The Moral Dilemma (War of Sins Book 5)
The Moral Dilemma: Chapter 2

IT TOOK him a few hours to get into the rhythm, but with a couple of instructions from Charles and other English-speaking prisoners, he got the hang of it and he stopped getting reprimanded by the guards.

He didn’t know how long they had worked until lunch was announced.

In the same queue as they’d come, they were led outside of the temple where someone was handing out food and water. Everyone found a spot on the ground to rest and eat. Unfortunately, there was no shade or any accommodation made for them.

The sun was blistering hot, the heat making him sweat profusely as he took a big swig of water. He followed Charles to a more secluded corner where they took a seat.

Everything was dry and dusty, and though he’d taken a shower just hours back, Rafaelo felt dirtier than before.

As they sat down, he swallowed hard against the discomfort in his bones, focusing on his food instead. But as he looked at the meal he’d been given, he quickly realized the difference with the others— the kidnapped, as Charles had called them. They got half the rations the others got. Their water alone wasn’t enough to hydrate a normal person, let alone one working in such conditions.

“That’s why they don’t last.” Charles nodded toward them.

They were skinnier, and generally in a worse shape than the others.

Rafaelo decided not to comment. Instead, he wolfed down his sandwich, nearly starved to death as he was. The drugs he’d been administered were still in his system, and he realized that he would be sluggish and otherwise dazed for a while longer until they flushed out completely.

Unfortunately, he was also aware that would put a strain on his body in addition to the hard work he was subjected to, so he ate as much as he could and downed three glasses full of water.

“Slower,” Charles advised. “You’ll get sick.”

“I doubt I can get any sicker,” Rafaelo muttered.

“Be careful with that mentality here, kiddo. It won’t hold,” Charles said as he munched on his food. “There’s always worse.”

“This el señor. Who is he?”

Charlie paused, swallowing his food.

“No one knows exactly.” He shrugged. “I assume he’s some drug lord. You know the type.” He said it so nonchalantly that Rafaelo could only stare at him.

“You don’t care that you’ve been here for over a year? Don’t you want to get out?”

“Oh, I will,” Charlie said as he took a swig of his water. “As long as I behave, I have six more months of work left and I’m out of here.”

“I don’t follow…” Raf frowned.

“If you behave, they might offer you an out,” Charlie explained. “It’s not a bad deal if you think about it.”

“What? They bought us to force us to work. How is that supposed to be a good deal?”

“Exactly. And if you behave, you’re not going to die or be sold off to someone else. It’s as simple as that. I’d rather I didn’t die, and I sure as hell don’t want to be sold again,” he muttered, lifting his shirt and pointing to a deep scar that ran across his stomach.

Rafaelo hadn’t noticed it before, or his mind had been too foggy to recognize what it meant.

“What did they take?” he asked in a low voice, swallowing uncomfortably as he realized there were still other ways he could be abused.

“Part of my liver,” Charles replied, shrugging.

The conversation shifted to Charles’ story and how he’d come to be at the hacienda. He and his family had been heavy in debt when he’d decided to sell his liver. In the process, he’d gotten involved with a gang that had sold him further when he’d been recovering from his surgery. Now he was simply biding his time, waiting until he would be freed to go back to his family.

After hearing how Charles had ended up at the hacienda, Rafaelo continued to ask questions about his new owner, though he found he couldn’t get much out of Charles.

Rafaelo realized fairly quickly he couldn’t trust the man—not when his only goal was to behave, so they would free him as promised. He couldn’t fault Charles for holding out hope for that, but Rafaelo doubted that someone who relied on forced labor would willingly set a slave free.

To what end would that be? To buy a new slave? That would cost them money, and Rafaelo was absolutely sure they wouldn’t spend any more than they had to.

He refrained from mentioning that to Charles though, focusing instead on himself.

He needed to gain strength first.

Though still not free, at least he wasn’t being fed drugs that messed with his mind on a daily basis. Now he could think clearly and use his brain to its full capacity. Maybe he was still weak physically, but if he approached things strategically, then he could train his body and gain endurance. Eventually, he would be in the best shape to escape.

He took another bite of his sandwich as he mulled over the issue at hand. Certainly, being on foreign soil would complicate his situation, but Rafaelo was determined to see a way out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement a bit further in the distance.

He slowed down his chewing as he squinted at the figure. He could only make out her contour, but he recognized it was a woman by the way the clothes hugged her curves. She had a perfect hourglass figure, though from that distance he couldn’t tell how tall she was.

Her hair flowed down her back, curling at the ends, the warm breeze blowing her locks around.

He couldn’t see her face from where he was, but he wondered if it was as perfect as the rest of her.

“You’re not listening,” Charles’ voice suddenly registered.

“Hm?” Rafaelo frowned, turning from Charles to the woman he’d just seen to see that she’d left. “There was someone there,” he said, and pointed into the distance. “A woman.”

“A woman?” Charles repeated, his brows bunching together as he mulled over his words. “Must have been Lucero. You’ll see her around here. A kinder woman I’ve never met.” He shook his head. “She sometimes helps us with food or medicine, or whatever she can smuggle. Everyone loves her,” he said with a smile.

Rafaelo’s brows went up in surprise.

“Lucero,” he repeated her name.

“Now don’t you get any ideas, young man.” Charles took on a fatherly tone, but Rafaelo doubted he was more than forty years old—though his worn out appearance gave that impression. “There’s an unspoken rule at the hacienda. All the women belong to el señor. It doesn’t matter if she’s a slave like us, or a servant. All of them belong to him.”

“What do you mean by belong?” Rafaelo asked, dread accumulating in the pit of his stomach as he understood the meaning far too well.

“It’s exactly what you’re thinking. Word is that he has an entire harem that he uses every night. He’s older than me, too. I don’t know how anyone could keep up with that,” he laughed.

Rafaelo’s lips curled around the corners, but not in amusement, in derision. He turned to look again at the place the woman had vacated, and though he wasn’t faring much better either, he couldn’t help but feel pity for her and her situation.

He’d been there. He’d experienced that. Despite doing his best to push everything to the back of his mind, the truth was that he remembered enough to drive anyone insane.

Armand had been a very particular man, with a very particular routine. He’d always denied being attracted to men, but that hadn’t stopped him from using Rafaelo as his whore. Ah, but of course, he’d always denied Rafaelo’s maleness, as if that made the entire situation better. By dressing him up in women’s clothes and hiding his genitals, he thought he could pretend he was fucking a woman instead of a man—all the while imagining it was his wife.

Though Rafaelo recognized how fucked up his experience with Armand had been, and that he’d had no fault at all in the entire debacle—he’d been too drugged out ninety percent of time to be able to even function as a human being—he couldn’t help but feel the weight of the memories he did have.

Armand had done his best to hide his masculinity, and he had no doubt that if he had not died when he had, he would have eventually decided to castrate Rafaelo. He would have never put such a thought besides Armand, not when he was too fanatic about the fact that he wasn’t fucking a man—he was fucking a woman. And so it wasn’t only the violation of his body that stayed with him, but also the violation of his identity and who he was at the core of his being.

Now, even dressed in those tattered clothes, his body aching from all the work, he couldn’t help but feel as though a big weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He was still a slave, yes. But he felt more like himself than he had in forever.

He was… him. Rafaelo. He just needed a little more time to get used to it.

The lunch break was soon over and work resumed. They spent time toiling inside the temple until the sun went down. Only then were they allowed to eat dinner and retire for the evening.

Rafaelo was surprised to see what his sleeping arrangements were.

A trailer fully packed with eight bunk beds, he was led to the last available one.

Everyone was too tired to make any small talk, so he followed their lead and settled in his bed, ready to go to sleep. It wasn’t too hard a feat to do since his lids became heavy, his body aching all over.

Yet despite the discomfort he felt in his bones, his mind was at peace.

The following day, Rafaelo was woken up just as the sun rose into the sky. Everyone took their place in the line as they headed to the showers before grabbing their tools and walking back to the temple.

It was going to be the same routine day after day, wasn’t it?

Yet, just as Rafaelo grabbed a hammer, he was stopped by a guard.

“Tu. Te vas conmigo.”

He frowned, but he didn’t reply. The fact that he knew Spanish could prove to be an advantage later on, which meant he shouldn’t make his captors aware of it.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t confused about what was happening though.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked in English, although he was aware that the likelihood of getting an answer was low.

They walked for more than ten minutes before they reached one of the most ostentatious houses Rafaelo had ever seen. It almost looked like a Renaissance Italian palace by the way it was constructed, the entire building large and majestic.

His eyes widened in awe as he was led to the kitchens, where someone finally explained to him in English that he was to work for a banquet the master was holding that day. His task was to serve the food to the guests and blend into the background.

Easy enough, Rafaelo thought to himself. Certainly, it was better than breaking his back working in the pyramid.

His arms were piled with food and he was sent on his way to the main room.

As he walked behind a procession of other servants, Rafaelo couldn’t help but be impressed by the magnificence of the place. Despite having been born in wealth, he’d never seen a more sumptuous house before—though house was a small word compared to what this place was.

He walked slowly, absorbing all of the details of the architecture, his eyes full of wonder, as he noticed a mix of traditional Mexican paraphernalia, his scholarly interest piqued by the various small items strewn around.

With a clearer mind, it finally dawned on him that the pyramid had the shape of one of the traditional Aztec temples he’d studied. He hadn’t been able to see the carvings in detail, since only a slew of people were ordered to work on those, but he promised himself next time he went there he would check them out.

Slowly, information flooded his brain as he remembered more from his previous life. His studies had centered around Aztec ceremonial items, particularly precious stones and other relics. But looking around, he realized the owner—the el señor people kept talking about—must have a fondness of his country’s pre-Columbian history. There was no other explanation for the various items he kept spotting. The most intriguing of all were the ceremonial masks hung on the walls and the amount of obsidian strewn around the house.

Every corner had a piece of obsidian, the material emitting a low shine when the sun hit it.

Rafaelo suddenly came to a halt as he realized the queue of servants had stopped.

Music echoed through the hallways as he tilted his head to the side to study the inside of the room, curious what could have made everyone pause.

His mouth fell open as he took in the lavishness of the room. It was bathed in gold, with flowers strewn around everywhere. To the right side, a mariachi band played a lively song, while the guests mingled on the left side.

Everything looked positively ancient, from the people’s way of dress to their mannerisms, and Rafaelo found himself fascinated by the entire display.

Yet more than anything, something else stole his attention.

In the center of the room, serving as a divide between the other two sides, were two gilded thrones. The metal shone when a beam of sunlight hit it, and Rafaelo could bet it was real gold.

They have slaves. Of course it must be gold.

As he slowly advanced, Rafaelo got a better look at the two people sitting on the thrones. One was a man who looked to be in his fifties or sixties. He had a bored look on his face as he tapped his fingers against the seat, his eyes scouring his surroundings for something.

Next to him was a woman—a much younger woman, for she couldn’t be more than twenty.

Yet as Rafaelo’s gaze landed on her face, he froze.

His limbs became heavy as his eyes were riveted to her face.

God… He didn’t think he’d ever seen a more beautiful sight.

She had an olive complexion, with freckles dotted over the bridge of her nose, spreading to her chiseled cheeks. Her eyes were big and expressive, one moment brown, the next green, the switch in color as seamless as it was enthralling. Big, black lashes framed her almond-shaped eyes, giving her a cat-like look that was both seductive and innocent at the same time. Her full lips were painted red, looking puffy and pouty and Rafaelo was forced to swallow hard as sweat suddenly beaded on his forehead.

She was wearing a red dress embroidered with gold thread, her hair tied back into a tight bun.

Had he ever seen a more beautiful woman? He didn’t think so. Not when he found he could not move as he simply stared at her and the gracefulness of her movements.

His eyes followed her hand as it reached in the air and made a light sway before the mariachi band suddenly stopped playing. At the same time, the queue started moving as food was being served.

Rafaelo willed his feet to follow, but every step felt heavier and heavier as he neared the center of the room.

He kept staring at her, almost as if he mentally willed her to look at him, foolishly thinking that something might happen the moment their gazes met.

Yet just as he lost himself to the sight of her, he didn’t realize when one of the guards intervened, grabbing him by the arm and bringing him to the front. He tripped, barely holding onto the tray of food so nothing would spill over.

His breath labored, he felt confused as he couldn’t understand what was happening.

It was only when he slowly raised his gaze that he realized he was right in front of the throne. So close… So…

For a moment he didn’t dare look up. But as he followed the contours of her dress, he couldn’t help but feel a foreign impetus to lift his head.

Up close, she was even more beautiful. Her skin was luscious, something of an unnatural glow emanating from her—or maybe it was just his ailed mind. He only knew that as he continued to look at her, he found himself in her thrall.

And then, at last, their eyes met. Hers fluttered in shock, while his flared in surprise.

His mouth formed a small o as a current of electricity coursed throughout his body. For a moment he had to wonder if he was not still under the influence of the drugs, for his limbs felt heavy and languid, his heart thudding mercilessly in his chest.

He couldn’t move.

No matter how much he willed his limbs to obey, he found he could only stare at her, almost as if an eternity passed in the span of that one second.

The man by her side leaned in to whisper something into her ear and her mouth slowly parted just as her features tightened. Rafaelo couldn’t hear anything that was being said. Despite the fact that the band had stopped playing, the room was still full of raucous laughter and gossip, people chatting with each other in the corner.

The man’s lips moved as he continued to say something to her, and by the sight of her body language—especially as she tightly gripped the gilded armrest—Rafaelo suspected she didn’t like whatever she heard.

Something flared deep within him, and for a moment, he forgot all about his circumstances or the fact that he was a mere slave. He forgot he didn’t have his own bodily autonomy as he felt the urge to act—destroy everything that made her uncomfortable.

His own hands clenched around the plate he was holding as he felt a spur of movement.

He took one step closer.

In his mind, he already saw the outcome, though he couldn’t even imagine the consequences of his disobedience. But in that moment, his only purpose was to help her—get her away from that man and save her. Ironic, considering it was he who needed saving most of all.

Yet as he saw the discomfort settle in her features, all he knew was that he needed to act.

He needed to…

He only managed to take another step before a loud crack resounded in the air and shards of porcelain fell to the ground.

Red liquid dripped to the floor, and it was with a delay that he realized it was coming from him.

He blinked once. Twice. Bringing his hand to his head, he realized he’d been hit, a gash forming under his fingertips.

With a questioning in his gaze, he turned towards her. Yet it was her expression that cut him to his core. That, and the fact that he belatedly realized it had been her who’d thrown the plate at him.

She gave him a look that spoke more than a million words, her eyes disdainful, her entire countenance haughty and condescending.

He swayed on his feet, lightheaded and too shocked for words.

But if he could still replace her excuses for her behavior, as he noted another attendant come to her, leaning in to listen to her command.

She spoke in a low voice, and he only saw her lips moving before someone yelled in Spanish.

“Que alguien tire la basura!” Someone throw out the trash!

Trash.

He was the trash.

And as her lips spread into a slow, malevolent smile, he wondered how he could have mistaken her beauty for something that it wasn’t.

How could he have been so captivated by pure evil?