“My point exactly. Those people are deadlier, greedier, and more corrupt than anyone. They’ve ruined countless lives and families without ever dirtying their hands.” He thumbed my bottom lip. “Promise me you’ll stay home. I have no doubt you’ve already mapped a route inside.”
“I don’t care about the party. I have no interest in what goes on there.” That wasn’t entirely true, but the only thing stronger than my curiosity was my desire to disassociate myself from this life. Then again, what trumped all of that—was Diego. “I don’t have much time here,” I said. “I only want to spend it with you.”
“I want that too, princesa, but not if it puts you at risk.” He glanced over my head, then pecked the bridge of my nose. “I’ll see if I can steal away for a kiss after the party, all right?”
“You expect me to sit home and wait on the small chance you’ll be able to meet me?”
“No, my angel straight from heaven. My Aphrodite incarnate. I don’t expect it, but I hope for it.” He took me in his arms and brushed his lips over my cheek, then the corner of my mouth. “Promise me you’ll stay home,” he said in my ear, “and in exchange, I’ll tell you a secret.”
I was getting exactly what I wanted—a clear divide between myself and this life. But I wasn’t getting what I needed—Diego. Maybe the party was wild, but it would also be safe. Security would be tight. If I found the right costume, nobody would even recognize me. “I’ll stay home,” I said. It wasn’t exactly a lie—the ballroom was on our property. “What’s the secret?”
“I wrote you something.”
“A poem?” I melted against his hard chest. “Let’s hear it.”
“Not so much a poem as a love letter. A tribute to my princess.” He half-smiled. “It’s in my pocket, but it’s not ready.”
I reached for it. “Give it to me.”
He laughed, catching my wrists and pulling me close. “If you put your hands in there, I can’t promise I’ll let them out.”
I blushed, at a loss for a response. We’d been best friends a long time, and we were still a little new at the intimate parts. I laced our hands together, admiring his long fingers and the tattoo on the inside of one—a sketch of roses he’d done with his family name and the date of his parents’ death.
And inked on his inner ring finger, small enough so nobody like my father would notice, were our initials in black ink. I brushed my lips over his knuckles.
“God, I’ve dreamed of your mouth on me since your last visit.” His voice dropped. “Tell me you’re still my girl, Talia.”
I knew what he was asking, and although I’d assured him many times that I’d kept my virginity intact at school, there was always an edge to his voice when he asked. I put my cheek to his. It was easier to talk about sex without looking at him. “I’m still your girl.”
“Good.” The word came out on a growl. “I worry about those fraternity sharks circling someone as sweet as you.”
“Sharks don’t eat sweets,” I said with a smile. “The sharks are here—out for blood. Americans are boys compared to you. I’ve no interest in them.” I put my arms around him and nuzzled his neck. “I only think of you.”
He sighed. “How have we lasted this long?”
Even though most of my friends, both here and in the States, had lost their virginity, it was easy to save myself knowing I’d only ever give myself to one man—my best friend. As scary as my father’s grief had been after Mamá’s death, I still wanted what they’d had—an all-consuming devotion to each other, even now. As far as I knew, Papá had never so much as been on a date with another woman. “Because it’s important to me,” I said. “I want to commit myself to you in every way once it’s time.”
He kissed my forehead. “It’s important to me too.”
I arched a brow at him. “Only because you’re afraid my father will find out we didn’t wait.”
He laughed lightly. “It’s true—I value my life. Luckily, even if we were tempted, the guards keep you in and me out.” He ran his fingers through the ends of my hair. “Our first time will be special, mi sol.”
I smiled quizzically. He hadn’t called me that before. “Your sun?”
“You’re always alight. That, and you hate the night.”
“Mmm. It rhymes. You are a poet.”
Diego knew me well, but then, he’d heard firsthand accounts of my night terrors until I’d left for boarding school. The shadows that tried to catch me, the lingering memories of a nine-year-old watching her mother take her last breath . . . and then there was his brother.
“Promise you’ll never come back here,” I said.
“I can’t.”
It was hard to believe Cristiano had once been the hero of my nightmares. Like the time, as a girl, I’d woken up screaming, and my mother had come running. She’d smoothed sweat-sticky hair off my face and asked me what I’d dreamed about.
“Monsters,” I’d told her.
I hadn’t noticed Cristiano, who’d been patrolling the property, standing in the dark doorway, until my mother had turned to him. “Are there monsters here, Cristiano?” she’d asked.
“Yes,” he’d said gravely. “But they’ll never hurt Natalia.”
My little heart had raced as fresh tears had filled my eyes. “How do you know?” I’d asked him.
“Because I’m here to protect you,” he’d answered. “And I’m scarier than any monster.”
Cristiano had chased away the monsters under the bed until he’d become one.
And Diego was the light.
“Will your nightmares return?” Diego asked.
Not wanting to worry him, I’d told him I didn’t have them while at school since they were less frequent and less frightening. Now that I was home, I expected they’d return, but there was nothing he could do about that, so I shook my head.
If I had my way, I’d be on a plane back to California before my nightmares could even catch up with me.
But I knew from experience—I could never completely outrun them.
3
Natalia
Under a starry sky, I made my way from the house, crossing the damp back lawn in heels. Lit from within, the ballroom shimmered like a golden paradise to welcome the state’s elite. Town cars and limos lined the curved driveway, inching forward to meet the valet. Fountains out front glowed sky-blue, the water shimmering as it reflected hundreds of strung lights. It was how I imagined the gates of heaven—down to the large men in suits and earpieces guarding the entrance and scrutinizing invitations.
Unfortunately, I had to use heaven’s back door. Security was heaviest at events like these. Armed men patrolled the perimeter of the property, keeping certain criminals out and others in. The main house was off-limits.
I took cover in the garden between the house and ballroom, crouching behind a fountain with a statue of Poseidon.
Your curiosity is an affliction, my father had often said to me. And there’s no cure, I’d teased him. Being forbidden from the party was like being sent from the dinner table as a girl when conversations had turned to business. Or like when my father had put up a fence in our backyard to keep me from exploring the grounds beyond the trees. Most of the time, finding ways around the blockades was more fun than whatever lay on the other side.
Once one of the guards had turned back the way he’d come, I hurried through the courtyard. Intricate, lifelike butterfly wings, strapped over a black bodysuit, flapped at my back. My best friend, Pilar, had been too skittish to sneak in with me, but I’d convinced her to help me make an elaborate black-and-orange eye mask with feathers and glitter before streaking blonde extensions through my hair. She’d then clipped handmade, delicate monarch butterflies throughout my curls.
Full costume required. It’d been printed there on the invitation, and from what I’d heard and glimpsed of these parties, anything less than an extravagant, costly costume, and I’d stick out.
“Alto,” I heard behind me. I stopped and turned as a guard a
pproached. “¿Qué hace?”
I swallowed and disguised my voice with my best North American accent. “¿Hablas inglés?”
“You are not permitted here,” he said in broken English. “¿Invitación?”
I pulled a sharp-cornered card from my pocket and handed it over. I’d looked at the guest list earlier to forge an invite with the names of one of the few attending couples from the States.
“Señor Matthewson?” the guard asked.
“Husband.” I flashed a small diamond ring one of my uncles had gifted me at my quinceañera. “Inside. Waiting.”
He picked up his two-way radio, but as he was about to speak, a voice came through asking for security at the front. He handed me back the invitation. “Adelante. Quédate en la fiesta.”
Stay at the party. I continued around the side of the house. A Playboy bunny with red lipstick and a cigarette held open the door for me on her way out, and I entered the hall to “Walk Like an Egyptian.” As my eyes adjusted to the glittering affair, waiters circled with trays, passing between rooms. To my right, disco music vibrated the chandeliers that looked as if they’d been dipped in gold and crystals and hung to dry.
Belly dancers rippled through the crowd. Walking toward the main hall, I crossed the imported Moroccan tile Mamá had bought on a trip to Africa, hypnotized as a heavyset man took the stage for an emotional aria.
Partygoers showed off their costumes—a black vinyl catsuit that hugged every curve. Cleopatra in a metallic leotard with layers upon layers of necklaces over her breasts, her gold-plated nipples poking through. A bare-chested Tarzan with nothing but a cloth covering his genitals. Marie Antoinette walked in on the arm of Two-Face. Even some of the security guards wore painted masks or had gold-plated machine guns.
A waiter stopped and lowered his tray for me. It wasn’t canapes or mini quiche as I would’ve thought but an assortment of pills and powder. Growing up in the world of drugs, I had little interest in them, so I opted for a fizzing drink instead. With a sip, bubbles tickled my mouth and made me smile.
This wasn’t the ballroom in which I’d grown up playing hide-and-seek or taken piano lessons, but an opulent show come to life. I walked into the next room, my heels solid on the floor even as music muted them. On a balconette overlooking a dancefloor, a row of women in lace corsets, bejeweled thigh-high stockings, and vibrant feather boas kicked slender legs for the can-can. A man in an open-collared suit and gold chains stood beneath them, likely hoping for a glimpse of heaven. I turned in a circle, taking in the spinning dancers. Men wore women’s clothing, ladies dressed as animals, and caged birds sang. In one corner, a tiger paced its gilded pen for partygoers’ amusement. Nearby, a woman in black leather also wore a leash.
The affair lived up to its tales of opulence and extravagance. I could hardly believe all this had been happening a hundred meters from my bedroom.
Glancing up, I spotted Diego in a long-sleeved denim shirt, a brown suede vest, and a cowboy hat. He surveyed the room from behind a second-floor railing. When our eyes met, he narrowed his. I bit my bottom lip as recognition crossed his features. He shook his head at me to signal his disapproval but tipped his hat with a small smile. After a quick scan of the room, he started down to the ground floor, but a security guard stopped him to speak in his ear. Diego looked at me, checked his watch, then turned back up the stairs.
I walked toward a pair of fire dancers twirling on the patio, their flames making shapes against the backdrop of night, but my attention snagged on a scribbled Fortune Teller sign. One corner of the room had been sectioned off with hung purple fabric. How strange. My father became more devout in his faith the older he got and held nothing but contempt for the occult.
I heard Papá’s booming voice before I saw him. I craned my neck, but he was a head taller than most and easy to find. He shook hands with a governor. If Diego recognized me, he probably would too, and I’d be banished back to the house. I ducked behind the fortune teller’s curtains to watch through a sliver. Papá carried an ornamental staff and wore a heavy looking jeweled crown that flattened out his black and gray hair. A ruby-red velvet cape with ermine trim weighed on his big frame.
“All these riches will be yours one day,” said a craggy female voice.
Startled, I turned around. The partitioned area was shrouded in crimson light, but a glowing purple crystal ball illuminated the deep-set wrinkles and dark eyes of a woman at a small table. On the exotic tapestry, a stack of tarot cards sat by her slender, veiny hand. A convincing actress, she certainly looked the part. “I’m sorry?”
“You will inherit all of this. Not just material things.”
“I don’t want my fortune read,” I said, peeking back through the curtains.
“You don’t believe in it?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the harm?”
Damn. I’d lost sight of my father.
“It’s no use hiding. He’ll find you.” She spoke unevenly, her words jagged.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Who?”
She stared at me from under thick black lashes and a shimmering gold headdress. “I see a man . . .” She tapped one nail on the table, squinting. “The man of the rose.”
De la Rosa. It wasn’t unusual that she’d have heard Diego’s name somewhere—he was well-known around here. “You’re wrong,” I said. “I’m not hiding from him.”
“I’m rarely wrong, muñeca.” She gestured for me. “Come. Siéntate. The monarch wills it.”
I turned to face her completely as chills covered my shoulders. It occurred to me that up until my mother’s death, she’d planned every detail of these parties. Maybe she’d known this woman. “What?”
She said nothing more, waiting. Father would never have a true oracle here, if such a thing existed. As she’d said, what harm could it do? I took the cushioned folding chair across from her. In the light, her eyes were as ultraviolet as they appeared shrewd. One look told me she had seen things, knew things, but that didn’t scare me. The past was the past. It was impossible to tell the future.
“Did you know Bianca King Cruz?” I asked.
“Only from afar.” The woman lifted up and fixed the pillow on her chair. “Perdón. My achy back.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, unsure of the appropriate response. Her musky, floral perfume wafted across the table. When she didn’t offer anything else, I held out my palm. “Well? Are you going to read it?”
“You’re a young girl,” she said.
“That’s obvious to anyone with eyes.” My gaze drifted to the deck of cards. “Aren’t you going to tell my fortune?”
“I don’t need to. It’s clear as day.” She reached out, her bracelets jangling as she took my hand in hers. She wore rings upon rings on each finger—amethyst gemstones set in gold, a silver snake coiled to the knuckle of her right thumb, a pearl cradled by a tiny pair of intricately carved, pewter hands. “With so few years behind you, you’ve already met your true love.”
“Yes, I have.”
“You know who he is?” she asked. “He’s close by.”
I nodded. “He’s here tonight.”
“I see great love for you.”
Diego had taken a bullet for me all those years ago, and he’d saved my life many times since as he’d seen me through brutal pre-teen years without a mom. We already possessed a deep devotion to each other, and we hadn’t even been intimate yet. I nodded. “It is a great love.”
“I see pain,” she said in the same flat tone.
I shifted in my seat. That was a given considering the circles my father moved in. He and I had already gone through tragedy—that was, if there was such a thing as going through it. Grief ebbed and flowed, but it never truly receded. Now, he ran a more respectable operation, but for those who dealt in vice and contraband, risk would always be present. The fortune teller saw pain? She could’ve been speaking to anyone in the room.
“I see betrayal and violence,” she continued. “And mu
ch death.”
The grandfather clock in the main ballroom chimed. How long had I been sitting there? “I’ve already experienced all of those.”
“And at such a young age,” she said, clucking. “There’s more to come, I’m afraid.”
Whether I believed in her powers or not, that wasn’t what I’d hoped to hear. I took my hand back to put it in my lap. “Whose death?” I asked, touching the diamond on my finger.
Her rings clinked against the glass ball as she palmed it, but she didn’t bother to look, as if that was just the most convenient place to rest her hands. “You will die for him, your love,” she said.
“I would, yes.”
“No. You will die for him.”
Goose bumps pebbled my skin. I thought of the barrel of Cristiano’s gun pressed to my forehead. “Bang. You’re dead.”
The dark came next. The pitch black, my cries, and the scurrying rodents, the smell and feel of blood that didn’t leave me for weeks. A shadow, the same one that often haunted my dreams, rose in me.
My heart raced. In the warm glow of the red and purple light, I couldn’t tell if the woman looked on with sympathy or delight. Either way, I didn’t like her face just then, or any of this. It was silly. Child’s play. She was wrong to hide behind a costume for a night and play with people’s lives.
“This is stupid,” I said and stood to return to my post at the curtains. I willed my heart rate to slow so I could focus on finding Diego. I spotted him standing in the entrance hall. He looked like he belonged in an old Western in his cowboy getup, yet blended perfectly amongst Mexico’s upper echelon. At the same time, he was utterly out of place. I could give him an escape. I could give him everything.
Was I going to die for him?
I slipped out from the make-believe lair, and like a hawk to a mouse, his eyes set on me. The worry in them eased, replaced with the same longing surely reflected my eyes. The soothsayer’s dark words lifted, and I saw them for what they were—generic, baseless, fearmongering sentiments, a one-size-fits-all likelihood that more than the majority of this room would encounter death, pain, violence—and riches. That was the point of all of this, anyway.
Violent Delights (White Monarch Book 1) Page 4
