“True, prisoners don’t generally have many rights.”
He rose to his feet and his palm slapped the table. “You don’t know the first thing about my business, and you haven’t made any honest effort to learn. You see what you want to see and believe rumors without substantiating them. I won’t indulge that behavior.”
Despite the menacing way he towered over me, triumph surged through me. Finally, an honest reaction. One that gave me more insight into this man. The fact that this was a sore spot for him confirmed what Diego had said.
Cristiano was just twisted enough to believe he was different from his father. He considered himself the hero of his story.
“Another rule that may need reiterating,” he started.
“I already know what you’re going to say.” Don’t question me. Don’t snoop. Mind your own business.
I’d heard it in one form or another as long as I could remember, but this situation was different. My life and my future might depend on my ability to learn my surroundings—and the man standing in front of me—inside out.
He arched an eyebrow, regaining his composure. “Please—enlighten me.”
“All the regular cartel stuff. Don’t touch anything of yours, don’t explore the house or eavesdrop or talk to the staff.”
“You can do all of that,” he said.
“Really?” Let’s see if he felt that way when I tried each of them while he was away.
“You’re free to roam and to talk to whomever you want,” he said, “as long as the person is comfortable with it—which Jaz was not the night you got here.”
I continued my list, ticking off items on my fingers. “Don’t challenge you—”
“I invite you to.”
“—or drink your two-thousand-dollar-a-bottle liquor—”
His eyebrow quirked. “Costa’s rule no doubt.”
“—and don’t share sensitive information or repeat anything I hear or see—”
“Well.” The air shifted as something cold passed over his face, and he inclined his head, leaning over me. “Sensitive or otherwise, no information leaves these walls. None. That’s not a rule, it’s a way of life, and I’d assumed it would go without saying. You can eavesdrop all you like because I know you understand—opening your mouth would be a death sentence.”
I hadn’t told Diego anything, but my throat still constricted thinking about the phone upstairs. I laced my fingers in my lap, squeezing them together as I held his gaze. “I wouldn’t.”
“And none of those are what I was going to say anyway,” he said, smoothing his hand down the front of his shirt. “You will be at my dinner table and in my bed every night. Even when I’m not here. If ever the day comes when you’re missing from either, I’ll assume you’re gone.”
I blinked up at him a few times, recalling his same words from the night before. “That’s a rule?”
“It’s the rule, sweet butterfly,” he said. “If you’re not at my table or in my bed, I’ll have no choice but to assume you left.”
“I can’t even step off the property,” I pointed out.
“Can’t and shouldn’t are two different things. I haven’t chained you to a post. If you want to leave, you’ll find a way—as those who are whip smart and resourceful tend do. You’ve been honing those traits since childhood.”
To my dismay, I blushed. Whip smart? Resourceful? Papá hadn’t thought so. More like disobedient and sneaky. Or stealthy, as Diego had called me.
Cristiano set one hand on the table next to me and the other on the arm of my chair. No, he hadn’t chained me up, but his body trapped me now. A powerful frame that acted as a reminder that my husband could flip at any moment and take what he wanted from his wife.
“I don’t think I need to repeat myself,” he said, “but I will so there’s no confusion. If you fly away, so does my protection. I said I wouldn’t set the Maldonados, or whoever else holds a grudge against your family, on the people you love—but I’ve been known to change my mind.”
I’d grown too comfortable today. My stomach fluttered with fear but also with a sense of satisfaction. This was more like it. Now, he was treating me the way I’d expected, and it made more sense than serving me a four-course dinner garnished with memories of Mamá.
His threats weren’t idle. I’d always known of his ruthlessness. But for some reason, he seemed to be holding back with me, and that only confused my time here. Hoping to provoke him to see if he even knew how far he’d go, I asked, “What does it mean to change your mind?”
By the way his bloodless knuckles curled on the table, my prodding worked. “Let’s work through this, shall we? I could set them loose like a rabid dog in a chicken coop. They’d snap the old rooster’s neck—that’s Papá to you—and tear chicken-shit little Diego limb from limb. They’d definitely knock Barto off his high horse and obliterate all the men who’d ever breathed a word near your father, including townspeople. Maybe even Pilar. Definitely your mother’s family at their farm north of here.”