Gilded Cage - A Mafia Romance

Esme

A SECRET LOCATION ON THE PACIFIC COAST OF MEXICO

I look around at my bedroom and fight the urge to scream.

It’s beautiful by any measure. The finest furniture. The most expensive art.

But I see it for what it really is: a gilded fucking cage.

My eyes settle on the picture board I set up when I was fifteen years old. I still remember the first thing I stuck up there—a glossy postcard of Florence, Italy.

Seven years have passed since I first pinned it up. The postcard is no longer glossy. It stares back at me, old and faded, a constant reminder of the invisible steel bars that surround my life.

The board shows all the places I’ve always wanted to go. The Coliseum in Rome. The Great Wall of China. The pyramids in Egypt.

But they’re all just fantasies. I’ve only left my father’s home once.

The picture of that lone trip is up there, too. I reach up and take it down.

In the photograph, my older brother, Cesar, stands beside me, his arm wrapped protectively around my shoulders. The Eiffel Tower pierces the low clouds behind us.

We’re both smiling.

Oblivious to the future.

Oblivious to how little time he and I had left together.

It’s been years since Cesar’s death and yet it still hurts to think about him.

You should be here with me, I think. Maybe then things would be different.

My fingers caress Cesar’s face for a moment. But when tears start to prick at the corners of my eyes, I pin the picture back up on the bulletin board—facedown, so I don’t have to look at it and remember everything I’ve lost.

A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts.

I turn to face the door. “Yes?”

“Señorita Esme, your father requests your presence downstairs in the formal sitting room.”

The muffled voice belongs to Sofia, one of the maids who works here at my father’s compound. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe deeply.

The only reason Papa would “request” my presence in the formal sitting room is so I can be his show pony.

My father likes to flaunt his possessions.

And unfortunately for me, I’m his crown jewel.

I open the door and come face to face with the woman. She’s small, Mexican, shy, beautiful.

“I guess I shouldn’t ‘request’ that he go fuck himself, should I?” I drawl.

Sofia flinches like I slapped her.

It’s just a joke, of course. But she’s seen what my father is capable of.

We both know that saying that to his face would earn me a month in the cellar.

I sigh. “Never mind. Gracias, Sofia. Tell Papa I’ll be down soon.”

I expect her to nod in her usual respectful manner and walk away, but she continues to stand there in her black and white maid’s uniform, wringing her hands together nervously.

Not a good sign.

“Is there something else, Sofia?”

“Señorita…” Her tone is apologetic already.

I frown. “What else does he want?”

Sofia raises her brown eyes up to meet mine. She is a little paler than usual, which is pretty standard when my father is in the house. We all walk on eggshells whenever he is around.

“He also said would like you to wear a dress,” she finishes, lowering her eyes again. “‘Something a man would like,’ he said.”

So he wants to impress some unspecified male guest or guests.

That’s not a good sign at all.

I offer Sofia a forced smile. “As Papa wishes, he shall receive. Gracias, Sofia.”

With her task completed, relief washes over her face. She hurries down the long hall towards the kitchen.

I close the door with another sigh and head to my walk-in closet.

It’s large enough to be a room in its own right. A large center island holds my basics, jewelry, and underwear. Opposite the island is an elaborate dressing table, over which hangs a back-lit mirror.

The racks hidden behind mahogany panels are loaded with tons of designer clothing. Probably half a million dollars’ worth of the finest fashion the world has to offer.

I’ve hardly worn any of it.

Why bother? I never leave the grounds.

But tonight is different. Something is happening. I don’t like it at all.

I pick a sleeveless vintage Prada dress with a high neckline and slip on a pair of Jimmy Choos with a one-inch wedge.

Before I go downstairs, I step in front of the full-length mirror to make sure I’m dressed for the part. Papa would be furious if I’m anything less than dazzling.

The jade of the dress brings out the tiny flecks of green in my hazel eyes. My dark brown hair cascades in messy waves down my back and my cheeks still retain a little color from my morning run. I add a pair of diamond studded earrings and smear a little nude gloss onto my lips.

And then the transformation is complete.

Abracadabra, presto change-o: the don’s daughter.

His beautiful, caged bird.

It makes me sick to my fucking stomach.

When I’m done, I leave my bedroom and begin the trek to the formal sitting room.

The Moreno household—more like a fortress, really—is a sprawling labyrinth, so it takes me almost five full minutes to get there. I pass tennis courts, swimming pools, several lush gardens, and both kitchens. All filled with the nicest things money can buy.

Drug money, to be specific.

I hear the voices of laughing men when I reach the brass-studded door to the sitting room. I rest my hand on the doorknob, but before I open it, I take a moment to breathe and gather myself.

Cesar’s face from that Paris photograph is still floating behind my eyelids. Laughing, care-free.

I swallow my bitterness down.

Put your “good daughter” mask on, I remind myself, or there will be hell to pay later.

Just like that, I feel my mask settle into place.

Perfect smile, perfect daughter—that’s the motto that keeps me alive.

Papa won’t accept anything less.

I remind myself of who I am—or at least, who I’m expected to be: Esmeralda Moreno, princess of the Moreno cartel, the most eligible bachelorette in the entire Mexican drug world.

Then I push open the heavy door and slip inside.

Immediately, the chatter softens. Eyes turn to me.

Papa’s voice cuts across the room, booming and resonant.

“Ah, Esme! There you are.”

He gets up from his leather armchair and strides towards me, laying his hand on the small of my back and pushing me forward towards his guests as though he’s trying to feed me to the sharks.

To the suited men seated in the other chairs, he says, “Caballeros, meet my daughter, my pride and joy, Esmeralda Moreno.”

Pride and joy. That’s a lie. So misleading it makes me sick.

I can’t even begin to explain how fucked up our relationship is. How fucked up my father himself is.

But you’d never know it by looking at him. That broad smile, that fatherly hand on my back—it’s so fake, so staged that I want to puke.

If only these men knew what it was really like to be Joaquin Moreno’s daughter.

If only anyone knew what he truly is like.

Papa’s guests stare up at me, each darker and slipperier-looking than the last. I trust none of them. Their honeyed smiles are normal enough, but their sharp eyes travel over my body without an ounce of shame.

They introduce themselves to me one by one, offering hands to shake and names I don’t bother trying to remember.

I study their accents with detachment. Colombian, I think. Probably the higher-ups from one of my father’s cocaine suppliers down there.

In other words, it’s business as usual in the Moreno household.

“Esme is a pianist,” Papa announces. He pushes me towards the grand piano over by the curtained windows. “Play something for us, cariña.”

I nod, smile still riveted to my face, and move towards the piano gratefully. Anything to avoid looking at their faces.

It’s easier to breathe when I’m playing. I’m more relaxed in those moments. I can close my eyes and be transported to another place. Somewhere I’m free.

I settle on the piano bench and poise my hands over the keys. I usually play Chopin, but today, I decide instead to perform Mozart. It’s more dramatic, more mournful.

Suits my mood.

My fingers meet the keys. One high, sweet note rises up, blissful and simple. Then the next. And the next. And the next.

I can hear the men’s murmurs but I ignore them. I don’t care if they pay attention or not. If they like it or not.

Because I’m not playing for them.

I’m playing for myself.

For several minutes, my fingers dance across the piano.

For several minutes, I’m free of this ugly cage I’m trapped in.

It ends far too soon.

Don’t forget the mask, I remind myself when I finish. I plaster my good-daughter smile back on my face as I rise and turn to face my father and his colleagues. They applaud. I offer a small curtsy.

“Didn’t I tell you, gentlemen? Isn’t she a marvel?” Papa boasts, turning away from me. “Esme, you may be excused.”

I nod and escape into the hallway. My fingers twitch again as I close the door on the sitting room.

Retreating to my room, I pull off the Prada dress and leave it crumpled on the floor of my closet. I crawl under the silk sheets and try to fall asleep, praying that at least my dreams will transport me somewhere different.

But sleep never comes. I end up staring at the ceiling above my bed for an hour. Maybe I’m just too depressed to dream.

After a while, I give up. I pull back the sheets and get out of bed to trade my pajamas for a pair of leggings and a sports bra.

Then I sneak downstairs, through the French doors, and out into the moonlit garden.

Fresh air fills my lungs. It makes me feel better—just barely.