Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

“So I ask you again,” Costa said. “Are things going to get worse for Natalia?”

I shook my head, looking into my glass. “No, señor.”

“Good. As for your brother,” he said. “He wants to help.”

“And you don’t wonder why?” I asked.

Costa sucked his teeth, charting Cristiano from across the restaurant as he made a call on the patio. “No. Because he is grateful I have welcomed him back to his home,” he said. “Finish your drink. Then go and express your gratitude for your brother’s offer to help.”

Cristiano wasn’t here to help. He was here to hurt. Or worse . . .

No doubt he thought I’d turned my back on him eleven years ago and blamed me for everything he’d lost. It occurred to me that I hadn’t even considered the worst Cristiano could do.

It was true that by saving my Maldonado deal, he’d get credit for it, win back Costa’s favor, and potentially replace me. I’d assumed that was the fastest way for him to get everything he wanted.

But perhaps I’d been looking at the wrong side of the coin.

He could sabotage the deal instead.

If it failed . . . the Maldonados would see to my demise quickly and swiftly. Cristiano wouldn’t even have to get his hands dirty.

And I’d be removed from the picture entirely.

10

Natalia

Art belonged to my mother. Trying to read brushstrokes or create my own wasn’t something I understood. I learned about the world from books or travel, found nature by cantering a horse, and studied history by passing on legends through corridos—Mexican ballads.

Art, to me, was living in the world, not observing it. Floating on my back in the ocean on a hot day, finding shapes in the clouds. My aunt’s laugh when my nephew took a bite straight out of his birthday cake and came up with a face full of icing. Art lived in people.

It was the way one look from Diego could warm me to my core.

My mom’s studio spanned the top floor of the house. With a glass dome in the center and large corner windows facing southwest, it had the best light.

When I was younger, I’d hide in here to see how long it would take Diego to find me. We’d dip our hands in paint and make colorful prints on the tarp Mamá had put down. But most commonly, we’d look at the constellations with a telescope, our own private planetarium.

All the paint and easels had been removed, but the telescope sat on the deck. Tonight, I opened the doors and windows and watched the sun set while I waited for Diego.

When tires crunched dirt, I jumped up and leaned over the rail. A convoy of three cars kicked up dust as they wound up the driveway and parked out front. Cristiano and Diego got out, moving almost lethargically up the walk until my father stepped out to meet them. It was strange, after all this time, to see Cristiano and Diego casually standing next to each other. I leaned out farther to try to piece together their conversation.

“. . . forty-eight hours.”

“No word . . . Maldonado.”

“Antes de que salgas . . .”

Before you leave? My heart dropped at the thought of Diego disappearing again when I hadn’t seen him in three days. As if sensing my anguish, he looked up, met my eyes, and winked discreetly. I watched until they moved inside. As tempted as I was to run downstairs, I waited where I was, knowing Diego would come to me.

Paciencia should’ve been my second name—it was all I seemed to do. Wait. Bide my time. Bite my tongue. A sitting duck, as Americans said.

I killed time by peering through the telescope, but it wasn’t dark enough to see much yet. Eventually, the door to the studio opened. I sprang to my feet, hurrying across the wood floors to meet Diego. He caught me in his arms and lifted me for a kiss.

“Why have you stayed away so long?” I rushed out in a whisper, even though we were alone. “I’m set to fly home in a week.”

“I’m sorry, Talia. I haven’t had such a bad week in recent history. I shouldn’t be up here, but I texted because I needed to see you, even for a moment, to get me through.” He set me on my feet and gripped my waist. “But if your father catches me here, he’ll put you on the next flight out of México.”

“He wouldn’t. Easter is Sunday.”

“Believe me, he would.”

Papá wouldn’t ruin our holiday for that reason. I touched the brown, coarse stubble on Diego’s face. He stank of alcohol, sweat, and cigars, but I was comforted just to be in his presence. “Where have you been? Have you even slept?”

“No.” He loosened his already sagging tie. “We went to the city for dinner last night, then flew back and worked through to just now.”