Chapter Forty-Nine: Amidst the Glass and Bullets

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**

I awaken with a tight feeling around my wrists.

My vision is blurred, my head throbbing and brain disoriented. I don't know where I am, and my last memories are a jumbled mess. The last thing I remember clearly is Isaac telling the guards to get me out of the car. Everything else, for the moment, is darkness. Bleak. Scrambled TV static.

I open my eyes but remain completely still. I wait for sounds before I make any sudden movements; my vision is still getting back to me.

I can hear muffled speech in another language. It takes a moment for me to realize that it's in Spanish. I can grasp the conversation—what I need from it:

"You fucking idiots. Do you not know how to follow directions..."

"I'm sorry, boss. She was surrounded by a security detail—"

"That's no reason for you to cause a scene, throwing her into the car in the middle of the street!"

I recognize the voice—Alejandro. I feel relieved that I hear someone familiar but also dread, knowing that this was his idea. He planned to kidnap me, and whatever he has planned next for me, I'm unsure.

My vision is back. I get up quickly, looking down at the bonds around my wrists. Oddly, no other part of me is restrained; I'm free to walk, but not to move my hands. The room I'm in isn't a dark, damp, cave-like prison. It's modern—gray, white and black color scheme. The bed is actually comfortable, and there's a flat screen TV, a dresser drawer, a bedside table and even windows, but the curtains are drawn. I'm too frightened to pull them; I'm afraid of what I'll find.

I'm afraid to know where I am.

I hear the door knob move and instinctively retreat to the back of the bed, pushing myself against the head board. I can't help but think that this is it—this is where Alejandro puts a bullet through my head. If not him, then someone else will kill me, or worse—there are fates worse than death.

The door opens, and he stands before me. Alejandro—Luís. Luís Mateo Velasquez. He looks at me, and I look at him. We just continuously stare at each other for what feels like ages, as if this is the first time looking at each other. That's what this all feels like, though. I feel like I'm meeting him for the first time right now.

He takes careful strides, knowing how fragile, confused and afraid I am. Slowly, he nears me, hands up in defense and an expression that's vulnerable and genuine, wordlessly telling me that he isn't going to hurt me. But I know better than to believe any of his intentions.

When he's close enough to me, he kneels down and grabs my hands with caution; I'm too stunned to move away from him.

"I'm so sorry," he says to me softly. "This wasn't supposed to happen like this."

There's more he wants to say, but he knows right now isn't the best time. Instead, he pulls out a pocket knife and cuts the plastic ties on my wrists off. When they fall to the ground, he puts the pocket knife away and begins massaging my wrists, asking me if I'm alright, if I want something to eat or something to drink. I've never seen him so...apart.

I take my hands away from his and create distance. He doesn't stop me. In fact, he completely understands.

"I know you're upset," Alejandro tells me. "You have every right to be. I just...I needed to see you."

"So, you resulted to kidnapping me?!" I ask him.

"I can't risk Salvador knowing where I am or one of his lookouts seeing me outside," he replies.

"You're missing the point. You kidnapped me!"

Once my voice is raised, it's hard for me to lower it. Alejandro sees how furious I am and decides to say nothing. But I have more than 'nothing' to say. He betrayed me. He lied to me. He shot Darcy. He's the enemy to me now. A stranger.

"Where am I, Alejandro?" I ask him.

The reluctance he has to answer my question plagues me with anxiety. I ask him again when silence is his only answer.

"We're still in Los Angeles," he says. "That's all I can tell you."

My head is spinning again. I get up from the bed and stand by the door, as if I would be foolish enough to try and leave.

"I'm sorry," he says when he deems it appropriate to speak again. "But I needed to see you; I needed to talk to you."

"I don't want to see or speak to you, Alejandro. After all the shit you've put me through, I want nothing to do with you."

"Leslie—"

"Get away from me!"

He stops walking, freezing in place. There's considerable distance between us, and I want to keep it that way.

Alejandro runs a hand through his hair, his curls frizzed out and astray. His eyes are heavy as if he hasn't slept since the Christmas party last night.

"Take me home," I tell him. Order him. "Now."

"Not until you hear me out first."

In spite of the situation, I actually manage to laugh. "So, now I'm your fucking hostage?"

"I just need to explain everything to you. The complete truth."

"I already know the complete truth. I already know who you are."

Alejandro's face becomes a pale expanse of dread and despair. It makes me wonder if, since he's so shocked that I know the truth about him, what "truth" he was planning on giving me?

For a moment we stare at each other again. I want to speak, but the words won't come out of my mouth. They just sit there, probably becoming word vomit that will expel soon.

Alejandro sighs and puts his hands into his jean pockets. I see the gun holstered on his hip and grit my teeth.

"My real name is Luís Mateo Escobar-Velasquez, though I'm sure you know that already," he begins. "I never used 'Escobar' in my last name because I never knew my father; I'm a bastard. When I was nine, I was taken away from my mother and forced to work for a group of 'bad' people who would do things for other bad people and rich people, too. All the same. My father was the one who initially led this group of bad people before his death, and sometime before he was shot to death, he had sent for me in the small town I was from and told his right-hand man, Salvador, to raise me. Train me. My father and Salvador promised they would reunite me with my mother if I worked for them. And if I refused, they would kill her."

Two and two click together in my head before he continues—his father having led the cartel and his last name being Escobar. I don't want to believe it, but it makes too much sense not to believe.

"Wait, hold on. Your father," I manage to say, "your father...he was—"

"Yes. My father was Pablo Escobar."

Amidst the craziness, the only logical thing I can think to do is laugh. So, that's what I do. I laugh, and I laugh. I laugh because not only is Alejandro being a serial killer for a drug cartel news, but said serial killer's biological father was arguably the most infamous drug lord in history.

"I can't do this anymore," I tell him after my deranged laughter subsides. "I want to go home."

"I can't let you leave, Leslie."

"And why is that?"

"Because it isn't safe for you to leave right now."

"When are you going to understand that you are the danger!? You're the serial killer for a fucking drug cartel, Alejandro!"

He's becoming frustrated with me, but I have the right to be upset. The shit I've put up with the last few days is more than what anyone should endure in a lifetime. I'll admit, my emotions are clouding my judgment. Part of me wants to hear him out—the part of me that cared for him so deeply while we were together. But the other part that has been lied to left and right wants to rid myself of his presence.

In a fit of rage and lack of air, I try to open the door and escape, but of course, it's locked shut. Alejandro just watches me struggle, knowing that I'm completely hopeless. It isn't until I stop trying to open the door that Alejandro speaks again.

"Leslie, I'm not going to hurt you," he assures me. "I love you."

I love you. I've never detested those words as much as I do now. They just seem so empty, like filler sentences in a story.

I gather the courage to approach Alejandro, despite the weapon clearly displayed on his hip. I look at him, trying to find the man I thought I knew. But he's not there. I just see Luís—a man I've never met before.

"You love me," I repeat, not expecting another answer. "If you loved me, you wouldn't have lied to me. Imagine how it would feel, finding out that, say, your girlfriend only dated you for a contract. Imagine what it would feel like to find out, from someone else, that all the countless times you've had sex with your significant other was only to further their own agenda!"

"Yes, alright." His hands lightly touch my arms, but I don't move away. "I'll admit it. I fucked up. I lied to you, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But what I feel for you is real, Leslie. As I got to know you, it became more than just me carrying out orders i-it turned into falling in love with you which wasn't supposed to happen. This made things hard; I've tried to tell you the truth so many times, amor. Believe me. But you need to understand that my life is too complicated."

It's clear he's having a hard time coming to term with his 'feelings'—there's so much he wants to say, but something is holding him back. The reasoning? I'm unsure. But one thing I'm sure of is that I can't trust him or anything he says anymore. I understand the bind he's been put in, being forced to work for an organization that profits on barbarity. But all I see is red. I can't see through to him, only a blanket of anger that clouds me.

"And you shooting Darcy?" I ask him, voice laced with contempt. "Was that a complication?"

His answer is quick. "I wasn't aiming for her. I was aiming for Sebastian. And I don't regret my initial intentions—I only regret hurting Darcy."

This conversation would have been different, had Darcy followed me out of the library. Sebastian most likely would have been dead, and Alejandro would have displayed no form of regret about killing him, because when the words leave his mouth, there's a cold, empty look in his eyes. This is the same look he most likely wears after killing someone—no remorse.

"You're a fucking monster," I tell him, although it fazes him little. I slowly inch towards the window. Maybe if I'm quick enough, I could open it and jump, hoping the fall isn't too far. But the window is most likely locked. And even if it wasn't and I miraculously landed unscathed, Alejandro's henchmen would have me before I could escape.

I can only pray that Isaac knows where I am. Maybe Sebastian does, too, wherever the fuck that idiot is.

"I can understand why you would think that," he says calmly, "but I'm not the only 'monster' you've become close to."

It's clear who he's referencing. The fact that he would compare his sins with Sebastian's is almost comical.

"Cut the bullshit, Alejandro. Sebastian's done some stupid shit, sure. But it's nothing compared to what you've done. The cameras? Yes, that was a complete invasion of my privacy," I'm speaking to myself at this point. "Shit, no telling what he saw me do in there. That son of a bitch—"

"You think he's the only person I'm talking about?" Alejandro says. "You're blinded by your love for him. So blinded, you can't even see the fire burning around you. I understand, though—that's exactly how I feel about you. Too invested to even grow some common sense."

My mind is like static. "I...I don't follow?"

Alejandro speaks urgently, like someone is watching us. "Sebastian's entire family are monsters, amor. Especially Garrett—he's the devil himself. Usually I'm...what's the word? Intuitive. That's it. I'm usually very intuitive about people like him, but this time I made a mistake. I made a deal with him, not realizing just how dark that man is. And he isn't the only Harrison; you think you know all the dark secrets about that family, but you're far off."

My blood is boiling but my skin is pale to the touch. I pace the room as if Alejandro isn't present. Perhaps this is what my mother, Genina, was worried about. She knew first-hand how evil Garrett was from Ramona's association with him. Of course, I know about his link to the Medellin drug cartel, his corruption, not to mention his manipulative tendencies. But if what Alejandro is saying is true, then he isn't the only one in the family—Fiona? Patrick?

I want to ask more, though I doubt Alejandro is willing to tell me everything I want to know. But Suddenly, there is a deep look of horror on his face when he looks out of the window. Honestly speaking, I thought that what I currently see in front of me—a red beam from a sniper rifle—was only in movies. But the beam aimed at Alejandro's head only proves me completely wrong.

The first thing Alejandro does is run towards me, screaming my name as if I'm supposed to know what to do in my state of shock. My weight is brought to the ground, his body shielding me as the glass from the windows begins to break all around us. The sound of bullets pouring into the room is a sound so deafening that it rings in my ears after the bullets finish. Some can still be heard outside the hallway, but are cut short by grunts and curses in Spanish.

"Stay down," he advises me. I don't move a muscle, my breath so short that I feel like I'm slowly dying of suffocation. Alejandro gets up, unsheathes his weapon and exits into the hallway. The glass reflects off the sunlight pouring into the room, and I focus in on it as the gunshots resume. I know it's him; he kills again.

Moments later, Alejandro comes back for me. There's blood splattered lightly on his shirt; I've had my fair share of blood. He escorts me out into the hallway, down the staircase. I don't recognize this place It's rather inconspicuous. The décor is plain, and the house itself is small.

We rush down the staircase, chatter heard in the distance. The men speaking are advising their comrades to scout the perimeter, while others tend to the wounded. All I can think is that this isn't happening. That this is a dream.

When we reach the bottom of the staircase and turn a corner into a small living room, that's where I see him—Claude. The sight of him is stunning, and if I didn't know any better, I would have ran over to hug him. But there's a sense of alarm and urgency in his stature.

Immediately, Alejandro pushes me behind him as he aims his gun up at Claude's head, and Claude does the same. Once triggers are pulled, I know one of them or both of them will die. My survival instinct kicks in as I run from behind Alejandro's body and stand in between them and their guns pointed at each other's heads. Eyes shut tight, hands out to my sides as if palms will stop the momentum of a bullet, I scream at the top of my lungs:

"Stop!"

And everything stills.

**

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