Chapter 39

I focus on controlling my breathing and keeping the bile in my throat down. "Is that why you don't have a Spanish accent?" My question comes totally out of the left field. I don't even know what makes me ask something so trivial at a moment like this.

But it's apparently the right thing to do because Julian relaxes slightly, some of the tension leaving his muscles. "Yes. That's partially why, my pet. Also, my mother was an American, and she taught me English from a young age."

"An American?"

"Yes. She was a model in her youth, a tall, beautiful blond. They met in New York, when my father was there on a business trip. He swept her off her feet, and they were married before he told her anything about his business."

"What did she do when she found out?" I know I'm probably focusing on the wrong things here, but I need to distract myself from the gruesome images filling my mind—images of a dead girl who's a younger version of me . . .

"There was nothing she could do," Julian says. "She was already married to him, and living in Colombia."

He doesn't explain further, but he doesn't need to. It's clear to me that his mother was as much of a prisoner as I am—except that she'd chosen her captivity, at least initially.

For a few minutes, we just lie there quietly, without talking. I'm no longer drowsy. I don't know if I'll be able to sleep tonight at all. The ache in my body is nothing compared to the despair in my heart.

"So is that what you do now? Drugs?" I ask, finally breaking the silence. It's not far from my original supposition that he's part of the Mafia or some other criminal organization.

"No," he says, to my surprise. "That part of my life ended when my parents were killed. I took the family business in a different direction."

"Which direction?" I remember him telling me something about an import-export organization, but I can't imagine Julian doing something as innocuous as selling electronics. Not after what I've just learned about his upbringing.

He chuckles, as though amused at my persistence. "Weapons," he says. "I'm an arms dealer, Nora."

I blink, surprised. I know a little—or at least, I think I know—about drug dealers, thanks to some popular TV shows. Arms dealers, however, are a complete mystery to me. I strongly suspect Julian isn't talking about a few guns here or there.