Play Me Darkly

PLAY ME DARKLY A DIABLOS CARTEL NOVEL AIDÈE JAIMES Play Me Darkly A Diablos Cartel Novel by Aidèe Jaimes copyright@2023 by Aidèe Jaimes This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Copy edited by R.C. Craig Cover Design by Aidèe Jaimes Never miss a release or event. Sign up for my newsletter today! CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Epilogue About Books By Aidèe Jaimes 1 LEILA Five Years Ago… He’s watching me. I can sense his gaze like the charge of electricity in the air just before a thunderstorm. Powerful. Terrifying. Thrilling. For as long as I’ve been performing for an audience, he’s been there. First at the church. Now here at El Teatro Real in a private box that’s always reserved just for him. Every time, he’s there. And though I don’t see him, I’m aware of his presence in the shadows. My dark phantom. Play for me. I’ve never met him. Never heard him speak. Yet I can hear the words clearly in my mind. The same words I find written on the note tucked in the crimson roses he has sent to my dressing room before every performance. Play for me. I look away from the shadowed balcony to peek out to the audience, searching for the single little face that is my world. My reason for being on this stage right now. When I find my six-year-old son sitting in the first row, beside the man who’s been appointed as his guardian, I give him the smile I reserve only for him. Grinning back at me, he sits up straighter, so proud that he’s the son of a popular violinist, completely oblivious to the irony of it all. That if I weren’t popular, we’d be together. That I’d get to see him every day. Hold him every day. “I love you, Cristian,” I mouth and blow him a kiss, the vise that is regret constricting my throat. I won’t hold him today. But if I do this, I might get to tomorrow. I glance up to the shadows one last time, wondering if my phantom can see the pain I’m in. Then I bring my white violin to my shoulder and place my chin on the rest. The din of the audience fades as all the lights except the one directly above me are turned off. Lifting the bow so that the hair is only an inch from the strings, I shut my lids. Inhale. Exhale. Play for me. His command skitters over me and I draw the bow lightly over the strings, playing that first note. The sweet melody I’ve been instructed to play flows from me easily. “My Light.” A crowd favorite that I wrote when Cristian was born. It used to be a sweeter melody, but the uglier side of life has begun to take its toll on me and the notes come out dulled. That is until I remind myself that even though I’m being forced to do this by a pathetic weasel, I’m not playing for him. I pull my bow slowly down, then up once sharply as I envision Cristian’s face the first time I saw it. His first steps. First words. As I recall the warm hues of his eyes in sunlight, so do my notes lighten. Play for me. And when I think of the man in the shadows, my music deepens with more vibrato, the tone lowering as it reflects the change of emotions he provokes. I play every song I’ve ever written—all but the forbidden one—getting lost in the beautiful world of sound I’ve created. But as I strike the last chord and the crowd rises in applause and flowers are tossed onto the stage, I’m brought back to reality. Cristian is no longer in the audience, and neither is my phantom. All that’s left is me, alone, fighting to remain standing. To smile in spite of the shackles binding me to this place. I take a step back, waving at the men and women in front of me, desperate for the curtain to drop so that I can let go. When it does, the red velvet panels concealing me, my arms fall to my sides and my smile fades. “This way, Miss Mansour.” Betty, the stage manager, places her hand on my back and gently nudges me to the hall where the dressing rooms are located. “You were wonderful, as always.” “Thank you, Betty.” I dredge up the last bit of a smile and offer it to her. “Can I bring you anything? Is your fridge stocked properly?” “I’m good. Thank you.” She leaves me to go the rest of the way by myself, down the corridor to the last door on the left. The door just before the emergency stairwell. I glance at it longingly, aware that it’s unlocked. There’s no need for Salomon Ochoa to take that security measure, just as he has no need to have a guard posted outside my dressing room or have an escort make sure I go straight there and don’t make a run for it. Why would there be when he has something much stronger than a lock or physical shackles to keep me his prisoner? He has my son. With a sigh, I look away and enter the dressing room I was assigned the day he plucked Cristian from school and made me his musical slave. It’s not that Salomon admires my talents. And although there’s always that salacious gleam in his eyes when he looks at me, it isn’t my body he wants either. No. With me, it’s the money. He saw an opportunity to make lots of it and took it. At least, that’s what