My name is Benita Adriana Villanueva.
I go by Benni—Birdy, or la Jefa on the streets. I’m twenty-eight, an illegal Cuban immigrant, served two separate sentences in County, and now, well…have a seat, court’s in session.
As I sit here beside my attorney, elbows to the table, my head hanging low between my shoulders… I won’t lie to you.
I fucked up.
For real, this time.
This isn’t me getting caught selling a few baggies down in Calle Ocho or riding around with an ounce with the intent to distribute. Na, I fucked up royally, and now, they’re about to rip me a new one. Drown me in this hell of reality.
“All rise for the jury.” The bailiff's booming voice snaps my head up.
Sounds of shuffling fill the room as the entire courtroom rises onto their feet. One by one, the jury begins filtering back to their seats, my shaky hands smoothing out the olive-green blouse Mami insisted I wear.
She’s here behind me with my brother and my sister, the despaired echo of her hushed sobs meeting my ears every few moments or so. I can’t stand to hear them. They’re nothing more than a painful reminder of just how glaringly I’ve let her down.
I’m practically choking on my sins.
“Please be seated,” the judge orders, dropping everyone into their seats once more. “The record should cite that all jurors are present, all attorneys and represented parties are present. Will the defendant and counsel please rise?”
On my feet yet again, directly in the spotlight as the courtroom bounces their stares between the judge, the jury, or me.
My heart thunders in my chest.
“Will the jury’s foreperson please rise?”
An older white female in a tweed pantsuit stands with papers in hand.
The judge acknowledges her with a subtle tip of his bald head. “Madam foreperson, has the jury reached a verdict?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge nods a second time, his sharp green eyes bouncing to my form for the briefest moment before returning to the woman. “As to the charge of trafficking a large commercial quantity of Schedule II drugs, what is your verdict?”
Thump…
Thump…
Thump…
This is it, the singular moment that will change everything moving forward.
The woman clears her throat, shoulders confidently squaring as she drops her gaze to the papers in her hands. “We, the jury, find the defendant, Benita Adriana Villanueva, guilty.”
♫ Crown - JAY-Z
“Ángel!” I cry out, throwing my head back as he rams into me within the tight confines of his car.
I’m a sweating mess—my long, ebony hair clinging to my skin. Every window of the Renovatio is fogged in, and the pungent scent of weed hangs heavy in the air, whirling around us in a dense, warm cloud. We’ve been at it like rabbits for at least an hour now, stopping only long enough to relight the blunt and take a few more hits.
“Ese totito, mami.” That pussy. “Fuck…” he groans, grip tightening on my hips as he rams into me and takes another pull. “I’m gonna bust again.”
That’s number two, for both of us, ‘cause I’m right there with him. Three more pumps as he slides a long finger in my ass, and that’s it—I’m done, flying over the edge. Ángel comes with a volatile hiss, a plume of smoke billowing from his nose right as my hands slam down on the seat beside his head. All the air just about leaves my lungs, prompting him to cut off my supply further with a fiendish grip around my throat. I’m seeing fucking stars at this point, wave after all-consuming wave rocking through me, possessing me, drowning me. He’s holding me down on his dick, forcing me to ride it out as he fills me with his hot cum.
Thank fuck I’m on the pill. I would’ve been pregnant long ago otherwise.
When his grip eases, I collapse on top of him, breathless, exhausted, high as fuck. Ángel hums appreciatively, the tips of his ringed and very tattooed fingers lazily running down my bare back as we come down to reality, his cock pulsing inside me. It’s quiet for a beat until the sound of his palm striking my bare ass erupts abruptly, followed by two soft groans from our lips as he rolls into me again. “I can’t get enough of you, Benni. Te quiero todita.” I want all of you.
“I can’t no more. I’m tapping out for tonight,” I pant, literally tapping the side of the seat. “I’m already going to be walking funny as hell tomorrow, all coja and shit.” All limp.
Ángel’s chest vibrates with amusement. “That’s the point. I want you to remember me all day while you’re waiting those tables. Every move you make will scream Ángel was here.”
It won’t just be tomorrow, though. No, I’ll feel the aftermath of Hurricane Ángel for days. And then it’ll wear off, and I’ll be fiending like a junkie searching for their next fix, waiting out the weeks until he finally comes back to me.
Where he goes, I don’t know, but I don’t ask questions. That’s how our arrangement works: long-distance with absolutely no strings. I don’t know shit about him that isn’t business-related, and what he knows about me is because I solely work for him.
I don’t even know his last name.
You see, Ángel—the faceless, illusive Arcángel to the rest of the world—owns the Upper Echelon, an international, highly-covert organization of different syndicates bringing in millions of dollars per year to the man. He remains unknown in the obscurity of the shadows, hidden behind his pit bulls who delegate the workload amongst us. He doesn’t lift a single finger, either, unless it's to sign our checks. Not a soul dares to complain nor question his modus operandi, for we are the elite—brimming with the power and luxuries he’s bestowed upon us for our loyalty and fierce work ethic.
Each syndicate provides him a different source of income. The Bratva import and export the finest women around the world. The Irish wash cash and produce the Cadillac of counterfeit. The Yakuza eliminate deadweight and shady ass comemierdas.
And then there’s me—la Jefa of los Marielitos. Most of us came here on rafts, made the ninety-mile trek from Havana to the Keys. The younger few are second-generation Cuban-Americans, but they work just as hard. With the port right in our backyard, we’re in charge of product: large street-grade quantities and black-market prescriptions.
The only difference between the rest of the Upper Echelon and me?
Arcángel chose to forego anonymity when it came to me. He recruited me personally, swore me to secrecy with my name scripted in blood on the dotted line, and after a couple of months under his thumb—making him more profit than the other mobs combined—he made his move.
He wanted me, and now he’s got me. Everything was gravy at first, the perfect arrangement: prime dick without strings, but I should’ve known a fine, fine, and sinful man like Arcángel would change the definition of perfect eventually. Lately, he’s got me chomping at the bit for more and more every time he touches down in Miami.
“Déjame quedarme esta noche contigo,” he murmurs. Let me stay the night with you.
The words haven’t even fully registered, and my entire body goes rigid in his hold.