Somehow, to Clara, it was more surreal what César just said to her than her being that desperate to give him her own body, to have sex with him. That, in itself, should have been the peak of her shock, the most absurd, and yet it was nothing compared to the meaning of what César said.
It was more surreal than the fact of what had happened to her, more surreal than the memory of those men who had hurt her, more surreal than the whole situation she was in. And yet, even that, even the horror of it, was nothing in comparison to the idea that she was just asked to help a cartel leader settle in, literally help build none other than a cartel that would operate in the city.
The first cartel that was ready to operate in the city, in the capital, in a place where others had tried and failed. And she, Clara, was about to help César, the leader of that cartel, to start it off while she stood there naked, covered by only a white bedsheet, after she had wanted to give him her body.
