Becoming the cartel leader’s trophy

I bit into the taco and everything else just... disappeared.

The carne asada hit first—smoky and charred at the edges, juices soaking straight through the tortilla. Then the lime cut in, sharp and bright, followed by salt, fat, heat. 

It was messy in the best way, dripping down my fingers, the kind of food you can't eat politely even if you tried. I let out a small sound before I could stop myself, cheeks warming as a grin split my face wide open.

"They're that good?" Carla asked, amused, already chewing on her own taco.

I nodded too fast, mouth still full, probably looking ridiculous. I didn't care. "You were so right about this place," I managed to say, words a little muffled as I went back in for another bite.

That was when I noticed it.

The noise hadn't stopped completely—but it had dropped. Conversations dulled to murmurs, laughter cut short, forks and hands moving slower. 

A few people glanced our way, then quickly looked back down at their plates like eye contact alone might get them killed. They knew exactly who she was. Everyone did.

And yet Carla just... ate.

Six tacos, all chicken, neat but confident bites, like this was just another night out. Like she wasn't a name whispered with fear on both sides of the border. 

Like she wasn't probably on more lists than I could count. In Mexico, she walked like gravity bent around her—untouched, unquestioned.

I watched her for a second longer than I meant to.

I remembered asking her earlier about the car, about leaving something so expensive parked out in the open. She'd barely even looked up when she answered—said it was fine, that people here knew better. That her people were nearby anyway, shadows in plain clothes, blending in like they'd always belonged.

Another bite. This time cow tongue—soft, rich, almost buttery, my favorite for a reason. I closed my eyes without thinking, savoring it.

God. Food shouldn't be able to do this to someone.

Across from me, Carla caught my expression and smirked, clearly entertained. For a moment, despite the silence, the tension, the weight of who she was... it just felt normal. Like two people sharing tacos in a plaza, nothing more, nothing less.

"When was the last time you had tacos? You look like you're in heaven right now," she teased, biting into her own.

I huffed out a soft laugh, eyes still on the food. "It's been a bit. Last time was with..." My voice trailed off before I could stop it. The memory surfaced sharp and unwanted. "...forget about it."

Carla didn't push. She just nodded once, like she understood more than she let on.

I reached for my Coke and took a long sip. The sweetness hit differently—richer, heavier somehow—mixing perfectly with the salt and smoke still lingering on my tongue. Mexican Coke really was better. No contest.

Halfway through my next bite, I felt her hand slide over mine on the table. Warm. Steady. Her thumb began tracing slow, absent-minded circles over my skin, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

I kept eating, content, so happy I almost did a little bounce in my seat without realizing it.

She noticed. Of course she did.

I swallowed and smiled to myself before asking, "Do you own any restaurants, Carla?" Another sip of Coke. God, this meal was unreal.

"I do, actually," she said, pride soft but unmistakable in her voice. "A couple Japanese places around Culiacán. Some Chinese restaurants too. I love Asian food."

My eyes lit up. "Maybe you could take me sometime? I love Asian food too." I leaned back slightly, feeling pleasantly full. One taco left. I was already mourning it.

"Of course," she said easily. Then she hesitated, just for half a breath. "Anything for my lo—my Miguel."

I didn't ask what she'd almost said. I just smiled, warmth blooming low in my chest, the words my Miguel echoing there like they belonged.

Just as I lifted my last taco, the tortilla warm against my fingers, the moment shattered.

The door slammed open with a sharp bang, metal rattling against glass. A masked woman stormed in, waving a gun wildly, her voice shrill and frantic as she screamed something rapid and angry in Spanish.

"Esto es un atraco, no hagan ninguna locura." (This is a robbery, don't do anything crazy)

I froze, taco hovering inches from my mouth. My stomach dropped. I didn't understand the words, but I didn't need to—the panic in her voice, the way everyone in the place stiffened, said enough. Chairs scraped softly as people instinctively shrank back. The air, once heavy with grilled meat and lime, turned tight and electric.

Carla, on the other hand, barely reacted.

She let out a slow, annoyed sigh, like someone had interrupted her favorite song.

Without raising her voice or even looking particularly interested, she reached down and unclipped the radio from her belt. Her eyes stayed on the woman, calm, unreadable.

"Agárrala y mátala afuera," (grab her and kill her outside) she said flatly into the mic, then clipped it back like she'd just ordered another drink.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

Before the masked woman could even finish another sentence, the place exploded into motion. Four armed soldiers poured in from seemingly nowhere—doors, corners, the street outside. 

It was over before it even began. They disarmed her in seconds, twisting her arms behind her back, her screams turning shrill and panicked as she was dragged out.

The door slammed again. Tires screeched faintly outside. Then—silence.

The taquería breathed again. No one spoke. No one moved. It was like everyone collectively decided this was none of their business.

I blinked, still holding my taco.

"...That was fast," I said quietly, awe and disbelief mixing in my voice.

Carla shrugged, finally taking another bite of her food. "I don't like it when scum try to take advantage of innocents."

There was no anger in her tone. Just certainty.

I nodded slowly, trying to steady myself, then finally brought the taco to my mouth. I took my last bite, chewing carefully, deliberately, savoring it despite everything. The flavors were still perfect—salty, smoky, comforting.

Life, apparently, went on.

The rest of dinner passed in a quiet, almost reverent haze—no real words, just soft hums of satisfaction and the gentle clink of plates as we finished. The tension from earlier lingered like an echo, but it dulled with every bite, replaced by warmth and fullness.

I started to stand, gathering the crumpled napkins and empty plates. "I'll throw this away—"

Carla's hand caught my wrist before I could move. Firm, gentle.

"They'll take care of it," she said calmly.

She reached into her pocket and placed a thick stack of bills on the table without counting, the paper making a dull, final sound as it landed. Then her hand slid back into mine, her fingers threading through mine and tightening just enough to ground me.

"Come on," she said, already turning. "Let's grab some dessert."

I stood beside her, immediately aware of the contrast between us—her tall, solid presence and me tucked close at her side. 

Walking next to her felt like being wrapped in something invisible but unbreakable. For the first time in a long while, my shoulders weren't tense. My breathing was easy. Safe wasn't even the right word—protected fit better.

"How long is the walk?" I asked, glancing toward the street. The sun was dipping low now, painting the buildings in orange and deepening shadows. Night came fast here.

"Very short," she replied simply.

That was enough for me.

We stepped outside together. Conversations died the second we passed. Eyes followed us—not curious, not bold, just cautious. Respect mixed with fear. People shifted out of the way instinctively, like water parting. 

Carla didn't acknowledge it. She walked like the street belonged to her, like the city itself knew her footsteps.

Her thumb brushed against my knuckle as we walked, slow and steady, and I focused on that small motion instead of the stares, instead of the darkening sky.

Whatever waited ahead—dessert, night, the rest of the world—I knew one thing for sure.

As long as I was walking beside her, nothing was touching me.

Together we drifted toward an ice cream place glowing like a beacon against the deepening dusk—a giant cone perched on the roof, crowned with a neon-pink scoop that buzzed softly, painting the sidewalk in rosy light. It felt almost unreal, like something pulled straight out of a postcard.

The moment we stepped inside, a wave of cold air washed over me, raising goosebumps along my arms. The shop smelled like sugar and vanilla, sweet and comforting. 

Behind the glass counter, rows of flavors stretched out in perfect lines—rich browns, pastel blues, creamy whites speckled with chunks and swirls. 

"Choose what you want, Miguel," Carla said, easy and indulgent, like there was no rush in the world.

I leaned closer to the glass, eyes darting, overwhelmed in the best way. Chocolate, strawberry, pistachio—too many memories tied to some of them. Then I saw it. Cookie dough. Pale cream dotted with generous chunks.

"Some cookie dough ice cream!" I said, a little too quickly, smiling before I could stop myself.

Without realizing it, I tucked myself into her side, arms looping around hers. It felt natural—automatic. Carla glanced down, amused, a low chuckle leaving her chest. She didn't pull away.

"Two scoops of cookie dough," she told the woman behind the counter, voice warm. "Big ones."

I grinned, cheek brushing against her arm, the cold shop forgotten for a moment. Standing there under the hum of freezers and neon lights, surrounded by sweetness and quiet, it felt like a small victory—proof that moments like this could exist, that they could be mine.

We stepped out of the ice cream shop, the evening air cool against my skin, mixing with the sweet, rich taste of the ice cream melting slowly on my tongue. 

Each bite was a little burst of happiness, the chocolate chips and cookie dough blending perfectly with the creamy coldness.

"Thank you for this, Carla... I really do appreciate it," I said softly, my gaze drifting toward the hills as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink.

"Anytime, anything for my Miguel," she replied, her words carrying a warmth that made my cheeks tingle. I felt a rush in my chest, a flutter that made me realize just how much I didn't want this moment to end.

Without even noticing, we inched closer together. Her eyes locked onto mine, deep and unwavering, and I felt my breath catch. 

The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of us—the fading sun, the distant chatter of the streets, nothing else mattered. 

Slowly, almost hesitantly, her head tilted downward, and instinctively, I leaned in too.

Then our lips met—soft, tentative at first, a brush of warmth that sent a shock of comfort and longing through me. 

It was electric and grounding at the same time, a quiet explosion of everything I'd been holding inside. The ice cream, the city, even the fading sunlight faded around us, leaving only this: her, me, and the moment.

———

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