Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

“The de la Rosas don’t exist,” Father said, warning in his voice as he regarded Diego with heavy eyebrows. “You’re a Cruz. And while I know our success is as important to you as it is to me, there’s risk in wanting more. There’s much to be said for stability.”

“With new technology hitting the market each day, there’s more risk in staying still. We’re number one in shipping and logistics now, but that can always change.”

I leaned on the doorjamb, worried Diego was into something he shouldn’t be. If I asked either of them why they’d taken a meeting with the Maldonados in the first place, I’d get the same answer I always did.

Don’t worry. Todo bien. Everything’s fine.

My father rubbed his forehead as he frowned. “And making a risky deal is moving forward?”

“We’ll deliver,” Diego said, crossing his arms with a shrug. “Their requirements are no different than any of our other arrangements. They have a valuable shipment to get across the border. As the premier transportation option in México, we can make that happen. Simple.”

“The difference is who we’re dealing with. How much product are we moving?”

“More than we’re used to,” Diego admitted. “But I’m not concerned. As other cartels distract themselves battling each other, we’ve solidified a nearly flawless, strategic network. I’ve assured them an eighty-seven percent success rate.”

“Eighty-seven, eh?” Papá asked, slipping on his glasses to bend over and read his computer screen.

“Lower than our stellar average,” Diego said, pulling back his shoulders. “We’ve delivered better results countless times, and in less than the twenty-one days they’ve given us.”

“And after that?”

“We make a more permanent arrangement,” Diego said. “With the rate they’re growing, their business could take us to the next level.”

“I’ve been at that level,” Dad said. “It’s dangerous up there.”

“But those who were once your competitors are now your customers. You’ve neutralized.” Diego stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced out one of the study’s wide windows. “We’ll use the income the Maldonado deal generates to expand.”

Papá grunted. “You didn’t say how much we have to move.”

“Two-hundred million in product in three weeks.”

My father straightened up. “That’s almost four times what we normally do.”

“The amount doesn’t matter as much as—”

Papá held up a hand for Diego to stop when he saw me leaning in the doorway. “Mija,” he called, removing his glasses and opening his arms. “Ven aquí.”

He shut his laptop as I went to him, then surrounded me in a strong, protective embrace.

Over his shoulder, I met Diego’s gaze. His face had been pinched, but it eased as his eyes cleared to emerald green. Neither video chatting nor photos did the color of them justice. “Welcome home,” he mouthed.

Home. It had been once, but I found no comfort in the word now. Diego schooled his expression for my dad, but I knew him well enough to read his happiness to see me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, reluctantly tearing my eyes from Diego to look up at Papá. “You were arguing.”

“Not at all. Don’t worry.” He kissed the top of my head, then turned to Diego. “Leave us.”

Diego didn’t flinch, though I knew the dismissal hurt. He yearned for my dad’s respect, but I could see age and experience had not fully earned him it. Yet. I didn’t doubt my father would one day see what I did, but I also knew it pained Diego that the approval he’d so desperately sought since his own father’s death continued to elude him.

I hoped during this trip I’d be able to open my dad’s eyes to who Diego really was—a sensitive, creative man who’d been trapped by circumstance. My father wanted me out of this life, and I wanted that too, but to Papá, Diego was this life. I had to show him the potential Diego had outside of it.

With a short bow and a brief, promising wink in my direction, Diego exited the room.

My father took my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. Qué bella. Turn for me.”

“Papá.” I blushed. “Please.”

“I don’t get to see you often enough and want to commit every visit to memory.”

“We were together at Christmas.”

“But that was in California, not here, where I watched you grow up. Indulge your old man.”

Rolling my eyes playfully, I turned in a circle. “All my limbs intact as previously reported,” I said. “Fingers and toes too.”

“Your hair has grown. Do they not have salons in Santa Clara?”

I smiled. “Of course, but long hair is always in style.”

“You’re taller too, no? You get that from me.”

I had taken after my father’s side of the family and was the tallest of my girlfriends at five-foot-seven. He was a sturdy six-foot-two, my grandpa even taller, which had suited his far more menacing temperament.

Father liked to tell the story of an eighteen-year-old girl named Bianca who’d flown down from northern Mexico “like a migrating butterfly.” She’d come for a cousin’s quinceañera and stayed for love, caught in his net by the time dessert was served.