Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

It was a great responsibility—one neither of us would take lightly. It came with risk. Already, fear bloomed in me in a new way knowing what I did of this life and what emotional attachments could bring. Cristiano and I had both lost parents early on. I didn’t want that possibility for my child, but it was the life we lived.

And I had the greatest man in the world to lean on. I would be that same support for him.

As he did everything else with unrivaled passion, fervor, and heart—so would he do fatherhood. This child would know the greatest love from both its parents.

“Ready to head over to the parade?” he asked.

I nodded. First, we would celebrate my mother’s life, along with everyone expecting visits from their loved ones on this, the Day of the Dead.

And then we would rejoice in the gift of life growing inside me.

* * *

We rode through the parade on the last float, the grand finale—a skeleton in a tuxedo with a cigar stuck in one side of its mouth. Cristiano and my father each puffed on his own Montecristo as Papá grumbled about the obligation of his presence, even as he waved and smiled. Secretly, he was pleased by the honor.

Sugar skulls in white and black danced around us, while ladies dressed as La Catrina twirled in colorful dresses, and masked men on the floats gestured with both hands to get the crowds to cheer.

A woman smiled at Cristiano, swaying her hips as she circled him. He winked at me.

We crawled along the main road of shops, fruit carts, and mercados advertising cigarettes and Coca-Cola.

“I’m going to send the kid to get me a mezcal,” my father said as fine, white, cinnamon-scented cigar smoke wafted into the wind.

“Gabe is working,” I reminded him.

“He’s hopeless with a rifle. Should’ve been Barto up here.”

I glanced down at Gabriel Valverde, his gun at the ready as he rode on the lower tier of the float. Cristiano hadn’t protested when I’d been asked to join my father in the parade, but being out in the open at any time made him anxious.

“I’m trying to build Gabriel’s confidence, and Barto has no shortage of that,” I said, smiling down at where Gabriel was stationed below us, out of earshot. “He’s improved a lot. Can’t you see how much stronger he looks?”

“The kid is a genius.” Father had been reluctant to accept a Valverde in his life, and still wouldn’t call him anything other than “kid” or “boy,” but at least he recognized his talent. “He should be in front of a computer. You need his brain indoors, not splattered all over a papier-mâché skeleton.”

He had a point.

Both Barto and Cristiano had made the same argument—and even though it’d been the only thing they’d agreed on in a while, I’d put my foot down. The parade was the perfect opportunity to show Gabriel how much I believed in him. With Barto somewhere patrolling the street, every overprotective man in my life was within a fifteen-meter radius. I’d never felt safer.

A fizzy drink did sound pretty good, though, considering my stomach had been so uneasy. I touched my hand to it briefly. “I’ll go get you the mezcal,” I said. “An iced horchata sounds perfect anyway.”

“Better than a warm Coca Light?” Cristiano asked. “Since when?”

My cheeks warmed. My body was experiencing new and unusual things. “Just a craving for something different,” I said.

“Oh . . .?” He arched an eyebrow. “A craving?”

I raised to the balls of my feet and kissed his cheek before he could follow whatever train of thought was forming in his mind. “I’ll be right back.”

“You stay.” He reached by me to put down his cigar. “I’ll go.”

“Stay here and enjoy your cigar,” I said and gave him a scolding look. “It’ll be the last one you have for a while.”

When I’d learned of Cristiano’s indigestion, I’d made him stop smoking, limited him to a couple drinks a week, and had been working with Fisker on healthier meal recipes that didn’t make Cristiano want to skip straight to dessert.

But it was a special day.

I picked up my purse from where I’d stowed it, put it over my shoulder, and started to walk away when a hand at my elbow drew me back. I turned around to reassure Cristiano I’d be fine, but when I met his eyes, there was only a spark of excitement in them.

He raised them to the sky. “Look.”

A small kaleidoscope of monarch butterflies fluttered over our heads. “Papá,” I called, and he ambled over to us, following our gazes.

The monarch migration passed through during early November—like now, on All Souls’ Days, when the deceased came to visit the living. That was why monarchs were believed to hold the spirits of the departed. It happened every year, but it was never any less special to believe Mamá was with us. On my wedding day, I’d thought her presence a warning. I now knew it had been approval. I put my hand over my stomach. Today, she returned to bless me and my unborn child.