Requiem of the Soul: A Sovereign Sons Novel

by Zavarelli, A.

  I roll my eyes at his formality. His arrogance.

  “Morning, Antonia. Do you know if the car is ready to take me to see my father?” I ask her anxiously. I’m not really hungry, so I ignore the tray she sets down.

  “Settle down, Miss. It’s early yet.”

  “What time is it? If I had a clock, I’d know.” But my husband won’t even allow me that.

  “Ms. Mercedes will be the one taking you to see your father, and she doesn’t rise until noon some days.”

  “Noon?”

  “Sit down and eat. Santiago wants to be sure you’re fed and so do I. I don’t want you falling down again.”

  I sit, slouching, one elbow on the table as she pours me coffee out of a silver pot.

  “I’ll tell you what, though. Once you’ve eaten, I’ll take you downstairs and show you around. I don't see the harm in you waiting for Mercedes downstairs.”

  I look up at her, hopeful and as excited as a kid at Christmas. It’s ridiculous if I think about it, but I check myself.

  “Will you get in trouble if you do that, Antonia?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “Where is he?” I ask as I pick up my cup. I don’t know why I ask, and I don’t know why I care, but I’m surprised he won’t be the one to take me today. Maybe a little disappointed too. Because as much as I hate to admit it and never will, the enigma that is my husband makes me curious. When he’s with me, things feel different. They feel...more. I don’t know how to describe it. I just guess I’ve never really felt so much before. So much anticipation, so much pain, so much pleasure, just so much. It’s confusing and annoying. It should be simple. I should hate him like he hates me.

  I shake my head to clear it. The thought of spending any time with Mercedes makes me anxious. I don’t like her. And I don’t trust her.

  Antonia makes a point of rearranging the plates on the tray. “He keeps to his own schedule.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, nothing, dear.”

  “Is he here? In the house?”

  “Most times, yes, when he’s not called away on business.”

  She walks away to make the bed, which I’ve already made, but she tucks it in tighter. I need to tell him I don’t need a maid, especially this sweet old woman, to make my bed or do my laundry. It’s embarrassing actually.

  “I’ll be back for you in twenty minutes, then I’ll take you downstairs. You eat all of that now. He’ll want a report after all,” she mutters that last part as she closes the door behind her.

  He’ll want a report? Of what I ate?

  Okay, am I really surprised at that? He’s a control freak.

  I eat my breakfast, a generous plate of eggs and bacon, fresh fruit and toast along with juice and coffee. I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten as well as I have here the last few days. I’m sure my mom would be shocked to hear the number of calories I consume at breakfast alone.

  The thought of mom brings me to thoughts of Evangeline. Is she getting enough to eat? Should I have pushed to see her too? Or asked to see her instead of my father.

  I have to stop this, though. One step at a time. I’m getting out of this room today. And out of this house. It’s something.

  Once I’m finished, I brush my teeth and I’m just putting on a pair of boots—one of the pairs of new shoes without heels that were delivered yesterday—when I see Antonia at the door.

  It’s those things that confuse me about Santiago. In one breath, he tells me he wants me dead. In his eyes, I sometimes glimpse his hate. Then he buys me shoes so I don’t break my neck on the heels when he finds out about my disorder.

  I shake my head.

  No. He's not doing any of this for me. He just wants to be the one to torment me. To murder me maybe. It wouldn’t do if I were to have an accidental fall.

  “Ready?” Antonia asks, stepping aside and gesturing to the hallway.

  I smile and nod and feel ridiculous. It’s been three days, and I’m acting like I’ve been imprisoned for years and this is release day.

  I follow her down the hall, taking in all the details—the dark walls, the thick carpet, the winding staircases, two of them.

  “How old is the house?”

  “The Manor dates back several centuries. It was built by the first De La Rosa to settle in New Orleans. They’re from Spain, did you know that?”

  I shake my head, looking up at the portraits hanging along the wall as we reach the top of the stairs.

  “His mother went back to Barcelona four years ago.”

  I turn to watch her shake her head.

  “Santiago’s mother?” I ask as I take hold of the banister. I pause when I look down, and a moment of vertigo overcomes me, so I quickly sit on the stair.

  “Ivy?”

  I squeeze my eyes, open them and focus on Antonia’s kind face. “I’m all right. I just haven’t had any exercise, and it’s harder then. And the stairs…when I look down...”

  “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Perhaps you should lie down.”

  I shake my head and stand, feeling hot and clammy and not quite steady like I always do after one of these episodes but desperate not to go back into that room.

  “I’m perfectly fine. Really.” I smile as wide as I can, and it’s not really a lie. These episodes don’t last forever. You just don’t want to be at the top of the stairs when they come.

  Antonia studies me for a long moment then, and maybe against her better judgment, she nods, and we proceed down the stairs.

  “Santiago’s mom left four years ago, you said? After the accident, I guess?”

  We reach the first-floor landing, and I raise my head to look around me. The ceilings' vaulted arches create a dramatic effect, especially with the dark furnishings and iron-clad windows. Several corridors lead off into different directions, and straight ahead, I see the window I’d spied the other night.

  “Accident, yes,” she says, but the emphasis she puts on the word accident makes me wonder what she thinks. “It killed her too, if you ask me. She passed away shortly after she returned to Barcelona. I don’t doubt it was the grief, God bless the poor woman.”

  The official reports had said a gas leak led to the explosion.

  “Lost her husband and one of her sons in one night and the remaining son, well, he was different after.”

  “The way he looked you mean?” Did his mother abandon him for his scars?

  “No, those scars, they were terrible, certainly, but what it did to him inside. She tried, his mother, but it was too hard. You see—”

  “Are you gossiping about my brother?”

  We both turn, startled to find Mercedes slink out from one of those dark corridors. She looks stunning, like the last time I’d seen her. Dressed in a tight-fitting red dress that sets off her olive skin, black hair and eyes, her makeup is flawless and she’s wearing five-inch heels more appropriate for evening and more jewelry than I’m pretty sure my mom, sisters, and I own all together.

  “I don’t think Santi would like to hear his wife was gossiping with the help.” She looks from me to Antonia, who lowers her gaze and wrings her hands. “I don’t recall him telling you to let her out, Antonia.”

  “I have permission to be out of my room today,” I say, butting in, not liking Mercedes’s tone but also hating what I just said. I sound like a child.

  “He gave you permission, did he?” She grins, eyebrows raised.

  My hands fist at my sides as my blood begins to boil.

  “There was no reason to keep her locked in that room,” Antonia says. I wonder if she feels my rage.

  “That’s not your place to say, is it?”

  “Not yours either, ma’am. Your brother’s made it clear I’m to look after his wife.”

  Mercedes turns her sour expression to me. “Hmm. Did he? Well. I’ll take it from here, Antonia. You can go back to your kitchen.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Antonia says, voice tight.

  I’m embarrassed
for the older woman as she glances at me with a nod of acknowledgment before disappearing toward the kitchen.

  “We weren’t gossiping,” I say, not wanting to get Antonia into trouble.

  “No, I’m sure you weren’t. Is that what you’re wearing?”

  I look down at my pale blue cashmere sweater and jeans. Mercedes is a bully. She reminds me of Maria Chambers. Entitled and rich and probably never been taught right from wrong. Never been told no.

  “Yes, your brother bought it for me,” I say. “We’re going to the hospital, not a fashion show. Is that what you’re wearing?”

  Distaste curls her lip, and she walks past me.

  I follow her into what I guess to be the formal living room with the huge rose-shaped windows. Her heels click quickly as she walks through it while I stand there, gaping at the mural on the ceiling.

  “Are you coming?” Mercedes asks.

  I drag my gaze away. “It’s beautiful.”

  She glances up, shrugs one shoulder in dismissal, and raises her eyebrows. “I have things to do apart from babysitting you.”

  “I can take myself. I’d be happy to.”

  “Then you and I both would incur Santiago’s wrath. This way.” She turns on her heel and walks away. I quickly follow her through the house and out the front door where a man drives up in a Rolls Royce. It’s James, I realize, from the other day. I’d thought he worked for Abel, but I guess it had been Santiago keeping tabs on me. It makes sense.

  He opens the door for us, and I follow Mercedes in, then stare like a child out the window at the mammoth of a house and gardens that seem to go on for miles.

  “Is that a maze?” I ask when I catch a glimpse of the high hedges.

  “Yes.”

  When we finally reach the iron gates that open for us, I crane my neck until I can only see one of the house's two spires.

  I remember from the wedding night that it wasn’t too far from the center of town, but it’s tucked away on its own not so little parcel of land, and the room I’ve been locked in seems even darker now.

  When I turn around again, I find Mercedes studying me, her dark eyes hard but also curious. Not in an I’m interested in finding out who you are way but in a what are your weaknesses to exploit way and I’m very aware of how I look beside her. Almost like a child.

  I clear my throat and shift my gaze out the window. It’ll be about half an hour to the hospital. I anticipate an awkward ride, but Mercedes just gets on her phone and ignores me altogether.

  James pulls the car into a parking space, and I look over at Mercedes talking to someone while studying her fingernails. He climbs out of the car and opens my door.

  “You have fifteen minutes,” she says just as I’m about to climb out.

  “What?”’

  “I’m not coming inside. It’s too depressing.”

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  “We have a lot to do. My bother has tasked me with readying you for The Society. We’ll have to take care of, well, so much,” she says with a look of distaste on her face as she lets her gaze sweep over me.

  “Are you serious?”

  She grins, makes a show of checking her thin diamond wristwatch. “You’d better hurry.”

  23

  Santiago

  Lawson Montgomery leans over the financial portfolio on my desk, studying it with the hawk-like eyes he is known for. He was the best man at my wedding, but Lawson is also an old friend and the one person within the New Orleans faction who I trust without question.

  He is best known as Judge to those around him, given his elected position within the Louisiana court system. He is a valuable asset to IVI for obvious reasons, but he is also one of the rare few people I can speak freely with.

  "Everything looks good." He shuts the folder and returns his laser focus to me. "How is newly wedded bliss treating you so far?"

  The corner of my lip tilts up at his sarcasm. Judge surely has a dry sense of humor. "As well as can be expected."

  "I trust your brand of justice will be swift and harsh."

  When I don't respond, he arches an eyebrow at me. I pour us both a glass of scotch, allowing my gaze to drift to the ever-changing numbers on the monitors behind him for a moment.

  "Is this your way of telling me you have not marked her yet?"

  "She has been marked, as you well know." I swirl the glass beneath my nose, absorbing the smoky aroma of the drink.

  "But not scarred," he finishes for me.

  His observation unnerves me. I'm not in the habit of laying out my plans to others, but Judge is one of the harshest men I know. He has a reputation for being severe, both on the bench and within The Society. At least when the situation warrants it. He is a firm believer of the old adage of an eye for an eye. And when I was drunk one night and confessed my plans with Ivy to him, he was the who made the obvious suggestion.

  What punishment could be worse for the family responsible for disfiguring me and murdering my blood? Scars, he said simply. Leave them with scars if you choose to leave them alive at all.

  At the time, it seemed so simple and obvious. Of course, Ivy should have scars. Something to match my own. A permanent, unavoidable reminder of her father's sins every time she looks in the mirror.

  For months, I had fantasized about all the ways I would do it. Burn her. Cut her. Etch my name into her throat. Perhaps even ink a skull onto the right side of her face to match my own. An image that would undoubtedly haunt her.

  But now she is here, in my house, and I have not followed through with those plans. I am not any closer to finalizing the details, and I am not willing to admit that I hesitate to do so for reasons I don’t quite understand.

  "She has a pretty face." Judge swirls the drink in his glass and takes a sip. "I suppose it would be a shame to ruin it."

  Something in his tone and the quirk of his brow makes me think he is amused by my admitted weakness when it comes to her.

  "It is only because she is beautiful that I have hesitated."

  My words aren't convincing, even to me. But I am certain with time, I will be able to fulfill this silent promise to myself. When the moment is right, I will execute the plan as intended.

  "Regardless of whether she is scarred yet, I can assure you, she will suffer."

  "I'm sure she is already," he muses. "Of that, I have no doubt."

  His words settle over us, and we finish off our drinks in silence. I need to ask something of him, which is a part of the purpose of our meeting this afternoon. Ideally, I should have asked him before the wedding, but I was busy dealing with Abel.

  "Any news on her father?" he asks.

  "No. Nothing new anyway. My men are still investigating, but there has been no new information. I have a meeting with the Tribunal to discuss the progress on the investigation at the beginning of the month."

  Judge is quiet and thoughtful before he glances at me with an intensity that makes him a formidable opponent to weaker men than me. "And have you considered that there may never be more information? What then?"

  "I have considered it." I shrug. "But I won't accept it."

  "Well, that may be the case. But it is about as useful as a man telling Mother Nature he will not accept her storm."

  Ignoring his obvious point is the only option I have at this stage. I can't accept that I may never truly have one hundred percent certainty or evidence of Eli's guilt. It is something I have considered from every angle. And I only know the obvious, what I feel deep in my gut. He is responsible, and I refuse to believe otherwise until there is undeniable proof.

  "There is another reason I asked you here," I tell Judge. "Apart from the philosophical musings of my revenge."

  "I suspected as much." He chuckles.

  "I have a request to make." I clear my throat and feel oddly out of place. "I would like to invoke the sacred pact. For my wife, I would like to grant you the customary rite should anything happen to me."

  "I trust that nothing will happen to you
," Judge answers quietly, "but I accept your grant of the rite to me."

  Some of the tension dissolves from my shoulders, and I retrieve an additional portfolio from my drawer, sliding it over to him. "My wishes are all documented there. Every last detail of what should happen to Ivy and her family in my absence."

  He nods, eyes drifting to the portrait of my sister on the wall. "I am becoming quite the collector of responsibilities. First Mercedes, and now your wife."

  There's a flicker of something in his gaze I don't recognize as he studies the image of Mercedes.

  "For your trouble, I believe I should also leave you the bulk of my finances for agreeing to take on Mercedes in my absence," I jest.

  "That won't be necessary." Judge smirks. "It would be a pleasure to tame such a wild mare."

  My eyebrow arches at his insinuation, and I find it strange that he should mention Mercedes in such a way. He has always been cold to her. Respectful, but cold.

  "You would have your work cut out for you," I assure him. "She is difficult, even in the best of times. I'm afraid she has become set in her spoiled ways, and now I'm not certain it can be undone."

  "Anything can be undone, given a firm enough hand," Judge remarks dryly. "Should you require assistance, I am available to discipline. As you know, it is a specialty of mine, and in cases like these, it’s not uncommon to have a third party intervene. As her brother, you have a weakness for her that I don't possess. There would be no familial affection to taint my black heart."

  I consider his suggestion and find it a valid argument. Mercedes is on a path of destruction and has been for some time. With Ivy in my care and my job within The Society, I have little time to devote to keeping my sister in check. It is something I can keep in mind, should she continue to cause problems.

  "How is the little hellion, anyway?" Judge asks. "Still pining for Van der Smit?"

  "Van der Smit?" I laugh. "I did not realize you were so informed on the matters of Mercedes's heart."

  "It is widely spread gossip." He waves his hand dismissively. "Everyone in IVI has heard how he passed over the great Mercedes De La Rosa in favor of another woman. The rumor is she was quite spurned by the events."