Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

“But you have her grace.”

I swallowed. Regal was how my father often described her.

“And that determined look she often wore,” Barto added.

I didn’t doubt that. I wasn’t only home to spend time with my dad, catch up with friends, and celebrate Easter. I was here for Diego—my best friend and my love. The boy who knew all my secrets because he’d been there for many of them, if not physically, then a phone call away. But with the distance between us, we’d done enough talking for a lifetime. I couldn’t wait to just be close to him for the first time in a year.

Next summer, I’d be graduating, and I was dead set on having Diego in Santa Clara with me by then—permanently. But since my dad wanted the opposite, it would take some convincing.

Barto steered us up the long, winding drive lined with imported banana leaf trees. Men with AR-15s stood along the side of the dirt road, waving us on, smiling at me through the blacked-out windows.

Barto handled my luggage and sent me straight upstairs to see my father. At the threshold to Papá’s study at the south end of the mansion, I stopped when I heard his raised voice. “Do you have any idea the magnitude of what you’ve committed us to?”

“We can handle it.” When Diego spoke, a kaleidoscope of butterflies erupted in my stomach. “We’ve been refining our operation for over a decade, and it’s as close to perfect as it gets.”

“‘Close to perfect’ is not perfect,” came my father’s grave response.

“Nevertheless, we’re ready. With this partnership, we take things to the next level.”

I should’ve made my presence known. I’d found out at a young age that sneaking around was the only way to get information. Back then, it’d been exciting. Now, information was both powerful and burdensome. People who knew too much were targets. Witnesses. Leverage. The more you knew, the harder it was to escape this life.

And the more dangerous you became.

But my curiosity continued to burn the brightest flame, no matter how I tried to extinguish it. I resisted the old habit of removing my shoes to mute my steps, but I still peeked into the light-filled room, finally laying my eyes on Diego. He was as beautiful as ever. His normally silken brown hair had been kissed by the sun and was long enough to tuck behind his ears. He’d been working outdoors more, and it showed, not just in his skin tone and hair color, but in his broad, muscular shoulders. He stood straight and tall to address my father. I wanted to run and throw my arms around his neck, but Papá wouldn’t stand for it.

Patience, Diego had told me a million times before.

It had never been my strong suit.

“This is not a partnership.” Deep lines slatted across Papá’s tanned face. Each time I saw him, he appeared older, but his voice boomed, and his clear, molten brown eyes painted him as more youthful than his fifty years. He was as astute as ever, and his overbearing height defied how the bags under his eyes sometimes made him seem tired. “The Maldonado cartel is not a partner but a master,” he said. “With this deal, they’ll own us.”

I considered entering the room and cutting off the conversation, but the name stopped me short. Even I knew—and I made it my business not to know much anymore—doing business with the Maldonados was dangerous.

“Times have changed, Costa,” Diego said. “Eleven years ago, you reevaluated your business model, trading risk for security and violence for a quiet life—not that such a thing exists in this world. It’s time to adapt again.”

With my mother’s death, much had changed, and not just in the obvious ways. Father had scaled back his business as newer, more bloodthirsty cartels like the Maldonados had come up the ranks.

“My father would roll in his grave to know we’re not as feared as we once were,” my dad said, glancing out the window of his second-floor office.

Diego put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re still here, and we’re just as powerful, but in different ways.”

Diego spoke earnestly and with his hands. It was hard not to see his passion, intelligence, and charm, but that still wasn’t enough to convince Papá that Diego was the man for me. Nobody was good enough in my father’s eyes—especially not someone who belonged in this world. My father cared about Diego in his own way; he’d practically raised him. But unless I could convince him otherwise, Diego would always be a soldier, a right-hand man, a cartel member . . . and a threat to my safety.

“Many leaders of the old order have either been captured, killed, or forced out,” Diego continued. “Who of your former enemies remain? Not many. I’m going to ensure the Cruz cartel—and the de la Rosas—don’t fall to the same fate. We do that by moving forward with the times.”