“Are the Valverdes here?”
He glanced at my hands as I twisted my ring around my finger. “Sí.”
“Where?” I asked. “What else is down here, Cristiano?”
He worked his jaw side to side before answering, “Every kingpin needs a dungeon, Natalia. It’s just the way it is. You’ll be glad for it, once you’ve found out what they’ve done.”
“I already know.”
His eyes fell shut. “What do you know?”
“I figured it out. They hired the sicario who killed my mother, didn’t they?”
He made fists in his pockets and opened his eyes, darting them around the room until they landed on a desk. He strode to it, picked up a two-way radio, and paused. Glancing at the floor, he sighed, shook his head, and said into the speaker, “Make them scream.”
My stomach dropped with his sinister command, but Cristiano didn’t stop there. He tossed the radio down, went to a closet door, and hoisted a blue bucket with both hands to carry it across the room.
I was about to scold him for lifting things that could threaten his health when he dropped the bucket with a thud at my feet.
It was full of sand.
El Polvo. I touched my throat as it closed, as if I was about to learn firsthand his trademark method of delivering death.
A cacophony of deep, guttural screams sounded from somewhere in the building.
I spun, my pulse jumping as I tried to determine where it was coming from. “What is that?”
“That is the part of this world you’re about to walk into. Are you sure you’re ready?”
The yelling stopped, but it didn’t halt the shiver working its way up my spine. I’d known this would happen. I had to stay strong. “You’re trying to scare me away again, like you did back then,” I said. “It didn’t work when I was nine. What makes you think it will now?”
“Because you know better.”
I studied the man before me. Sometimes, dark things that terrified me became bearable when I shone a light on them—bearable, and maybe even welcome. That wouldn’t be the case here, but shadows weren’t shields. They wouldn’t keep the truth from creeping out, so why not face it head on, when I could control it? “I want answers, Cristiano. Don’t I deserve them?”
“Yes, and you’ll get them. But tell me the truth—does any part of you, however small, still want the life you had in California?” he asked, nodding behind him. “Or do you want what’s behind door number two? You can’t have both.”
“I don’t want that life anymore,” I said, and it was the truth. What I didn’t wonder aloud was whether I was ready for this. But I’d learned at a young age, from the man who stood before me—never hesitate, or bang! You’re dead.
I tilted my head when something occurred to me. “You’re giving me a choice?” I asked. “I can leave this marriage?”
He’d never lifted the threats that my family would lose his protection if he lost me. Technically, I was still his captive as much as his wife. Was he brave enough to let me choose for myself?
His eyes darkened. “If that’s what you want, ask for it. See what my answer is.”
His answer, I suspected, was no. But Cristiano had often said he knew me better than I thought he did, and now, that was beginning to hold true for me about him. If I asked for my freedom, Cristiano would say no. And he’d believe it. But I knew better. If I truly wanted to be let go, he’d release me.
“I promise you’ll get your answers,” he said. “I promise your mother’s life will be avenged. But you don’t need to watch this part.”
My heart faltered. So it was true. “They are responsible,” I said.
“Yes.”
I expected grief to hit, but having guessed it on my own, the shock was dulled. Instead, my fingers twitched as fury burned a path through me. “I want to see them,” I demanded.
“You have every right to be angry, but that can cloud your judgment.”
I pointed to my chest. “It’s my choice to make. Not yours. You taught me that.”
He couldn’t argue that. He rubbed an eyebrow, debating. “If I can’t convince you to wait,” he said, and paused, “then you should know more before we go in there.”
I nodded him on. “I’m listening.”
“One of the first missions I embarked on was locating the sicario who killed your mother. When your father pardoned me, that should’ve been enough, but I knew while I still had questions, I couldn’t leave it at that.” He cracked his knuckles. “Though he may have pulled the trigger, any hitman would off the Virgin Mary for the right amount of money.”
I saw things through Papá’s eyes now. He’d called Cristiano “ruthless” and “relentless” in his pursuit of the assassin, and I’d scoffed. But he’d been right. “The sicario admitted to being hired by a rival cartel—¿verdad?” I asked. “That’s what my father told me.”