Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

I left Cristiano on the deck with Max as Alejandro escorted me onto the modern-day pirate ship. It was only missing flags with skulls and crossbones—but the Calavera presence was everywhere.

We found my father standing at the bow, looking out over a turquoise, horizonless ocean. His tall, imposing frame was no less intimidating against the lifting dawn.

Alejandro turned to face me. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. You’ve always been brave. And don’t worry about Pilar, all right?”

With gratitude, and my complete trust in him, I took his hands and squeezed them. “Thank you.”

“No need.” He kissed the backs of my knuckles. “Until we meet again in Heaven, Natalia.”

When he’d left us alone, I walked forward. “Papá,” I said.

He turned. “Mija. Gracias a Dios. You returned. Gabriel said the death was fake? What the hell happened?”

What had happened was that I’d awoken from a deep sleep of wild dreams so fantastic and realistic, I wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t visited Heaven. I’d come down floating on a cotton cloud. Things had been fuzzy, and buzzy, my fingers and toes tingling.

As the euphoric hum in my ears had faded, irritation had ripped through me when I suddenly had eyes that tore open and a mouth that gulped air as if it would be my last breath. And I’d woken to a high-pitch whistle, the tip and sway of the sea underneath me, surrounded by men’s shouts. With an empty stomach. Blood on my dress. A broken heart. And the White Monarch in my hand.

Had I woken up moments later, I would’ve lost Cristiano forever.

I swallowed back the horrific, gut-wrenching thought and took my father’s hands. “It doesn’t matter. Diego lost in the end.”

“You can tell me everything on the voyage. I have no clue where we’re headed, but Barto is working on it with Max.” He heaved a sigh. “¿Y Cristiano? Has he come to his senses?”

I looked at our hands. “Yes.”

“Good.” Papá moved his hands to my waist, and I raised my eyes to meet his sorrowful gaze, lines deepening around his mouth. “I’m sorry to have lost my grandchild. I can’t help think I’m partly to blame.”

A lump formed in my throat. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t Cristiano’s. And it wasn’t mine. I’d had a few joyous moments as a mother, and I was grateful for that.

I tried my best to keep my sadness from showing. And I glimpsed—barely—the pain Cristiano must’ve endured trying to send me away for my own good just now. The doubt that surely plagued him. The deep-seated need to protect me by making the decision for me.

As I’d do for my father now. “None of us knew the depth of Diego’s deception.”

“Cristiano did. I should’ve known he wouldn’t hurt Bianca, but Diego’s complete confidence, and your conviction as a child, convinced me of it.”

“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 was wrong. I now know her dying words had been pleas to Cristiano to protect me—not her begging him to spare my life,” I said. I’d clung to the memory so many times growing up, and now I saw it for what it was . . .

“I should’ve trusted my gut and brought Cristiano home at once,” he said.

“All is well, Papá. We have made things right.”

“There will be other grandchildren,” he said. “You won’t make me wait long to hold them, will you, mi corazón?”

How could I lie to my own father, and about something like this? His heart would break with the truth.

I ground my teeth together, almost unable to hold back my tears. But I did—and I committed the same crime against him that he had against me for many years. The one for which I’d persecuted him.

I lied to protect him. “Yes, Papá. You will hold your grandchildren before long.”

With a satisfied smile, he looked past me. “Where’s Cristiano? We should already be gone.”

“I’ll go see.” I went to kiss his cheek but threw my arms around his neck instead. “I love you.”

“Te amo, mija.”

My resolve nearly broke remembering all the nights Papá had prayed for my mother’s soul and cried himself to sleep. The thought of putting him through that again was almost too much to handle.

Pray for me. I will pray for you.

All I had to do now was walk away. To say good-bye for good to the man who’d raised me.

“I understand why you ran back for him just now,” Papá whispered. “Your mother would’ve done the same.”

Emotion wracked me, threatening to take me down. I pulled back. The pride in his eyes was clear. It meant everything to me. I kissed his cheek and forced myself away before he became suspicious of my tears.