3

Catalina Maria.

I have been in the same spot since they brought me to this bedroom. That was last night. I have not moved a limb, nor have I said a word. I’ve just sat here thinking about two things. What Lucas has done and what my life has become.

That man… he is the Don of Maython City. The same one people say has a heart of thorns and the fury of a thousand men. Just looking into his eyes, I saw silver shards of something, and from the mannerless rust in his voice, I knew—I was doomed.

On my wedding day, the day I thought I would be marrying my childhood best friend and love, I instead became the bride of the wicked Don of the city.

A Don is just another title for the god of the city. He controls every gang, every elected governor, every government policy. Bullets and loyalties—those are the laws of a Don. In Maython City, a Don is untouchable. I have heard too many rumors about Salvador. They say he has no heart—not for men, not for women. He hates all equally. Lucas used to speak about him in reverence in the bakery. Even my foster father has, though I never paid attention to them before but I would be deaf to not know about Salvador Mendoza or the Mendoza brothers.

They talk about the grip he has on this city, how everyone fears him, how he brands his offenders, how he never gives second chances. How did I go from being the humble daughter of a baker down the street to the kidnapped, pitiful girl?

My foster dad must be sick with worry by now. I need to at least tell him I am fine even if it’s a lie. I try to shift my legs, and they ache just from the effort. When I place my feet on the cold floor, I don’t stand right away. As I wait, I see the coat Salvador gave me. I discarded it on the ground and I am still in my torn wedding dress.

I glance around the room they call the servants’ quarters. It is the size of my own bedroom. If this is their way of trying to break me, they are failing. When I finally plant my feet on the floor, I stand for a while, and that damn ring stares back at me from the table.

I open the door. I don’t know the layout of the house, but I just need to find a phone and make a call. Once I do that, I’ll go back to the room and pretend I never left. I’ve seen the cadres of power in these cities. Even if I called the police for help, they would never lift a finger for middle-class people like me. Who would go against the Don?

When they pulled me out of the car and into the Mendoza household, I was in tears. But through the blur of it all, I saw a castle. Now, standing here, I see the same grandeur—the walls of the servants’ quarters are painted in the brightest yellow. At every corner, flowers bloom against the walls. Art pieces are hung at even intervals, and the ceiling is so high… painted white with lilies or something.

I leave the hall and step onto a white staircase. I glance left and right—terrified of what I might find at every turn. Then I reach another floor. Colorful couches spread across the space, and a garden is beyond the open balcony. Parrots flutter in from outside—

"You!" A hand grips my wrist.

I yell in fear and turn to face an older woman. Hatred owns her face. She has a face so rigid that it carves deep lines into her hollowed cheeks. This woman’s eyes sink into dark sockets and her lips are frowned.

“She must be the woman Sir brought yesterday?” a younger girl, around my age in a yellow apron murmur.

“The wench?” The old woman doesn’t take her eyes off me.

"I’m not a wench." I whisper and avoid her gaze.

Her eyes remind me of a vulture.

"In this house, you are!" she hisses. "How dare you speak back!?" She grabs my chin and begins to twisting my face left and right. Then, she looks at my body.

"What is this wench wearing? This tattered—did you not take clothes to her room already?"

"Madam Louise, I—"

"Don't stutter, do it!" she snaps, and the girl bobs her head over and over again.

“Dolls like you will be broken by the master—”

I yank her wrinkled hand off my face and quickly wipe my cheek.

"You bitch!" she screeches. I don't see it coming until her palm cracks against my face, snapping my head to the side. A horrible sting blooms instantly across my skin.

"I will take her at once." The young girl grabs my arm and drags me back the way I came. I look back, again and again, until she shoves me into the room.

"Listen. Catalina, right?" she closes the door behind her. "This is not a place to be mouthy if you want to keep your head. I don’t know you, but we all heard what happened. Go into the bathroom and shower at once. You're lucky—this room has its own shower, so you don’t have to share with the other house keepers."

She moves to the closet and pulls it open. "I put some clothes in here. Wear them. Sir is going to call for you."

"Who is Sir?" I ask, on the verge of crying, again.

I just got slapped by a vulturous looking woman.

"Salvador."

She doesn’t hesitate to say his name. And my heart responds by racing in fear…even my hands begin to grow clammy.

"Hurry. If you anger him, you and your entire family might just pay for it—"

"Why does he want to see me?"

The girl exhales. She looks frustrated and she closes her eyes for a moment.

"I'm not supposed to tell you this, but…I think your lover, Lucas, is going to report to him this morning. And as you know, when the Don brands someone, they become his dog."

My skin turns cold.

"So please…just shower and put on one of those dresses so I don’t get in trouble this morning."

I nod frantically. Not because I’m truly listening—but because I am on the tip of sorrow and worse keeps happening to me. Was being a bride my crime? I step out of the bathroom in a robe and the girl is waiting. She has already laid out my clothes.

"I’ll wait for you outside." she slips out the door.

I do not properly dry my hair. It stays damp as I slip into the floral dress—a choice that feels painfully out of place for what I’m going through. The thin flowered straps sit on my shoulders, and the off-white fabric is patterned with brown blossoms. It cinches at the waist before flowing loosely to my knees. It’s soft. Unfit for the pain I am going through.

A pair of shoes sits neatly beside the bed and I slide them on before opening the door. The girl nods when she sees me.

"What’s your name?" I ask.

"I’m Rosa. Come on, let’s go. Salvador is in the dining room, eating." She starts walking, and I follow. My hands stay clasped together and my eyes stay on my feet, step after step, until we reach something that makes me pause.

An elevator. Inside the house?

"This is the servants' quarters.” Rosa says, as if she knows exactly what I am curious about.

She taps the button and goes in first. I follow. When the doors open again, we step out together into an open floor with a grand layout. It looks like a royal court from a soap opera I enjoyed watching at the bakery. Now, that I think about it, the protagonist was forced to marry a wicked man too.

Rosa turns left and as I move with her. I take note of housekeepers who pause in their tasks to simply glance at me and whisper among themselves. Somewhere, I also hear a puppy barking. Yet, my focus sharpens when I spot the dining room. And then I see Lucas and his brothers. The three of them are standing stiffly before the Don. God…their heads are bowed in submission.

“Hey.” Someone snaps and I turn to see the Don.

He’s filthy tall, easily in the realm of 6’1, with windblown black hair and dark brows. The line of his jaw is strong, as if carved by a banter of proud Greek gods. His eyes are the shade of gold-flecked onyx. If an artist were to draw him, they would spend at least a year on his mouth. I have seen a lot of men but now, it all look as if they were made from him being the sample. On a morning like this where he has ruined multiple lives, he dares to be feasting—shirtless, revealing his chest that is layered with tattoos from hades. What sort of—

When he rises on his feet and his body is full of hard muscles. I can see it. He has on military like trousers, one that speaks of a man used to command. He looks like a soldier, built for war. And there is a hunting gun on his table. Again, there are tattoos up his neck like inked armour.

Before he reclines on his chair, I see a massive black serpent stretched across his back. Under it, there is a single word: Don.

“Wife, come here. Sit on my lap and pour me a drink.” He says.