Bingo.
“I have done my end of the bargain. No trials were ever mentioned. Shipment is already scheduled. If you push it, thePrefecturawill start asking questions about why a private yacht is moving cargo at night.” I hear the apprehension in his voice; he’s obviously new to this.
That’s not good for him.
“Not our problem.” He stands and tosses a crumpled bill on the counter. “And don’t forget the model you promised. She’s part of the deal. He wants a welcome present.”
My lungs lock. Ice needles prickle the back of my neck.
What fucking model?
The fat guy waddles out, leaving Alfonso alone, face pale and terrified. He glares at the door long after it swings shut, then fumbles for his phone.
I watch him struggle to dial a number with his shaking fingers before putting the phone to his ear, and saying“Hola, Katarina.”
Motherfucker.
Chapter 4
Katarina
The cobblestones are uneven beneath my tiny pair of shoes, but I don’t stumble.
A large, warm hand holds my left, and a softer one grips my right, holding me steady.
We walk together through the golden afternoon light, the street busy with buskers and cars. Yet, I feel safest among the two tall figures walking with me.
“Careful, little queen,” a deep voice rumbles.
The woman at my side hums a tune that’s haunted my dreams a thousand times. The sound of her laughter feels so warm, and when the man’s voice chimes in out of tune, my heart swells.
I tilt my head back with a desperate hope.
This time I’ll see their faces.
This time, there will be no haze.
But the moment they look down at me, the sunlight flares—blinding me—washing their faces into a white void, their features dissolving like smoke. I reach for them anyway, my small fingers stretching, grasping at nothing but light.
“Mamá… Papá…”
My tiny voice pleads as the song dies. Then the warm hands vanish, slipping through my grip like sand. The gold light dims, leaving me stranded, alone on the empty street.
My eyes snap open.
I jolt upright on the sofa, heart hammering against my ribs, breath coming in shallow gasps. I press the heels of my hands hard on my closed eyes, trying to push the nightmare back into the dark where it belongs.
It always ends the same way—right before I can see their faces.And every single time, it’s followed by an ache that is worse than any wound.
I get up and walk towards the floor-to-ceiling windows of our apartment and stare out. Buenos Aires spreads below me, the sun setting into the Río de la Plata in purples and orange hues.
The view is stunning, but it doesn’t touch me. Nothing does lately.
The hole in my past has become so wide that my entire life feels like it was built to cover it. That if I don’t hold on tight enough, everything could just topple over and fall into that void.
I have money, fame, and a face people recognize on billboards and magazine covers. Katarina Flores, “Darling of Argentina.” A million girls would kill for this life. And yet most days it feels like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.
The guilt settles in my throat as I start to loathe my life. My therapist calls it Imposter Syndrome. She tells me to practice gratitude and some good ol’ self-reflection. But she doesn’t understand how empty it feels to yearn for people you can’t even remember.
