Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

After what he’d been through, I’d expect him to say no. He had all the reason to want to strike back. But he only narrowed his eyes and said, “It’s not my call alone, but if I set aside my own personal vendetta . . . they made two offerings in good faith—taking Diego’s life, and sparing mine. If they stop because we do, then we all get what we want.”

Cristiano nodded. “Do you agree, Natalia?”

It felt like the end. Diego was no longer trying to hurt us. Belmonte-Ruiz wanted us off their backs, and in exchange, there would be a little less suffering in the world. That was what Cristiano had aimed for. I nodded. “I think if it’s true . . . we should accept.”

Diego was gone, and the only regret I felt was that he hadn’t been able to overcome his own demons to make something of his life. But if he had, I may never have known the love rooted deep inside me for his brother. I was glad, if it had to be us or him, that Cristiano and I were still standing.

I twisted to wrap my arms around Cristiano’s neck. “It’s over, mi rey,” I said with a genuine smile. “My king.”

He searched my face with dark, skeptical eyes. Cristiano had spent eleven years waiting for this moment, and it had eluded him more than once.

I gripped his neck, ran my thumbs up the hollows under his cheekbones that always made him look so grim, and reassured him. “It’s over.”

Months of danger and strife had ended. And yet, I wasn’t sure it was a history I’d trade for an easier one. It had prepared me. Educated me. Fortified me. And it had brought me Cristiano.

Together, we would walk into the future stronger than ever.

21

Natalia

Five Months Later

Cristiano and Papá waited for me downstairs so we could leave for the Day of the Dead parade, but I wanted just a few more moments to myself on the balcony of my old bedroom. The mariachi music seemed fainter now than it had in my childhood. I remembered dancing to it, skipping through the house as I’d hummed to myself, my worn leather sandals clicking on the tile.

I returned to my bedroom and checked my outfit once more in a floor-length mirror. Today, my colorful, off-the-shoulder dress—an explosion of marigold-orange, fuchsia, and rose-red against bone—was a tribute to Mamá as I’d stand by my father while the town honored him with a ride on the final float.

Strong arms slipped around my middle, and I met Cristiano’s molten-brown eyes in the reflection. “Even more a symphony than usual in this dress, and music to my ears,” he said in my ear. “You look beautiful. You look like her.”

In a suit and tie, he was handsome as ever. I covered his forearms with mine, lacing our fingers together. “She should be here with us.”

“She is.” He kissed the back of my head. “Today, we’ll go to the Día de los Muertos parade and celebrate her life.”

“With the whole town,” I added.

“They adored her, as they do you,” he said, resting his hands on my waist, fingers inched inward . . .

I inhaled and shivered as a chill ran up my spine.

“Cold?” he asked.

No. It wasn’t that. Did he know? Could he sense what grew under his fingertips? I adjusted my crown of red roses in the reflection. “With your hands on me? Jamás. Never.”

It was true. Cold was one thing Cristiano and I would never be. With Cristiano, there was only warmth. Contentment. Even when we fought, fire burned between us.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Life was as lively as ever at the Badlands, but it’d been relatively peaceful since our truce with Belmonte-Ruiz.

I had everything I could possibly ask for—a community that kept us both on our toes. My husband’s and my father’s fruitful business. My family in good health. A full and promising future.

A loving husband.

And the blessing of his child in my belly.

I’d first suspected I was pregnant last week, after overwhelming nausea three days in a row, but I’d wanted to be certain before telling Cristiano. It was nearly impossible to do anything in the Badlands without him finding out, so I’d snuck away to see Paula at the medical clinic right before we’d left to come here.

This morning, she’d stopped by the house to quietly press an envelope into my hands so Cristiano could see for himself.

We were having a baby.

My heart fluttered thinking of the sonogram in my purse downstairs. Cristiano would be nothing but thrilled to learn the news, but still, nerves edged my excitement.

Especially on the anniversary of my mother’s death.

It wasn’t the life I’d imagined for myself. To be a cartel wife, married to a narco king, and a mother by the age of twenty-one. Cartel queens and kings fell all the time, and where did that leave their princes and princesses? Cristiano and I knew all too well—once upon a time, we’d been them.