Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“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—
My father put the gun to the hitman’s temple. To the thrilled screams and cheers of the crowd, he pulled the trigger and blew up his head like a firework.
Natalia
My bare feet sank into the soil of my mother’s garden as I emptied the contents of my stomach onto one of her rosebushes. Diego held my heels in one hand, dodging my wings as he tried to keep my hair off my face. Everything was a blur. I didn’t remember screaming with the crowd, running out, or ripping off my mask and shoes.
“Careful for the thorns,” Diego said about the bushes.
My eyes watered, blurring the roses’ blood-red color. A man’s head had exploded. His brains had splattered across the tarp. His body had crumpled at my father’s feet. I held onto Diego’s arm until I could stand without wobbling.
Loitering by the fountain, Tepic pushed his aviators to the top of his head and chuckled through the cigarette in his mouth. “You okay, Talia?” he asked. “What a show, eh?”
At least Diego still possessed enough compassion to look as ill as I felt, his face colorless and drawn. He smoothed my hair off my forehead gently but said to Tepic, “Shut the fuck up. Can’t you see she’s sick?”