When We Met

CH 11 Rosaline

The taxi ride to Yelena's sprawling country estate outside London was utterly tense, a heavy pall of dread hanging over us. I stared vacantly out the window, my mind still reeling from the savage betrayal I had suffered at the hands of my own flesh and blood - my uncle Hector and cousins Ricardo and Vicente.

How could those monstrous have so brutally slaughtered my parents, desecrating their bodies with sickening mutilations? And to then pursue me like a hunted animal through the streets of our family compound in Santiago, intent on eliminating the sole remaining heir? If not for all my training and skills I'd surely be dead.

The two brothers exchanged furtive glances up front, their eyes carrying a kaleidoscope of roiling emotions, sorrow, rage, and guilt. But they remained respectfully silent, knowing better than to poke at the gaping emotional wounds I'd endured. We had known each other since childhood they knew better than to comfort me in a situation that looked so bleak.

As the sleek town car trundled through the ornate wrought-iron gates onto Yelena's vast estate, I caught my first glimpse of her home, an imposing fortress more befitting a medieval castle than a mere mansion. Daunting turrets and parapets stretched upwards, while grand baroque facades loomed overhead, projecting an aura of power and influence. I was already liking this place.

Yelena herself emerged, flanked by two bulking men with the telltale bulges of shoulder holsters beneath their suits, leatherbound gorillas safeguarding their titanium principal. Despite her not seeing her nephews for years, she warmly enveloped Matias and Alejandro in huge maternal embraces, planting loud kisses on their cheeks with deep familial affection.

Her piercing emerald eyes widened slightly as they landed on me. Even after the horrors I'd endured, my appearance must have been a startling one, the long inky tresses, the high sculpted cheekbones, the regal tilt of my chin. All the genetic hallmarks of my late mother Isabella, whose legendary beauty had been rhapsodised about from Tijuana to Cancun.

"You must be Rosaline," Yelena said, taking in my face with surprise plainly written across her features. "You have an uncanny, breathtaking resemblance to your beautiful madre."

There was a heavy pause as she seemed to consider her next words with care, assessing me with those intense green eyes. But then her expression melted into one of profound sympathy.

"I'm so very sorry for your unimaginable and tragic loss, dear girl," she said, voice thick with emotion. "But I promise you, we will avenge this unforgivable betrayal of your uncle and failure of your family in the most devastatingly brutal way possible. Those traitorous bastards will pay a heavy, heavy price for their reprehensible crimes for killing out Don."

Ushering us inside, Yelena led the way to a lavishly appointed office dominated by an enormous antique oak desk, the undisputed throne of her domain. With a smooth motion, she produced a crystal decanter of amber liquid and poured out four generous portions of ultra-premium Clase Azul añejo tequila.

As the sweet, oaky fragrance washed over me, her entire demeanour shifted, turning deathly solemn and all business. Leaning back against the edge of the desk, she fixed me with those piercing emerald orbs.

"Only my oldest and most fiercely trusted woman, Lola Salinas, knows the full and horrible truth about what happened to you, that you, Rosaline, are the sole remaining heir to the powerful Fernandez cartel's bloodline. As such, we must protect you at all costs from further treachery. You are the future of our entire family legacy."

A moment later, the door opened once more, revealing a severe-looking woman with chiselled cheekbones and a bearing of coiled danger despite her casual slacks and silk blouse. Lola's hair was in an immaculately-styled iron grey bun, and her cold eyes appraised me shrewdly as she entered.