“¿Qué?” His voice, which had become more sonorous with age, was the only one I’d heard go deeper and gruffer than Cristiano’s. “When was this? Why didn’t I know?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Cristiano was the one who got hurt, but we couldn’t say anything because nobody outside of here could know he was injured.”

Papá leaned over the table, his hands two fists on the wood surface. “When was this?”

“About a month ago,” Cristiano said.

“A month! You should’ve told me as soon as I walked in the door.” He slapped the table. “Sooner.”

“Your blood pressure, Papá,” I said.

He drew back. “Eh? What about it?”

I had no idea of my father’s vitals, that wasn’t something he was inclined to share with me. But it sounded like the right thing to say, and he looked confused enough to forget his anger for a moment.

Apparently, the art of distraction worked in more scenarios than hand-to-hand combat.

“Is that where you got the scar?” he asked me. “You lied to Barto.”

“Because I knew how he’d react.”

He waved a hand dismissively, sat back in his seat, and pinned us each with a look. I couldn’t help feeling like a student in the principal’s office. “What happened?”

My father listened silently and unflinchingly as we told him the details of the strike, right up to the aftermath, including how Alejandro and his team had been out in the field, but had come up empty-handed so far.

“Are you asking for my help with an army?” Papá finally asked.

“No—this leads me to other news,” Cristiano said. “I mentioned I spoke with Natasha Sokolov-Flores at Senator Sanchez’s event. You know how powerful her family is. Together with Alejandro, they were able to find Vicente Valverde.”

At the mention of his old enemy, my father’s face changed, his only reaction in minutes, aside from asking for clarification or sipping tequila. “Vicente Valverde is dead.” He looked to Cristiano and laced his fingers on the table. “I would’ve hunted him down and killed him after what the sicario told us, but many confirmed he died of a stroke.”

“A stroke of good luck to get away with it so long, perhaps,” Cristiano grumbled. “But his luck has run out. Vicente is very much alive and waiting to see you.”

He stilled, his wrinkles easing as a frown slowly overtook his face. “What are you talking about?”

“The Valverdes vanished too easily,” Cristiano explained. “I wondered why, and simply bringing you a hitman wasn’t enough.” He extended his arm toward me on the table. “I wanted you both to be able to face those responsible for Bianca’s attack, and now I have brought you all but one.”

My father’s weighty stare shifted from my husband to me and back. “Let’s move somewhere private, Cristiano. Bring those Honduran cigars you’ve been going on about.”

Cristiano shifted in his seat. “Natalia already knows everything.”

“We shouldn’t discuss such violent and traumatic things in front of—”

“I’ve faced Valverde myself,” I said. My father needed to start understanding I wasn’t Cristiano’s cartel princess. Like my mother, I was learning how to be a partner in this. “I’ve seen his battered face, heard his vile excuses and admissions—including, for the first time, that my mother was raped. I knew it happened, but nobody ever told me. I had to wonder for years, then hear it from Vicente Valverde.”

My father’s face paled. “Why would I tell you that? Learning of Bianca’s final moments nearly finished me all those years ago. I kept it from you to protect you.”

Cristiano flipped up his palm on the table and gestured for mine. I took his hand. “She’s tougher than you know, don Costa,” he said. “Keeping her in the dark does nothing but harm her.”

“I defer to you as her husband, but I can’t say I agree.” Papá stuck both elbows on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No child should hear such things about a parent.”

“You didn’t shield Bianca from the horrors of this world,” Cristiano pointed out.

“And as I’ve told you,” Papá snapped, “look what happened to her.”

“It didn’t happen because you included her in your business,” I said softly. “And it wasn’t because you didn’t protect her. You couldn’t have stopped it.”

“You don’t know that.”

Cristiano and I exchanged a glance, speaking to each other without words. There wasn’t much left to say except for the final bit of news I doubted either of us wanted to break.

My father heaved a sigh. “Tell me you’ve brought me this information about Valverde so I can act on it. Now. Tonight.”

“You can act tonight,” Cristiano said gravely, nodding slowly. “I’ll take you downstairs to them when we’re through here.”

“Them?” he asked. “How many?”

“Three plus a grandson, Gabriel Valverde. That’s all who remain of the family. But we’ve decided to spare Gabriel’s life.”

“Jamás,” Papá said, shaking his head vigorously. “Never. No.”

Tags: Jessica Hawkins White Monarch Romance
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