His Territory

7

My fingers fumble for the hem of my shirt, nervously twisting the fabric between them as I try to hide the trembling in my hands. I bite down on my lip, desperate to keep any sound of fear from slipping out. I need to summon that no-nonsense, fearless attitude I've relied on in the past, but right now, it's nowhere to be found. Instead, I'm sitting here like a nervous wreck, in front of a man who could easily destroy me.

Cristian takes my hand, his touch unexpectedly gentle. He lifts it to his lips, pressing soft kisses against my knuckles. His eyes remain focused on his task, his lips brushing the skin like a dark promise.

"Mira, mi amor," he murmurs, his voice deep and rough, the kind that scrapes the floor of hell. "I know you've been through a lot. But if you calmly tell me what I need to know, I can keep you safe."

His eyes lock onto mine, and a warmth spreads through my chest despite the situation. There's something comforting in his gaze, as if I'm being held, protected. It's disarming—too disarming for a man like him. I feel my pulse quicken under the intensity of his stare.

I shake my head lightly, trying to break the spell he's casting over me. He's a gang leader, for God's sake. Why the hell am I relaxing around him? This is how women end up dead.

He drops my hand and gestures for me to sit on the bed. I perch on the edge, too on edge to get comfortable.

Cristian crosses his arms and watches me, his face expressionless. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. He's waiting for me to start.

I take a deep breath, feeling my shoulders rise and fall in rhythm, like the ocean at high tide. I shut my eyes tightly, searching for the right words, willing myself to appear strong, even though I'm scared. I can't let him see how vulnerable I feel. I exhale and finally speak.

"I fled from New York," I begin, my voice quiet, "and moved here." I focus on a jagged piece of skin near my nail, picking at it as a distraction. Silence fills the room, and when I glance up, his expression is still blank. He nods slightly, a sign for me to continue.

"I lived in Queens for a few years after high school, on my own while going to college. I worked odd jobs—cleaning houses, anything I could find. I loved it there." I pause, my voice faltering. "But at one point, money stopped coming in. I couldn't make rent anymore, so I started looking for jobs online. That's when I found an ad for a live-in maid. I thought it was perfect—I wouldn't have to worry about rent. I applied, and they called me back ten minutes later."

Cristian nods again, shifting his weight but otherwise remaining silent.

"I packed everything and left my landlord a note with the key. I didn't even think to check the house before I moved in. Looking back, I feel so stupid." I shake my head, laughing bitterly at my own naivety.

Cristian moves to sit beside me on the bed, close but not too close, as if he's careful not to push any boundaries. Still, he says nothing. His silence only magnifies the weight of what I'm about to reveal.

Tears sting my eyes as the memories flood back. I sniffle and see Cristian reach into his back pocket. Panic surges through me—he's going to pull a gun. My heart races, and before I can stop myself, I flinch and fall off the bed.

Cristian tilts his head, studying me with that same curious look he gave me the day we met. Slowly, he extends his hand, offering a wrinkled black bandana. When realization dawns on him, his face softens, and he lifts his hands in surrender.

"I would never," he says, his voice sincere. "God is my witness. I could never shoot a woman." He tosses the bandana toward me and gestures for me to return to my spot on the bed. "Finish."

I scramble back onto the bed, dabbing at the corners of my eyes with the bandana.

"The house was in Jackson Heights, right in the middle of gang territory. I didn't realize until it was too late. I was hired to clean and cook for a gang. They gave me a room in the basement, paid me in cash. I never saw anyone, just did my work and left food for them. It went on like that for weeks. Then, I met Adrián."

I pause, my voice catching on his name. The tears come faster now, and I don't bother to stop them.

"He was my boss, I guess. He followed me to my room one night, drunk. He said he loved me. He wouldn't leave me alone."

Cristian's jaw tightens, the veins in his neck bulging as he listens.

"Adrián pinned me against the wall. He whispered that I was his, that he'd break the hand of anyone who touched me. After that night, he kept coming back. I worked, they paid me, and he... he kept hurting me." My voice breaks, and I clutch the bandana tightly in my hands.

Cristian's silence feels heavy, but his eyes are stormy with fury. "Keep going," he urges quietly, barely a whisper.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "I stayed for over a year. I thought it would get better, that I could handle it until I finished school. But then, this past March, he moved me into an apartment nearby. He didn't want me living in the basement anymore. It was supposed to be 'our' place. But it felt like a prison."

Cristian's expression darkens further, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

"I finally saw a way out when one of his guys sent me a video of Adrián with two other girls. I used it as my excuse to leave. I told him I was done."

I look up at Cristian, locking eyes with him, determined to make him understand.

"He told me, 'Leave now, mi reina, but we will always find you.'" My voice cracks as the words spill out, and the floodgates open. I let the sobs take over, my body shaking with the weight of it all.

Cristian stands abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. His fists clench at his sides, his muscles taut with rage. He looks like he could snap at any second.

"He raped you?" Cristian's voice is thick with emotion. "He never asked you what you wanted?"

I just nod, my head hanging low, my face burning with shame.

Cristian crosses the room in two strides, pulling me up by my arms. He wraps me in his embrace, holding me tightly. I can feel the tremors running through his body, the fury barely contained. His chest rises and falls against mine as I cry into his shoulder.

"Listen to me," he says, pulling back to look me in the eyes. His voice is steady but hard, each word like a promise. "Fuck that guy. Fuck his whole crew. They're going to burn in hell. Dios hará que suceda."

He strokes my hair gently, as if soothing a child. "I promise, Lucia. They won't find you here. And even if they do... we'll paint the streets with their blood."

I step back, alarmed. My eyes fly wide open, heart pounding.

"You said they wouldn't find me!" I shout. "Why would you kill him? He didn't do anything to you. This is my problem, not yours."

Cristian closes the distance between us, his presence overwhelming. "This is our problem now," he says softly, his thumb brushing over my lip. His touch is tender, yet possessive. "I'm going to make you mine."

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mira, mi amor- look, my love.

mia, mia, mia- mine, mine, mine

marido- husband

Dios hará que suceda.- God will make it happen.