Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91082 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91082 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
What family did he speak of? I looked to Diego, but his gaze was still trained on my father.
Papá turned forward again, and any belligerence vanished as he fell serious. “And that in the Cruz cartel, no betrayal goes unpunished.”
The audience clapped, ready for a show.
“It gives me great pleasure to present you the leader of the Calaveras,” my dad said. “But more importantly, to accept back into our lives a man who was once like a son to me and my wife.”
“Calavera?” Diego asked. “He can’t be serious.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“One of the new order cartels that has come to power over the past few years,” Tepic explained quickly.
An “old friend” Diego knew nothing about—and an unknown cartel that had to do with my family? I struggled to connect the pieces. “Why would he . . . who is more like a son to him than you, Diego?”
Papá half-turned and beckoned the suited man in face paint I’d danced with. He stepped forward, surveying the room with black eyes that landed on Diego and me. My heart slammed against my chest as the pieces clicked and the puzzle finally revealed itself.
Father raised his champagne glass. “Welcome home, Cristiano de la Rosa.”
“Puta madre,” came Diego’s slow curse.
Fear flooded my limbs with the same force and speed it had in the closet eleven years earlier. My mind stripped away the face paint and I saw Cristiano clear as day. He was harder, angrier, an indisputable man who’d seen things. With a rippling red curtain at his back, he appeared like a devil looking down on us from hell.
No betrayal goes unpunished. My eyes fell to the tarp. Would he make an example of my mother’s murderer here in front of everyone?
Instead of putting a bullet in Cristiano—who’d had a considerable bounty on his head for more than half my life—my father shook his hand.
My stomach turned over.
Flashbulbs popped as reporters captured the moment.
My father drew his shoulders back. “The Calaveras have risen to success faster than any cartel in México’s history under the guidance of Cristiano.”
The crowd remained silent at first, as if unsure of how to react. Cristiano’s role was widely known in Bianca King Cruz’s death; Diego had led the charge to hunt Cristiano with the help of most people in this room for years.
“Friends, por favor,” Papá said in a less jovial tone. “Show my compadre some respect so we can get on with it.”
People applauded as Diego and I stood frozen. He squeezed my hand until it hurt, but I couldn’t speak, even if I wanted to. I would not show dirt respect.
“If my wife were here, I know she would feel the same,” my father continued.
What? My gut smarted as if I’d been sucker punched.
“This cannot be,” Diego said, staring up at his brother. Cristiano watched us back, still as polished as a mannequin.
I had danced with him. Let him touch me, hold me, whisper in my ear. A crook, a ruthless monster, and a cold-blooded killer.
Did I know somewhere deep down it was him?
I silenced the thought. I wouldn’t have danced with him knowingly.
By the way he set unforgiving eyes on me, Cristiano knew exactly who I was—and he hadn’t forgotten anything about that day eleven years ago.
Diego followed Cristiano’s heated gaze to me, then pulled me possessively into the crook of his arm.
“Cristiano has come to me with new evidence in the death of my beloved wife,” Father said, passing his drink to a member of the staff. “Que su alma descanse eternamente en paz,” he added, making the sign of the cross as he wished eternal peace on her soul. “Cristiano de la Rosa did not kill my wife.”
I covered my mouth to silence my gasp, but it didn’t matter—everyone around me was just as shocked. What was my father saying? Why was he dishonoring my mother this way?
Cristiano looked out over the crowd. “It’s good to be welcomed back to a home I have missed,” he said. “But there’s a more pressing matter to address.” He held up a gun. The warm light of the chandeliers flashed off burnished gold, sleek silver, and milky pearl.
White Monarch.
I grabbed onto Diego’s arm. “What’s he doing?”
Cristiano handed it to my father, then disappeared behind the curtain. He returned dragging a bloodied-and-bruised older man whose hands were bound in front of him. He released the man’s bicep with a push, and he stumbled to the railing, next to my father. Blood soaked his light t-shirt.
Diego stepped backward. “Fuck.”
“Who is that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Diego said without removing his eyes from the balcony. “Look away, Natalia.”
“This sicario, who doesn’t even deserve to be named, defiled and killed Bianca Cruz,” Cristiano said, “and he is my gift to her family.”
I covered my stomach. It wasn’t possible. I’d never seen that man—