Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

His exasperation was nothing after what I’d endured with my father the day before. I crossed my arms. “We have to talk, Diego.”

Where our compound was a more traditional Spanish-style hacienda, Diego’s was sleek and modern. The single-story house was a third the size of Papá’s—not even counting our hundreds of hectares of land—but still a mansion for these parts with stacked stone columns, a flawlessly smooth, white exterior, and manicured bushes around the yard. He led me up the walkway to the front door. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows showcased a cloud-like, puffy leather couch, flat-screen TV, and brass-and-mirrored coffee table atop a neutral geometric-patterned rug—plus the armed men who guarded all of it.

“You can’t just show up, mi amor,” Diego said, opening the door. “That’s one way to get a bullet in your head.”

“I tried texting, calling, e-mailing—everything,” I said. “I miss you, and I’m tired of sitting around watching the clock tick down.”

“I know. I had to get rid of my last burner.” He shut the door behind us and dismissed a guard from the entryway. “I’ve been trying to make it to the house to see you. Because obviously, I miss you too—but it’s no excuse for putting yourself in danger.”

He was right. I was being stupid for love like my mother. Knowing I’d anger my father wasn’t enough to keep me away, though. He wanted to separate us, but that didn’t mean he got to. Nobody was immune to love or resistant to the blindness it could cause. I shrugged helplessly. “I’m in love’s grip.”

Finally, he opened his arms, and I walked into his embrace. “I’m in your grip,” he said, smoothing his hands down my backside. “I like this summery dress. Where are you supposed to be?”

“Shopping with Pilar.”

“And how did you get here?”

“A cab. Security will be looking for me.”

“Ay, Tali. If you don’t get me killed, you’ll give me a heart attack. I know Pilar is your best friend, but she’s weak. She will give you up.”

“She won’t,” I said. “She’s easily spooked, but loyal as they come.”

I needed to let her know I’d made it safely. We’d spent the morning in town, browsing the shops before an early lunch. We’d attended a service at the church—a gothic-style structure modeled after Spanish cathedrals with Oaxacan cantera verde stone and a domed bell tower. Saints looked over the altar from panels of floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows, centered by a Virgin Mary. It was one of the only places that reminded me of my mother without inflicting pain.

There were some things I missed about Mexico. Grand parades and festivals that shut down the town. Unbreakable loyalty that put family above all else. Goods made by hand with love and attention to detail I could never seem to find in the States.

And Diego, of course.

I craned my neck to look around the place where Diego both lived and conducted business. I hadn’t been anywhere the cartel operated aside from home and had only seen photographs and heard descriptions of safe houses, warehouses, and labs. “Can I have a tour?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “Someone could tell Costa.”

“So send them away. You’re the boss, aren’t you?”

He shook his head slowly. “I can’t. There’s too much work to be done.”

I played with the placket of buttons at his collar. The ribbed style of shirt only seemed to highlight his tanned neck and muscular pecs. “I’ve been worried.”

“I know, but this is different than sneaking around your own property in a flimsy costume.”

My mouth dropped open. “It wasn’t flimsy. Tepic didn’t even recognize me.”

He reproached me with a frown not unlike the one Papá had worn at breakfast the day before. “Ditching your security detail leaves you defenseless against anyone who might be looking for vulnerabilities in the Cruz family.”

I blinked up at him. “You said we no longer have enemies. Most of our rivals were incarcerated, overthrown, or died, and we never made new ones because we’re no longer competitors.”

“Don’t question that the Maldonados—or other cartels we do business with—know who you are. Our enemies won’t come looking for weak spots or collateral after a fuck-up—they already know who and where to strike to deliver the most pain.” He glanced through the entryway windows. “We especially have to be careful now that my brother’s back in town.”

“What happened when you and Cristiano met with my father during the party?”

Diego inhaled deeply. “How about that tour?” he teased.

I smiled. Because I was also curious about the house, I let him change the subject—for now. He walked me through the living area to a state-of-the-art kitchen with glossy, handleless cabinets and a black-quartz island square under a rack of hanging copper pots and pans.

He pulsed his eyebrows at me. “Want to see the bedroom?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

We linked hands, and he led me down a long hall to the master, a large but mostly bare room with a dresser under a TV, a walk-in closet, and two bedside tables. Dove-gray sheets rumpled his king bed. “Well, now I know—you sleep on the left side,” I said and grinned. “I sleep on the right.”