Nicholas nodded once, never breaking eye contact with me. “Put on the dress, Alma. If you play your part perfectly, you live in luxury. If you hesitate, if you cry, if you let them see even a flicker of doubt in your eyes… the men waiting outside will realize the deception. And they won’t just kill you. They will go back to that little house in El Paso and butcher your mother while your father watches.”
“You wouldn’t let them,” I breathed, trying to find a shred of humanity in his dark eyes.
Nicholas leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, “Try me.”
The silk of the white dress felt like ice against my skin. The older woman, whose name I learned was Teresa, moved with frantic speed, pinning my hair up, applying a heavy layer of dark red lipstick to match the girl in the photo, and dusting powder over the dark circles under my eyes.
When I looked in the full-length mirror, I didn’t recognize myself. The terrified girl from the kitchen in El Paso was gone. In her place stood a cartel bride, a beautiful ghost wearing a dead woman’s skin.
“Walk straight,” Teresa muttered, shoving a bouquet of white roses into my trembling hands. “Do not look at the guests. Look only at Nicholas.”
The chapel was located in the western wing of the estate. The walk down the dimly lit corridor felt like a march to the gallows. Every step in the high heels sent a jolt of pain up my legs, but the raw terror coursing through my veins kept me moving.
When the heavy oak doors of the chapel swung open, the scent of burning incense and expensive wax filled my senses. The room was small, lit only by dozens of flickering candles. There were no rows of smiling family members. Instead, about a dozen men in tailored suits stood along the walls, their hands subtly resting near their jackets.
At the altar stood Nicholas. He had changed his shirt; the dark, rain-soaked fabric was gone, replaced by a pristine white dress shirt and a black tuxedo. His hair was slicked back, and his face was entirely expressionless.
Next to him stood an older man with silver hair and a deeply scarred face—Alejandro Alvarez. The head of the syndicate. The man who believed I was his niece, Sofia.
“Ah,” Alvarez purred, his voice like grinding stones as I approached the altar. “She looks beautiful, Nicholas. A bit pale, perhaps? The nerves of the wedding day, no doubt.”
“She is eager to begin our life together, Alejandro,” Nicholas replied smoothly, extending his hand to me.
My fingers shook violently as I reached out. The moment my hand touched his, his grip tightened—not in comfort, but as a warning. Be still, his eyes commanded.
The priest, an old man whose hands shook as he held the Bible, began the ceremony in a low, rapid Spanish. I didn’t hear the words. The ringing in my ears was too loud. I kept my eyes locked on Nicholas’s collar, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest to keep myself from fainting.
“Nicholas Barrera, do you take this woman…”
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