Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

“Cristiano—”

I charged him, took him by the shirt, and I did for him what I’d once tried to do for Natalia. I scared the shit out of him for his own good. “Get the fuck out of here. Now. You can’t stay here.” My voice threatened to break as I shoved him away. “You still owe Natalia your life. Stay with her. Take care of her. I’m trusting you to do that for me. It’s my . . .” I gritted my teeth together. “It’s my dying wish.”

Gabriel looked as if he’d seen a ghost. He backed away from me and glanced at the floor as he said. “Yes, sir. I promised I’d be a good soldier to you and to her. I will, in life or death. Thank you for—”

“There’s no time. Go.”

He nodded once, then sprinted away.

I couldn’t move, barely able to breathe as it registered. Natalia was alive. I couldn’t fucking believe it. It changed nothing, and it changed everything.

It was occasion to celebrate.

I made myself a drink, a few fingers of my finest, most expensive mezcal—then filled the tumbler to the top. Might as well finish off the bottle. I took my time cutting and lighting a Honduran Gurkha Black Dragon cigar I’d been saving for a special occasion. The birth of my son or daughter. The wedding I’d tried to convince Natalia we should repeat with as much extravagance as we could. In this case, I’d be celebrating her life, and the fall of Belmonte-Ruiz.

My love, my wife, was alive. I walked through the vacant house, by the patio where Natalia and I had eaten snails, past the dining table where I’d loved her most intimate spot with my mouth the first time, and I made my slow way up the same stairs where she’d called me back to her in her darkest hours after learning the depth of Diego’s deception. Where any love she might’ve had left for him had finally become mine.

To our bedroom, where she’d killed a man.

Where I’d held her in my arms after she’d arrived here, where she’d quivered against me.

Where I’d first made love to her.

In the shower, where we’d confessed our love to each other the first time.

The closet, where I’d threatened her with a good time with El Gallo.

With my drink and cigar in one hand, I continued on to the closet and removed Natalia’s wedding dress from its fancy, padded hanger. She had walked into the church that day tall, with curious, anxious eyes, and jet-black tendrils framing her delicate features and smooth, bronzed skin. The most beautiful thing I’d ever fucking seen, and she’d been mine. I fisted the fine fabric the way I had that day in the church. It had torn so easily and had been mended as close to perfection as it could get.

But it would always be scarred by my hand.

I was doing the right thing.

I went to the balcony for one final glimpse as they sailed away, but there was nothing on the horizon except first light.

I sat in one of the over-sized cushioned patio chairs Natalia had bought for the balcony and tried not to think of her, somewhere out there, alone.

But it was an impossible feat.

She wasn’t alone. She had her father. Barto. Alejo, Max, Gabe, Pilar—everyone. Everyone but me.

Natalia was stronger for the past year. She would thrive. I had given her that. And she was even more beautiful.

What would life for her look like without me? There was a chance . . .

I pulled my thoughts back, pinching the expensive Honduran cigar I’d only begun to enjoy between my fingers until I’d nearly halved it.

I wouldn’t risk her life and allow her to die for me, though there was never any question I’d die for her. She had promised me she’d go on. Live life to the fullest. Pursue happiness.

What more could I ask for? I had a front row seat to one of God’s greatest phenomenon—the rise of the sun over the vast ocean. And the knowledge that I’d made the right decision, no matter how fucking badly it hurt. That my Natalia was safe.

I sipped my mezcal and heard bare feet slapping the hallway tile only a second before Natalia came crashing through the bedroom door.

30

Cristiano

Breathless but breathing, cheeks pink with life, fire ablaze in violet eyes I thought would never reopen—my dead wife stood in front of me with disheveled hair. Furious. “Fuck you, Cristiano de la Rosa.”

I dropped my cigar to the ground as I stood. She had to be an apparition. “God in the sky, tell me I’m seeing things,” I said, my voice rising as I stepped out from behind the chair. “Tell me I’ve gone completely fucking mad, and that I’m seeing things, Natalia—” I balled my fists. “Tell me you did not come back here!”