Dangerous Devotion

Cartagena, Colombia — 1985 (7 years ago)

The first time I saw him - no, noticed him - was at my Quinceañera celebration. Also called fiesta de quince años, or simply quince in Colombia.

Never heard of it? In many Latin American cultures, a girl’s fifteenth birthday is celebrated differently because it traditionally marks her transition from childhood to young womanhood.

Traditionally, it was also an opportunity for families to present their daughters to society and potential suitors. Girls were expected to leave childhood behind and prepare for their future roles as wives and mothers. Pretty primitive, isn’t it?

By 1982, things had changed considerably. At least in theory. For my father, however, the occasion was mostly another opportunity to demonstrate his wealth and his oh-so-perfect family.

Don’t get me wrong. I had everything a girl could possibly dream of growing up. We lived in a fucking mansion.

My father, Ernesto Montoya, was one of the most powerful cocaine traffickers on Colombia’s Caribbean coast. He ran his own cartel out of Cartagena, and our family lived like royalty because of it. By fifteen, I knew perfectly well where our money came from. What I didn’t know was how much of a price we’d eventually pay for it.

I had two older brothers, Ricardo and Sebastián, and two older sisters, Catalina and Mariana. Both my sisters had celebrated their quinces before me. And they’d loved every second. The dresses, the dancing, the flowers, the attention. All of it.

They’d already looked like young women at fifteen, with feminine figures and the kind of confidence that made an extravagant gown seem perfectly natural.

I, on the other hand, was still growing into my body. My legs seemed too long, my shoulders too broad, and my waist hadn’t quite figured out what shape it wanted to be.

I wasn’t ugly. I knew that. People had been telling me since I was little that I had my mother’s eyes. They were a striking shade of blue, bright enough that strangers sometimes looked twice.

I was the only one of her five children who’d inherited them. My brothers had our father’s dark eyes. So did my sisters. But mine were Mamá’s.

Sometimes, when I looked in the mirror, they were the only part of my face I recognized. My mother had died when I was very young. I missed her that night even more than usual.

Unfortunately, my eyes were about the only thing I liked when I looked in the mirror on the evening of my quinceañera. For the occasion, the birthday girl was expected to wear an extravagant evening gown, usually in some bright, cheerful color, along with jewelry and a tiara.

I looked like a strawberry-flavored wedding cake. There were ruffles. There were bows. There was so much pink fabric that I had to turn sideways to get through certain doorways. And the tiara perched on my head did absolutely nothing to improve matters.

A celebration meant to mark my transition into womanhood had somehow managed to make me feel more like a child than ever. A particularly ridiculous child. And apparently, half of Cartagena had been invited to witness it.

My father, however, was delighted. Ernesto Montoya didn’t believe in small celebrations. Not when there were people to impress. And there were always people to impress. There were politicians, businessmen, distant relatives, and men I recognized from my father’s office.

Most of them were involved in the cocaine trade in one way or another. Nobody mentioned that, of course. Not at a quinceañera. Not while the orchestra played and waiters carried silver trays of champagne through the ballroom.

My father wanted the evening to be perfect. A beautiful party for his youngest daughter. A reminder that the Montoyas had money, influence, and the kind of power people preferred not to question.

The ballroom glittered beneath enormous chandeliers. White flowers covered every available surface, and elegantly dressed guests gathered around tables arranged beneath the high ceilings.

I didn’t enjoy the glamorous parties Papá loved spending money on. But I knew how to behave at them. Smile politely. Accept compliments. Don’t interrupt the adults. And never, under any circumstances, embarrass Ernesto Montoya in front of his guests.

The celebration began with my entrance on my father’s arm. He looked immensely proud. I smiled because he expected me to, and because I loved him, even when his idea of a wonderful evening was my personal nightmare.

Then came the waltz. First with Papá. Then with Ricardo and Sebastián. By the time the orchestra began another dance, my cheeks ached from smiling and my feet felt as though someone had beaten them with a hammer.

So I escaped. Not as far as I wanted, but at least to the courtyard. The night air felt wonderful against my overheated face. I sat beside the fountain and pulled off my shoes.

For five glorious minutes, nobody asked me to smile. Then I heard motorcycles. Three engines approached the gates, their sound echoing against the stone walls.

I looked up as the guards let them through. The motorcycles rolled into the courtyard and stopped near the garage. One of the riders removed his helmet. Alejandro Vargas. They called him Alejo.

I knew who he was, of course. He worked for my father and was one of his most trusted men. Not a guard or a driver, but the man Papá relied on when something important needed handling. Money, shipments, negotiations. Problems, especially problems.

I’d seen hardened men straighten when he entered a room, heard my brothers ask for his opinion, and watched my father entrust him with matters he never discussed in front of his daughters.

I knew he was twenty-eight, the same age as my oldest brother Ricardo. But until that night, I had never really looked at him. Not properly.

He pushed a hand through his dark hair. His shirt was open at the throat, his sleeves rolled to his forearms. A faint scar crossed the bridge of his nose. He was handsome in a way that made the boys at school seem painfully unfinished.

I stared. Unfortunately, he noticed. Or perhaps he noticed the enormous pink creature sitting beside the fountain. That was probably more likely.

His eyes moved over the dress. A small smile appeared. “Feliz cumpleaños, princesa.”

My brain stopped working. Completely. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Alejo waited for half a second. “Gracias,” I finally managed. He nodded. Then he walked into the house.

That was it. Three words from him. One from me. He didn’t ask me to dance. He didn’t sit beside me. He didn’t tell me I looked beautiful. He probably forgot the entire exchange before he reached the front door. But I didn’t.

I sat beside that fountain for another ten minutes, replaying his voice in my head. Princesa. With that enormous dress and the tiara on my head, it was probably the most obvious thing he could have called me. He hadn’t meant anything by it. He’d simply wished the birthday girl a happy birthday and gone on with his evening. I knew that.

But knowing it didn’t stop me from smiling like an idiot every time I thought about it. And when I finally went back inside, I found myself searching for him among the guests. When he passed through the ballroom, I watched him. When he spoke to my father, I watched him. When he laughed at something one of my brothers said, I wondered what had been so funny.

But that was the night it started. Not gradually. Not after months of meaningful conversations or secret glances. One ridiculous pink dress. One handsome man on a motorcycle. One careless nickname. And I was gone. Hopelessly, humiliatingly gone.

For the next three years, I developed an unfortunate talent for knowing when Alejo was at the house. I recognized the sound of his motorcycle before it reached the gates. I found excuses to pass by my father’s office whenever I knew he was there. I remembered conversations he probably didn’t remember having.

Which was especially irritating now that I was eighteen and desperately trying to convince everyone I was an adult. And yet, I still couldn’t approach Alejandro Vargas without feeling like an idiot.

At that very moment, he stood beneath the covered veranda, talking to one of my father’s men. He had a cigarette between his fingers, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, and the same irritatingly handsome face that had been distracting me since I was fifteen.

I’d been watching him for nearly five minutes. Not staring, obviously. Just waiting for an opportunity to speak to him. There was a difference. I had a perfectly reasonable question to ask. The fact that I also wanted an excuse to spend time with him was entirely irrelevant.

I could have asked Ricardo. Or Sebastián. Both my brothers knew how to handle a gun. Both had learned when they were younger than I was now. But asking either of them would have been pointless. Ricardo would tell Papá. Sebastián would laugh first, then tell Papá. Alejo, on the other hand, might actually listen. At least, that was what I kept telling myself.

His companion finally walked away. I had my chance. Now all I had to do was take it. I smoothed my skirt, immediately regretted the nervous gesture, and crossed the veranda. “Alejo?” He turned toward me. “Esperanza.” My heart did its usual embarrassing little performance.

“I wanted to ask you something.” He waited. I’d rehearsed this conversation at least six times. Naturally, I’d forgotten every word. “Would you teach me how to shoot?” His expression barely changed. “No.” I blinked. “That was quick.”

“It was an easy question.”

“Please?”

“Your father would never allow it.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

Alejo glanced toward the house before looking back at me. “You know I can’t do that, Esperanza.”

“Alejo—”

“No.” His voice was firm, but there was nothing dismissive about it. “I’m not going behind your father’s back.”

I pressed my lips together. I couldn’t exactly blame him. Papá trusted Alejo, and I was asking him to risk that trust for something he’d already told me wasn’t going to happen. Still, I’d hoped he’d at least consider it.

“Fine,” I said, trying to sound as though it didn’t matter. He studied me for a moment, then put out his cigarette. “Anything else?”

“No.” I stepped aside to let him pass. He walked toward the house, leaving me alone with my wounded pride. Well. That had gone beautifully.

I’d spent the better part of the afternoon working up the courage to approach him, and the entire conversation had lasted approximately thirty seconds. At least I hadn’t made a complete fool of myself. Although I supposed that depended on how one defined complete.

I watched him disappear through the doors. There was one other person I could ask, of course. The person whose permission Alejo apparently considered indispensable. My father. I wasn’t particularly optimistic. But I was stubborn. And if Ernesto Montoya was going to tell me no, he could at least have the decency to do it to my face.

༺ ✦ ༻

“Absolutely not.” My father didn’t even look up from the papers spread across his desk. I’d barely finished asking my question. “Papá, you haven’t even let me explain.”

“You want to learn how to shoot a gun. I heard everything I need to hear.” He picked up his pen and returned to the document in front of him. “And my answer is no.” Just like that, the conversation was over. At least for him. “Ricardo and Sebastián learned when they were younger than me.”

“Your brothers work for me. They need to know how to handle a gun. You don’t. ”

“But I want to learn how to protect myself.”

“You have people for that.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because I don’t want to depend on someone else for everything.”

His pen stopped moving. My father finally looked up. “Esperanza.” There it was. That particular way he said my name. A warning disguised as affection. “You are my daughter. You live in this house, surrounded by guards. I’ve made certain you have nothing to worry about.”

He returned to his paperwork. I should have left it there. Instead, my eyes fell on the ledgers scattered across his desk. “But I want to do something, Papá. What if I helped with the accounts?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The accounts?”

“Or the payments. You know I’m good with numbers, Papá. I could take some of the work off Ricardo and Sebastián’s hands."

Ricardo and Sebastián spent hours in this office, discussing shipments and payments, making decisions that mattered. Sometimes my father called them in during dinner because something couldn’t wait until morning. Nobody ever called for me.

“We’ve discussed this, Esperanza.”

“Not properly. You always dismiss the idea before I can explain it.”

He set his pen down. That wasn’t a good sign. “Because I don’t want you involved in the business.”

“I wouldn’t have to go anywhere. I could work right here.”

I wasn’t asking to be sent into a warehouse full of armed men. I wasn’t even asking to accompany my brothers. I just wanted to be trusted with something more important than choosing a dress for another family celebration.

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“Your brothers are being prepared to take over one day. You know that. That’s not the life I want for you or your sisters.”

“You know I’m capable,” I said.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why can they help, but I can’t?”

"They have different responsibilities.”

“Because they’re men.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he sighed. “Your sisters never behaved this way.” Of course. My sisters. Both had married young, one at twenty and the other shortly after turning twenty-one. Now they had husbands, beautiful houses, and lives that my father considered perfectly respectable. They seemed happy enough. I was happy for them. I simply didn’t understand why their choices had to become mine.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Because how was I supposed to explain that I wanted a life which belonged to me? Not my father’s. Not my brothers’. Not some future husband whose name I didn’t even know yet. Mine. My father mistook my silence for surrender.

“One day you’ll marry a good man,” he said. “You’ll have children and a home of your own. You’ll understand then why I don’t want you involved in ugly things.” Ugly things. That was what he called them. My father had built an empire out of ugly things. He just preferred his daughters not to look too closely. I took a breath, trying one last time. “And the shooting lessons?”

My father gave me a patient look. “Esperanza, we’ve been over this. You’re not learning to shoot, and you’re not getting involved in the business.” My cheeks grew hot. Not because he’d shouted. He hadn’t. That would have been easier. He spoke with the patient certainty of someone explaining a simple truth to a child. “Now go,” he said. “I have work.”

I stood there another moment. Then turned and walked out. I managed to close the office door quietly. Which, considering how badly I wanted to slam it, was an impressive display of self-control.

I walked down the corridor, still fuming. As I passed the open doors leading onto the terrace, I caught sight of Alejo. He was standing near the balustrade, smoking. Alone. I slowed. He turned his head. Our eyes met. My stomach dropped.

The office windows opened onto this side of the house. And they’d been open. Wonderful. There was nothing quite like having the man you were hopelessly in love with witness your father treating you as though you were twelve. I felt my cheeks grow warm. I could only hope he hadn’t heard too much.

Alejo said nothing. He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer advice. He simply watched me for a moment, his cigarette resting between his fingers. I lifted my chin and kept walking. If he had heard, he was at least decent enough not to mention it. Which, under the circumstances, was probably the kindest thing he could have done.