Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

As Cristiano passed me on his way toward the house, he stalled. “I’ll see you to your bedroom if you like,” he said so only I could hear.

The suggestive offer, not made out of graciousness, made me think of our tango. Or perhaps it was more appropriate to call it a mind game than a dance. It was becoming clear Cristiano liked to play. With Father demanding his presence and Barto watching on, I was safe. Instead of cowering at his suggestion, I called his bluff and offered my elbow as I would to an escort. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s go indeed,” he said with a hint of a smirk before he walked off with Diego and Barto.

Apparently, my discomfort amused him—but so did my fight.

That didn’t surprise me.

Cristiano would pinch a butterfly’s wings together just to watch her struggle.

7

Natalia

Aromas of coffee and cinnamon-raisin toast preceded the pop of a toaster as I entered the open, airy kitchen. Papá sat at the breakfast counter with a newspaper as Paz filled a mug with spicy café de olla from an orange enamel pot.

“Buenos días, Natalia,” Paz said as she served him.

“¿Cómo está?” I greeted, pulling my damp hair into a ponytail so it wouldn’t get my t-shirt wet. Despite my shower, I still had flecks of glitter embedded into my hairline and arms.

Paz responded and nodded at my father’s half-eaten plate of eggs and pico de gallo and asked if I was hungry, but my stomach was still uneasy from the night before. When I told her that, she got a warm can of Coke Light for me.

“Good morning, mi amor.” My father held up the front page to show me a picture of himself with the governor and his wife. Lower down the page, Papá shook hands with the head Calavera himself. I couldn’t even bring myself to think the devil’s name. “You wouldn’t believe the morning’s headlines,” he said. “Everyone says it was a great party.”

No mention of the murder within its walls? Whatever “journalists” had been in attendance should be stripped of the designation.

“¿Hace mucho calor, no?” he asked.

With his complaint about the heat, Paz set to work opening windows.

Papá sipped his coffee as I stared at his scabbed knuckles and slightly swollen right hand, remembering how he’d gripped the gun. I knew he’d killed before as sure as I knew my own name. That was no surprise. But to see it with my own eyes, and so carelessly, like plucking an orange off a tree or tossing aside a piece of junk mail. No warning or word of acknowledgment.

A breeze passed through the room, alleviating the heat. “I saw what you did,” I said.

“Hmm?” He looked up at me. “What?”

“Last night, at the party. I was there.”

He stared at me a moment, then stood and carried his silverware and plate of eggs across the kitchen. He threw them in the sink with a clatter. “Goddamn it, Natalia.”

“Why?” I asked.

He turned to the maid as she tried to salvage the cracked dish. “Gracias, Paz.”

She hurried from the room.

When it came to me, my father’s bark was much worse than his bite. I stood my ground. “How could you let that monster back into our lives?” I asked.

“I was going to talk to you today. I didn’t want you to find out that way,” he said. I knew his scolding frown all too well. “I told you not to go to the party. You defied me.”

“If I hadn’t, I’d be reading lies for headlines.” I picked up his picture with Cristiano and thrust it toward him. “My father, shaking hands with my mother’s murderer? How were you going to explain this?”

“With the truth.” He came back for his coffee, took the paper from me, and looked at the photo. “Cristiano is innocent.”

“It’s impossible.” My voice broke, but I did my best to swallow down my grief. If I got emotional, his instinct to protect me would prevent him from sharing anything beyond the fundamentals. “Cristiano killed her, stole from us, and left me in a tunnel to rot.”

“I should belt you for doubting me. My father would’ve,” he said without any conviction. From my grandfather, that threat would’ve scared me. He’d had a temper. My dad wasn’t like that, though.

“Is he blackmailing you?” I asked.

He put down the newspaper and slid his toast toward him. “No—”

“Papá.” I pleaded with him. “Tell me the truth. What does Cristiano have on you?”

“Nothing.” Leaning one hand on the counter, he took a bite, then tossed the remaining bread back on the plate as if he couldn’t stomach it. “And spreading a rumor like that makes me vulnerable, so watch your mouth.”

“What is it then?” I asked, undeterred.

He sighed into his coffee. “If you’d let me get a word in, I’d tell you. You’re like your mother, storming in here yelling at me for things I didn’t do.”