
“Your father told you about your engagement?” My mother practically breathes the words, excitement suffusing her features. For her, this is the best day, a day she’s been waiting for. I’ll stop being the daughter who has to be watched and caged and become the daughter she’s hoped for—someone who will finally put all her lessons into action, who needs to be prepared to be a wife and mother more than ever. There will be parties and events and celebrations, plenty of reasons to shop and buy new clothes, and a wedding to plan. Eventually, there will be grandchildren. All of it, for my mother, is a thrill and a blessing.
Elena’s expression better encapsulates what I’m feeling. Her dark eyes have gone wide, her mouth opening slightly in shock, and she looks terrified for me.
“Yes,” I manage to choke out. “He said he would be choosing someone soon. To be announced at the—the gala.” My throat feels tight, as if I’m having trouble getting out what I need to say. “I’m going to go upstairs. Papá said to get ready for dinner.” I feel like I need to escape, like I need desperately to get away. I can’t stand there a moment longer, looking at my mother’s happy face as if she’s been given a gift when I feel as if what’s left of my life has just been wrenched away.
“Isabella—”