Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

And nothing like a place to keep prisoners—but how deep did it run?

I walked farther into the temperature-controlled room. Eduardo had vanished. “Is this where you store the body parts?” I asked.

“Huh?”

I turned to Cristiano. “Legend has it you keep something from every person you kill and put it on display.”

“Ay. Señor, dame paciencia.” He ran his hands over his face as he asked God for patience, then laughed. “Another rumor. What kind of unhinged cabrón do you take me for, Natalia? I’m no saint, but I don’t keep a souvenir from every kill. For one, I’d need a bigger building.”

Cristiano smirked, amused by his signature sick humor. In any other scenario, I’d have laughed. The rumor was ridiculous to the point of being comical, and of course I’d stopped believing most of what I’d heard about him a while ago. But in that moment, I couldn’t get past my nerves.

“Although, I suppose, in a way, these are proverbial bodies,” Cristiano added.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“They’re files and records on every operation. Sometimes we have to act fast and on little intel, but we try to be as prepared and organized as possible.” He glanced around. “There’s a tunnel that connects to the house, but otherwise, this area is isolated for security purposes, and so we can work in peace. We don’t want to . . . disturb anyone.”

“Disturb them how?”

He cleared his throat, checked his phone, and replaced it in the pocket of his joggers. “I told you to stay upstairs. Haven’t you ever heard that expression, curiosity killed the cat?”

Or, your curiosity is an affliction, as my father had said to me many times. This ran deeper than snooping, though.

I had to tell Cristiano I knew. I knew what he was keeping down here. And that I was ready to get my answers, no matter how it would change my life. That was why I’d rushed down here.

Now that I was on the verge, though, the cliff under my feet crumbled more with each step. And since I couldn’t see the bottom, I had to assume it was a far drop. In my experience, answers only bred more questions. Retaliation only incited more wars, more death, more revenge. And as Cristiano said—some things, I couldn’t unsee.

I swallowed through my dry throat and walked over to a large control panel below a bank of computer screens. Beyond it, a glass window showed a room full of servers. “Is this the security system?”

“One of them, but it’s much more than that. Intelligence on organized crime syndicates around the world, everything from narcotics, artillery, black market, prostitution, slavery, money laundering, etcetera.” He stepped away, under the dim lights. “We manage data big and small, analyze it for patterns and trends, hoping to tie pieces together, such as how people move, where they start and end up, which mobs are communicating, interactions that seem off. That’s just the tip of the iceberg in terms of what’s happening out there.”

I couldn’t keep the awe from my voice. “I had no idea so much went into it.”

“Takes a lot of power to reach dark corners. I . . . I don’t want to hide these things from you.” He pulled on his jaw, something warring in him. He didn’t want to keep me out. But he probably struggled with bringing me in, too. “But some of these subjects are closed. ¿Comprendes?”

Yes, I understood. I recognized resolution in him now. And melancholy. I didn’t argue. Things that upset someone like him must scrape the bottom of humanity. I was likely better off not knowing.

My eyes scanned over the shelved and alphabetized binders. Some had people’s names, others listed businesses, cartels, or just initials and dates. “Why isn’t all of this digitalized?”

“Everything is encrypted, but sometimes, nothing is safer than paper. I assure you, the government has its own hackers, and many officials would like to put a stop to what we’re doing.”

I frowned. “Helping people?”

“We have all kinds of unlawful ventures, Natalia. They’re how we fund our more benevolent ones. Arms trafficking has been very good to me, and I need that income to continue.” He massaged the back of his neck. “We have a role. We’re the bad guys; the government is the good guy. They don’t like when we upset the balance. We’re not supposed to do their jobs for them.”

“They don’t want the press finding out,” I inferred. “It would make them a laughing stock.”

“The press or other world leaders. Wealthy people, too, who’d take out entire towns to keep the information we have sealed. Fortunately, we don’t do what we do for press or for anyone else. But arms trafficking, money laundering, narcotics, freighting—they act as a cover and keep our bank accounts full.”

I faced him again. He stood still, hands in the pockets of his joggers, tracking me with his eyes. Cristiano had endless patience. I couldn’t imagine my father or Diego walking me through all of this so candidly. They preferred to shield me. To put me in a box. Not Cristiano. For him to tell me not to come down here, it must be bad. I owed him the same trust he’d put in me—I had to include him in my decision of whether or not I was ready to face what lie ahead.