Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

Prologue

From my bedroom balcony, I danced to the upbeat mariachi music coming from the parade in town. Street fireworks popped and crackled to a soundtrack of trumpets and violins. I couldn’t see much beyond the fortress of olive trees surrounding the compound. They’d been planted after my first birthday party, when my father had been shot at in the backyard while holding me. The sicario had hit an inflatable bouncy castle instead, trapping kids inside and inciting a mob of screaming parents. That was what my best friend had told me, anyway, and Diego would know, since his parents had ordered the hit.

I waved to one of the guards, who tipped his AK-47 to me. I was supposed to be at the Day of the Dead parade now, honoring the deceased. Diego had promised me two slices of sugar skull cake if I went early and got a good spot, but since Papá was out of town with half his security, my mother didn’t want me leaving the premises without her. And as important as every man around here acted, she was the neck that turned the head of the Cruz cartel.

I went back inside to see why she was taking so long, twirling through the maze of hallways so the colorful, floral embroidery of my floor-length skirt ran together. Almost an hour ago, my mother had been nearly ready in an off-the-shoulder, white, green, and yellow dress with a red ruffle along the bottom. She’d pulled her hair back with silk, orange marigolds, and I’d stood on a stepstool to clasp her necklace, a starburst with gilded chains heavy enough to sink a small ship.

“We’re missing the parade,” I called as I skipped down the corridor, my woven leather sandals clicking on the tile. I rounded the corner into my parents’ sunny bedroom, tripped, and landed in a puddle.

A pair of combat boots stopped in front of me. I raised my eyes to meet the cold, distant gaze of a man dressed in all black—Cristiano de la Rosa, a high-level member of my father’s security team.

“Get out of here,” he ordered. “Now.”

Cristiano was all brawn, beast, and towering height with opaque eyes to match his hair. Based on the stories Diego had told me, people feared his older brother, but I had no real reason to. Though their parents had been enemies of ours once, Cristiano and Diego had been on our side for eight of the nine years I’d been alive.

Plus, Mamá had always told me—go to Cristiano in an emergency. He would protect me.

But something was off. He didn’t like me being here.

In one of his large, powerful hands, he held an army-green duffel bag. In the other, a solid black gun. Then, there was the blood—on his pants, splattered on his shoes and hands.

And on mine. Warm and sticky between my fingers, soaking through my fancy skirt. Not even its metallic smell could mask my mother’s signature perfume.

I looked over my shoulder. I hadn’t tripped over my own two feet, but hers. Mamá was lying on her back. Sunlight glinted off the large, gold necklace she’d bought for the parade. Her gleaming black hair was coming loose from its bun after she’d spent all that time pinning flowers in it. She shouldn’t be on the ground in her expensive new dress—it was already ripped at the neckline. The vibrant design almost hid what seeped through its fabric, pooling on the terracotta tile underneath her body.

Blood.

Goose bumps started at my scalp and spread to my fingers and toes. No.

Gasping for air, I scrambled to her side. “Mamá.”

Her lids eased open as she struggled to focus. “Natalia,” she managed.

My chin wobbled as I fought back tears and grasped her still-warm hand. A bruise formed on her cheek.

“Mija.” She fought to keep her eyes open, but they went glassy as her gaze shifted over my head. “Please, Cristiano,” she begged, her voice strangled. “Please don’t . . .” She shuddered with the effort. “My daughter . . .”

“I’m here,” I whispered, but she wasn’t talking to me.

I looked up at Cristiano. His jaw sharpened as he clenched it and turned his face away. “Sueña con los angelitos.”

Dream with little angels. When I turned back, she’d gone still.

“No,” I whispered.

Cristiano tossed the bag and gun onto the cloud-like comforter and reached for me. On instinct, I dove under the bed, knowing he’d be too big to follow—and came face to face with la Monarca Blanca. I wrapped my hand around the cold, hard metal of my father’s two-tone silver-and-gold-plated 9mm. Time slowed as I ran my thumb over the pearl grip where the name was engraved into the side.

White Monarch.

I choked back a sob. This was the kind of emergency I was supposed to go to Cristiano for, but he was the one standing over my mother’s dead body as she begged him for mercy.