Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

And my mother too.

But as he’d said—you couldn’t trust anyone in this world. Not even your own blood.

“Do it,” he invited.

Based on what I’d seen, I was pretty sure in order to shoot, I first had to slide the top of the gun toward me. But the firearm itself was so heavy, I needed both hands to keep it steady. I glanced at the top part to determine the best way to do this.

“Never hesitate, Natalia.” Cristiano snatched the pistol from me and pressed the muzzle to my forehead. “See? Bang. You’re dead.”

My breath caught in my throat. I was dead. Defenseless. Shivering like the little girl I was.

“And never draw a weapon you can’t operate. When you aim, kill.” He flicked a switch on the side, stuck the gun back in his pants, and grabbed me.

“Stop,” I cried and pushed against him as he hugged me to his chest with his arm.

“Hold on.” One-handedly, he quickly descended the ladder.

Instinctually, I wrapped my arms around his neck. He was the furthest thing from a safe place, but in that moment, I was no longer concerned with being brave. I was trapped. I gave into my fear, submitting to the warmth of his body, sobbing into his neck as he descended into the dark.

“Is there another key to the secret door?” he asked.

I sniffled. “My father keeps it on him.”

“He’s probably already on his way,” Cristiano said, almost consolingly. “They’ll find you eventually, Natalia. This is the only way I’ll be able to put enough distance between them and me.”

It was cold and black at the bottom. I shivered uncontrollably as he reached the final rung of the ladder and jumped the rest of the way. Never go down if you don’t have to, Father had said. You won’t be able to reach the ladder to get back up.

This was it. I was at Cristiano’s mercy now.

On solid ground, he took a few slow steps, feeling for a wall. When he found one, he squatted. “Sit here,” he said. “Don’t move until they come for you.”

I didn’t let go of his neck. The scent of his sweat and my tears mixed with the soil around us. I’d never been worried about the dark before, but I couldn’t even see my own hand.

“What if nobody comes?” I asked.

“They will. And by that time, I’ll be long gone.” He pulled at my arms. “You’re brave. Let go.”

I released him. The next thing I heard was his retreating footsteps. I sat against the wall, wrapped my arms around my knees, and held my breath. Tears flooded my eyes, overflowing onto my cheeks.

I’d always known the love and protection of my parents and their titles. Being the daughter of one of the most powerful drug lords in Mexico meant I’d been in danger since the day I was born—and also sheltered from everything.

No longer.

As the threat of Cristiano receded, I was left alone in the dark with the realization that my mother had kissed my cheek and tucked me in for the last time. Her lyrical voice would never again lull me to sleep and end each night with, “Te quiero mucho, mariposita.” There would be no more of her famous homemade “Talia taffy” for the rest of my birthdays, no more riding horses into town to shop for fabric or spices.

That morning, impatient to go, I’d hugged her waist and asked her to hurry up as she’d done her makeup. Now, I wished only to stay with her a little longer. I wished for more time.

But the parade was over.

Death’s day had come.

1

Natalia

Eleven years later

I ducked out of the helicopter and into dry desert air as the blades whipped wind through my hair. My father’s head of security offered a hand and helped me down. “Bienvenida a casa, señorita,” Barto called over the whir of the rotors.

Welcome home.

The pilot carried my bags to a black Suburban waiting on the tarmac. Somehow, the Mexican heat felt stronger than in California, the sun intense and unforgiving. I slipped my sunglasses into place and followed Barto to the car.

“How’s it feel to be back?” he asked.

No words could properly convey it. Leaving home for a boarding school in the United States had been my choice, but Father would’ve shipped me off even if it wasn’t. I both dreaded and anticipated coming here. California was safe, clean, easy. Nothing like this place, where danger haunted the streets. It was the thought of seeing Diego that lifted any sense of dread that came with getting into a car headed for home.

Barto glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “If I can say so, you look more and more like señora Cruz each time I see you.”

I had my mother’s light eyes, and her small, sharp nose, but our physical similarities stopped there. “I’m more like my father,” I said.