Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

Alejandro and Eduardo exchanged a look. Cristiano nodded once. “Let him speak.”

Eduardo ripped the tape off his mouth. The man stretched his jaw but otherwise seemed unphased. “Soy Vicente,” he said hoarsely. “I am—”

“Vicente Valverde,” Cristiano said. “The patriarch.”

“Sí. I knew Costa. I can tell you everything you want to know, since I made the cursed deal myself.”

At the mention of my father’s name, I stepped forward. “What deal?”

“I must say,” Cristiano said, taking my elbow to draw me nearer to him, “knowing your reputation, I thought you’d be the last to crack. Not the first.”

Vicente grunted. “I’m not getting out of here alive. There’s no point trying to save myself.” He twisted in his restraints to make eye contact with the other two men his age, and an agreement seemed to pass between them. “I’ll tell you the whole truth on one condition.”

Eduardo laughed with such exaggeration, he showed off a missing molar. “He’s setting conditions, boss. This should be good.”

Cristiano cocked his head at Vicente. “Go ahead.”

“Kill me quickly once you have what you want—but spare my grandson and brothers. They’re the only remaining members of my family.”

Eduardo laughed again, and Alejandro joined in.

“Why would I agree to that?” Cristiano asked.

“My family advised against my strategy. They warned me it could fail and backfire—but I was in charge, and I made the call.” With a curt nod, Vicente added, “My grandson was just a boy when this happened. He’s only seventeen.”

Seventeen? My palms sweat, but I kept from wiping them on my shorts so I wouldn’t appear nervous.

“All his life, he’s been forced into hiding and poverty,” Vicente said, “and he has potential. Let them live, and they would be indebted to you. They could be great soldiers.”

“Fuck you,” Cristiano said, his back going rigid. “Tienes huevos—you have the nerve to ask for mercy? I spent eleven years of my life in hiding, and I started them in poverty, because of you.”

The teenager twisted in his chains. I wasn’t used to seeing such fright in someone’s eyes. Most people in this world had already been inured to this kind of thing, but like me, he was clearly in new territory.

“My grandson is fascinated with this world but has never been allowed to be a part of it.” Vicente became more animated as his pride shone through. “Instead, he put his energy into computers. He can’t fight, I admit. But he can find things on the Internet.”

Cristiano wouldn’t kill a teenager who’d done nothing wrong. I wouldn’t let him. Would I? As my eyes moved between each of them, I couldn’t help seeing the poetic justice in taking from Vicente as he’d taken from me.

Cristiano walked toward the wide-eyed teenager and looked him up and down. “What’s his name?”

“Gabriel.”

“Tell us everything,” Cristiano said, turning back to Vicente, “and my wife may decide Gabriel’s fate.”

Had I been alone, I would’ve gulped. I wasn’t strong enough for that yet—to pull the trigger when there was gray area, even when it needed to be done. Was that what it meant to stand by Cristiano’s side? To deal revenge where it was owed, and make decisions that I may never discover to be right or wrong?

It was those things, but maybe it was also about knowing when to pull back. There was strength in walking away, and in forgiveness, too.

For the boy, maybe—but not the others.

“Unchain me,” Vicente said.

“Keep his wrists and ankles bound.” Cristiano grabbed a lightweight, plastic patio chair from one corner of the room and stuck it in the spot where Vicente had been standing.

The old man eased into it, rolling his neck a few times. “Come closer, Natalia Cruz,” he said.

My hands tingled. He said my name like un abuelo beckoning his granddaughter, as if he’d always known me. Cristiano returned to my side and put a hand to my upper back to guide me toward the old man.

Vicente peered up, looking between the two of us. “When your parents fell, Cristiano, there was nobody to take over the cartel. You boys were too young. I wanted de la Rosa’s territories. But Costa had the same thought. So we went to war over them.”

“I remember,” Cristiano said.

Cristiano’s presence, and his big, warm palm on my back, gave me the security to ask questions. “Who won?”

“It’s not so simple,” Vicente said. “Costa was more powerful, and he succeeded at first, taking jurisdiction over enough turf to push us out—but with his own business expanding faster than ever, and your grandfather no longer around to help, it became too much for him to handle. He started losing control. We got hungrier, fought harder, and at one point, we held the majority. Then we lost it. Back and forth, this went on. An epic turf war that lasted eight years.”

My jaw dropped. “Eight years?”