Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

Cristiano nodded. “We learned the hit had been ordered by the Valverdes, but it was common knowledge that they’d been out of the game a while. Unlike other federations that crumbled and eroded over time, the Valverdes vanished practically overnight.”

“And that was what tipped you off that there might be more to it.”

He clicked his tongue. “If there was a puzzle there, I was going to solve it. Especially having you here as my wife and knowing you still thought I’d had a hand in her assault.”

I walked forward. “I don’t think you killed her,” I said, stopping in front of him. “I told you that, and to stop pursuing it.”

“You don’t think so, no. But you don’t know, either. And it’s been eating me alive.”

“What has?”

He frowned down at me. “That over time, my wife may learn to trust me, and maybe even love me—but always, a small piece of her would question that day and what she’d seen.” He looked away from me, but not before pain crossed his normally controlled features. “If I can’t answer that question for you once and for all, if I can’t give you closure, and the safety to give me your complete and unrelenting trust—then I don’t deserve it.”

Oh. My heart broke for him. From the day I’d arrived, up until recently, I’d been desperately trying to uncover Cristiano’s motives for bringing me here. And he’d been showing me them all along. Starting in the church. His proposal, the lasso ceremony, the paperwork to legalize our union, my mother’s rosary, the flowers, and his vows—none if it had been a mockery. He’d gone about it the wrong way, but that didn’t make it less real.

Love and devotion, that he could give and have returned, was the everything he sought. The only things he couldn’t take, buy, or command. And he didn’t think he’d ever truly get those from me until the chapter of my mother’s death had been closed. Until he closed it for me.

I stepped into him, placing my hands on his chest. I wanted to take him in my arms and soothe that ache by finally giving myself to him. Later. Now, I could only apologize. “Lo siento, Cristiano.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He circled my wrists, keeping my hands against his pecs. “You’re smart not to trust words, mine or anyone else’s.” His voice dropped. “You do trust actions, though—so I acted.”

My scalp prickled. “You brought them here.”

“To confess everything. To rid your mind of any doubt about me. To assure you that where your mother’s death is involved, I’m innocent.”

“I know you are. I don’t doubt you anymore.” I slid my palms higher, relishing the power beneath them. “You never said why they vanished.”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” He looked away. “You heard them scream, Natalia. You know what I’m about to do. I’ll get the information I want, and a confession for you, but it could be days until I do. Be satisfied until then. I’ll bring you back when the pigs are ready to squeal.”

That was fair. I’d get to hear it from their mouths. But I’d begged for answers so many times. Patience had been forced on me. If I went upstairs, I’d just go back to waiting. And after all these years, I wanted to do something.

“I want to act, too,” I said.

Maybe I’d regret it, but my mind had been made up the moment I’d realized who the Valverdes were.

With a short sigh of resignation, he nodded once. “Wait here.”

He left me alone in the dark with the haunting echo of grown men’s screams. The idea that I thought I could exist on the surface of my internal darkness sounded so absurd now. That I could step on it, walk along it, and never trip and fall. That I could turn a blind eye to the way I’d grown up and to my father’s business—and that I expected Diego to do the same.

California had been a bubble. My father had called it like it was—a life there with Diego would never have happened.

It wouldn’t have been enough for either of us.

Maybe diving in head first into darkness was equally foolish. But there didn’t seem to be any in-between, and I’d learned through Cristiano that ignorance only left me vulnerable.

I went into the closet from which Cristiano had taken the sand bucket. On the shelves sat chains I’d seen used to tow trucks, with massive hooks at the ends. Braided rope as thick as my forearm. A chainsaw.

With a noise, I turned. Cristiano stood in a doorway opposite me. “Ándale,” he said. “Come on.”

I went to him. He nodded for me to pass through first. The door closed behind us with a resolute click. Walking through the hallway was like taking a tunnel to Hell. Gone were the steel walls and the comforting buzz of justice at work, replaced with the underbelly of the mountain, wood scaffolding, and masculine, muffled grunts.