Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

“Monsters,” I’d told her.

I hadn’t noticed Cristiano, who’d been patrolling the property, standing in the dark doorway, until my mother had turned to him. “Are there monsters here, Cristiano?” she’d asked.

“Yes,” he’d said gravely. “But they’ll never hurt Natalia.”

My little heart had raced as fresh tears had filled my eyes. “How do you know?” I’d asked him.

“Because I’m here to protect you,” he’d answered. “And I’m scarier than any monster.”

Cristiano had chased away the monsters under the bed until he’d become one.

And Diego was the light.

“Will your nightmares return?” Diego asked.

Not wanting to worry him, I’d told him I didn’t have them while at school since they were less frequent and less frightening. Now that I was home, I expected they’d return, but there was nothing he could do about that, so I shook my head.

If I had my way, I’d be on a plane back to California before my nightmares could even catch up with me.

But I knew from experience—I could never completely outrun them.

3

Natalia

Under a starry sky, I made my way from the house, crossing the damp back lawn in heels. Lit from within, the ballroom shimmered like a golden paradise to welcome the state’s elite. Town cars and limos lined the curved driveway, inching forward to meet the valet. Fountains out front glowed sky-blue, the water shimmering as it reflected hundreds of strung lights. It was how I imagined the gates of heaven—down to the large men in suits and earpieces guarding the entrance and scrutinizing invitations.

Unfortunately, I had to use heaven’s back door. Security was heaviest at events like these. Armed men patrolled the perimeter of the property, keeping certain criminals out and others in. The main house was off-limits.

I took cover in the garden between the house and ballroom, crouching behind a fountain with a statue of Poseidon.

Your curiosity is an affliction, my father had often said to me. And there’s no cure, I’d teased him. Being forbidden from the party was like being sent from the dinner table as a girl when conversations had turned to business. Or like when my father had put up a fence in our backyard to keep me from exploring the grounds beyond the trees. Most of the time, finding ways around the blockades was more fun than whatever lay on the other side.

Once one of the guards had turned back the way he’d come, I hurried through the courtyard. Intricate, lifelike butterfly wings, strapped over a black bodysuit, flapped at my back. My best friend, Pilar, had been too skittish to sneak in with me, but I’d convinced her to help me make an elaborate black-and-orange eye mask with feathers and glitter before streaking blonde extensions through my hair. She’d then clipped handmade, delicate monarch butterflies throughout my curls.

Full costume required. It’d been printed there on the invitation, and from what I’d heard and glimpsed of these parties, anything less than an extravagant, costly costume, and I’d stick out.

“Alto,” I heard behind me. I stopped and turned as a guard approached. “¿Qué hace?”

I swallowed and disguised my voice with my best North American accent. “¿Hablas inglés?”

“You are not permitted here,” he said in broken English. “¿Invitación?”

I pulled a sharp-cornered card from my pocket and handed it over. I’d looked at the guest list earlier to forge an invite with the names of one of the few attending couples from the States.

“Señor Matthewson?” the guard asked.

“Husband.” I flashed a small diamond ring one of my uncles had gifted me at my quinceañera. “Inside. Waiting.”

He picked up his two-way radio, but as he was about to speak, a voice came through asking for security at the front. He handed me back the invitation. “Adelante. Quédate en la fiesta.”

Stay at the party. I continued around the side of the house. A Playboy bunny with red lipstick and a cigarette held open the door for me on her way out, and I entered the hall to “Walk Like an Egyptian.” As my eyes adjusted to the glittering affair, waiters circled with trays, passing between rooms. To my right, disco music vibrated the chandeliers that looked as if they’d been dipped in gold and crystals and hung to dry.

Belly dancers rippled through the crowd. Walking toward the main hall, I crossed the imported Moroccan tile Mamá had bought on a trip to Africa, hypnotized as a heavyset man took the stage for an emotional aria.

Partygoers showed off their costumes—a black vinyl catsuit that hugged every curve. Cleopatra in a metallic leotard with layers upon layers of necklaces over her breasts, her gold-plated nipples poking through. A bare-chested Tarzan with nothing but a cloth covering his genitals. Marie Antoinette walked in on the arm of Two-Face. Even some of the security guards wore painted masks or had gold-plated machine guns.

A waiter stopped and lowered his tray for me. It wasn’t canapes or mini quiche as I would’ve thought but an assortment of pills and powder. Growing up in the world of drugs, I had little interest in them, so I opted for a fizzing drink instead. With a sip, bubbles tickled my mouth and made me smile.