Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

“A gift from Belmonte-Ruiz, cabrón. You’ve fucked with us for the last time.”

“Belmonte-Ruiz,” I whispered. Mexico’s most pervasive human trafficking ring. They wanted Cristiano dead, and with good reason. He’d stolen from them. Evaded their attempts to stop him. Taken pride in hurting them, and in the fact that he was still standing.

It was only a matter of time before it would catch up with him, though. And yet, even knowing it put his home, his people, his wife, and himself in danger—he’d persisted. He wouldn’t be deterred from helping those who couldn’t help themselves.

I wanted to be mad at him for it, but it only showed the kind of man he was. A man I had doubted and maligned every chance I’d gotten. Some good in this garden of evil. And I hadn’t gotten the chance to tell him before they . . .

I choked back a sob. “They tried to kill him.”

“They might’ve succeeded,” Alejandro said.

A wave of nausea hit me. I touched the blood-caked gash on my throat. All at once, everything throbbed. My neck. My hand. My forehead where I’d smacked it against the glass, my cheek from hitting the floor.

“Check her head,” Alejandro said to Jaz. “She looks too pale.”

“I’m fine.” I had to be. I needed answers, not more problems. I grabbed Alejandro’s rumpled shirt. “You have to find Cristiano. His phone could be broken,” I said. “They could’ve lost signal. Or been forced to leave their things behind. He can’t be . . . he needs us.”

“I’ve deployed a team to find them,” Alejandro said, a failed attempt to sound reassuring. “According to GPS, Cristiano and Daniel haven’t moved. I think that’s good. But Max . . . his phone is offline.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Hell if I know, but he’d answer if he could.”

“What happens if you don’t hear from them within ten minutes of an emergency?” Pilar asked.

“It’s never happened,” Jaz answered.

“Never?” I looked to Alejandro for confirmation. “In all the years you’ve known Cristiano, there was never once a miscommunication, an accident, a—”

“Never.” He checked his watch. “We always find a way to make contact, even if we have to find a phone somehow. It’s been over half an hour.” Alejo sniffed and grabbed the door handle. “I have to get—”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pilar said, her voice rising as she glared at Alejandro. “Phones fail all the time. And you need to work on your bedside manner.”

“I’m just trying to prepare Natalia.” Despite his brusque tone, worry etched the lines around Alejo’s eyes. “Even putting aside the ten-minute rule, if Cristiano was alive, he never would’ve let this long pass without checking on Natalia.”

Oh, God. My limbs weakened, and I grabbed Pilar’s arm. Alejo was right. Cristiano’s silence spoke louder than anything. He and I had a turbulent history, a marriage that better resembled a battlefield, and we’d been sparring for weeks—but my gut knew. He would’ve done anything in his power to make sure I was safe.

And even though I’d wished him out my life more times than I could count, I wanted safety for him, too. I wanted him back.

The world began to swim. I slid down a wall and dropped my head between my knees.

If I’d had any doubts, they vanished before my eyes.

Something he’d said at the costume gala came back to me . . .

It had been Cristiano’s dying wish to hear me scream.

And the heavens had granted him that.

2

Natalia

My world shook, and I startled awake. Jaz hunched over me, backlit by the humming white lights that seemed as bright as the sun. “What month is it?” Jaz asked.

“What?” I sat up slowly. I didn’t remember lying on the ground or curling up with a blanket.

“Do you know your age?”

“I . . . twenty. Why—”

“Good enough.” Jaz stood abruptly and moved back to her side of the room. She sat in a corner, pulled her legs to her chest, and held her gun on the tops of her knees.

I pressed the butt of my palm to my throbbing head to find it bandaged. My hand had been wrapped, too, from the shard of glass. “What happened?”

She kept her eyes on the door. “You passed out.”

My vision doubled. Blankets and pillows had been arranged around the room. More women had appeared. Everyone slept except for Jaz.

“How long was I out?” The question came out as a scratchy whisper, my traumatized throat protesting.

“I don’t know. A couple hours?” She heaved a sigh. “Alejandro says upstairs is clear, but they’re handling the bodies.”

“Bodies? Plural? Is there news about . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say his name. Cristiano. Even thinking it made my heart sink.

“All the women who survived are in this room.” She shifted. “Nothing from Cristiano.”

I fought back another wave of nausea. Nothing was the worst possible scenario. All signs pointed to his death. I had to believe he was alive, though. That he, like I, had fought back as hard as possible. For all the faith he’d placed in me over my lifetime, I owed him the same.