Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

I kissed my Natalia once more. “I love you, my wife. My mariposita.”

“I love you, mi esposo. Cristiano, my husband.”

All that remained now was to push the button and detonate. So that’s what I did.

A rumble started in the depths of the Badlands, the angry beat of the ground shaking beneath our feet.

The underworld called us home.

33

Costa Cruz

“It was the explosion heard round the world—or México, at least. One year ago tomorrow, a mysterious, cartel-run town known as ‘the Badlands’ imploded, taking out its own residents, plus some of México’s most pervasive crime syndicates. But none more famous, or dangerous, than two which have become household names since the explosion.

“Belmonte-Ruiz, known for their extensive trafficking ring and the development of a drug rumored to take its users as ‘close to Heaven as humanly possible.’ The explosion incinerated nine-tenths of their cartel, a large portion of two other factions, and two of the three kingpins the United States government had on the FBI Most Wanted list.

“There are no good guys here, but since its destruction, the Calavera cartel’s legend has grown amongst the people. Once feared as an international cartel with an anonymous leader renowned for his merciless ways, narcocorridos tell a different story. It’s one our station can’t confirm, but these ballads canonize the leaders of Calavera cartel for their fight to curb human trafficking in a way the government never could.

“During this Día de los Muertos, we remember the innocent lives lost that day—if there were any. But what makes this a tragic tale, and one that has fascinated the public, is the love story between Natalia Cruz, the stunning daughter of Bianca King and businessman Costa Cruz—”

I shut off the television and tossed the remote on my desk. I’d heard enough the past year. It never got any easier. The way the they glorified Natalia and Cristiano—didn’t the media know they had a grieving father? I respected Cristiano’s passion, and if he saw to it to kill himself over principle, fine. But to take my daughter with him.

I hadn’t yet forgiven it.

“Legend says the explosion shook the earth to its core, changing México’s geography forever,” I heard behind me.

I turned to Barto as he stood in the doorway. “Legend exaggerates.”

But it hadn’t exaggerated my daughter’s beauty. Nor my son-in-law’s determination to do things his way. Determination that would get them both killed.

Narcocorridos—Mexican ballads—idolized drug lords, traffickers, and cartels, romanticizing our wins and losses. They told the story right. Natalia and Cristiano had possessed a great love, like mine with Bianca. At one time, it was all I’d wished for my daughter.

I set my elbows on my desk and put my head in my hands. “Senseless.”

“But noble,” Barto said, entering the room. “They certainly made a difference in the world, which you know is what they wanted. They’re at peace, now, Costa.”

I grumbled my agreement. The rest of the year, I could be understanding of the sacrifice they’d made for a better world. But on the anniversary of not just their deaths, but Bianca’s, too, I only wanted to grieve.

I was about to tell Barto to leave when the maid knocked at the door of my study.

“Mail, señor,” she said, hanging off a stack of envelopes and catalogues to Barto before she disappeared again.

Barto walked to the desk, sifting through everything until he stopped on the final item—a bulky, padded manila envelope. “What’s this?” he asked.

I lifted my head and craned my neck to see better.

Handwriting that looked vaguely familiar. No return address, though.

The only handwriting I knew as well as my own belonged to those who were no longer with me. Bianca and Natalia. Both gone.

“Give it to me,” I said.

“It could be dangerous,” Barto said, turning over the envelope. “Let me—”

I stood, came around the desk, and took it from him. Danger meant something different these days. It meant nothing. I had little left of importance to lose. I tore open the envelope and a rosary fell out.

Not just any rosary, though. One centered by a polished gilt Sacred Heart and matching crucifix. Red rubies, milky pearls on a gold chain. I’d had it commissioned myself.

I’d know it anywhere.

It had been Bianca’s.

“What the . . . fuck?” I muttered.

Barto was at my side immediately. “What is it?”

Well-loved, with some scratches in the gold and wear on the gemstones, this wasn’t a replica.

I pushed the beads through my fingers as my throat thickened with emotion. “Where did it come from?” I looked up at Barto. “Who sent it—and why now?”

Barto’s eyes widened as something passed over his face.

Alarm made me straighten. Any reaction was rare with him—especially one of surprise. “I . . .”

“What is it?” I demanded.

Barto met my eyes and slowly shook his head. “I don’t know, don Costa. I’m sorry.” His gaze returned to the precious piece of jewelry clutched in my hand. Barto’s tone softened. “Perhaps just a simple sign from God that your wife is at peace, and that . . .” Barto crossed himself. “That both her and your daughter are in good hands.”