“It didn’t happen because you included her in your business,” I said softly. “And it wasn’t because you didn’t protect her. You couldn’t have stopped it.”
“You don’t know that.”
Cristiano and I exchanged a glance, speaking to each other without words. There wasn’t much left to say except for the final bit of news I doubted either of us wanted to break.
My father heaved a sigh. “Tell me you’ve brought me this information about Valverde so I can act on it. Now. Tonight.”
“You can act tonight,” Cristiano said gravely, nodding slowly. “I’ll take you downstairs to them when we’re through here.”
“Them?” he asked. “How many?”
“Three plus a grandson, Gabriel Valverde. That’s all who remain of the family. But we’ve decided to spare Gabriel’s life.”
“Jamás,” Papá said, shaking his head vigorously. “Never. No.”
My mouth popped up. “You haven’t even heard who he is.”
“What’s there to know? He’s a Valverde. Their bloodline ends now.”
I shifted in my seat. “But—”
“The answer is no.” His gaze darkened on Cristiano. “If any man had anything to do with Bianca’s murder—”
“He’s not a man.” I swallowed. My father and Cristiano’s presence dwarfed me, but it couldn’t mute me. “He’s only seventeen. And he was a child when all of this happened.”
My father looked to Cristiano “You can’t allow it.”
Cristiano’s gaze drifted to the plate of crumbs before him as he flexed and curled his hand on the table. I could almost hear the wheels of his mind in motion. I’d made myself clear about Gabriel. What was there to think about?
“It’s Natalia’s call,” Cristiano said finally, “and the queen has decided to let him keep his head. I support her completely.”
“Natalia is too merciful”—he frowned at me—“I’m sorry, mi amor, but this is a man’s domain. If you want to be a queen, step up and—”
“I am being a queen.” With the weight of a proverbial crown, it took a little more effort to sit up straighter, but I did. “We don’t kill the innocent. Not every conflict is resolved with vengeance and violence. I learned that from you. You’re merciful. You’re fair. You showed Cristiano mercy when he was a boy, and look who he is now.”
“It’s a mistake,” he warned.
“But it’s mine to make.”
“The boy is a computer whiz,” Cristiano cut in. “He’s only been with us a week, but Eduardo reports he’s as talented as he claimed. He could have a lot to offer.”
I hoped that was true. I wouldn’t know if I’d made the right decision until—unless—Gabriel betrayed us. I was getting a crash course in the reality that my decisions no longer affected only myself, but my husband, and an entire town, too.
Cristiano’s expression soured as if he were about to endure a tooth extraction. “Enough of that.” He looked to me. “Tell him.”
Me? The nape of my neck got clammy. And for a moment, I understood all too well what my father had just been saying. I wanted to protect him from Diego’s gutless betrayal, from the news that he’d not only trusted an enemy for so long, but had kept him close.
I could ask Cristiano to tell him for me or have him take Papá into the basement to hear it for himself, the way I had. But Cristiano’s gaze challenged me. Showing strength when others needed it was part of my role.
I stood and rounded the table to sit in the seat next to Papá. When I reached out, he opened his hand, took mine, and brought my palm to his lips for a kiss. “¿Qué, querida? What’s wrong?”
“You warned me about Diego.”
He flinched back. “Yes, and finally, he’s out of the picture. Why are you bringing him up?”
“I should’ve listened—but even if I had, it would’ve been too late.” I paused to think of the best way to put it. I could soften the blow with gentle delivery—or, I could make my father hear me by speaking his language. “He fucked us over.”
Out of habit, I expected him to comment on my language, but he only gripped my hand more tightly and scowled. “Explain. Now.”
“The Valverdes acted out of desperation to salvage their cartel. But they had help. From Diego. And he was not a desperate man, but a vengeful one.”
My father’s eyes bulged in a way I’d never seen. I could always tell his anger by the way his gaze narrowed, overshadowed by his heavy brows. This was something more. “Diego . . . helped?”
“He’s the one who let the sicario into the house, tampered with the compound’s security system, and gave him the codes to the safe.”
My father had learned the necessary art of hiding his reaction, but it didn’t come naturally to him. Currently in safe company, his face turned cherry red as his hand shook holding mine. “I shouldn’t believe it so easily.” His low, deep voice reverberated through the room. “And that says everything. Bianca warned me.”
I squeezed his clammy hand. “He fooled everyone. Except maybe her.”
“Why?” Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. He shook his head. “I already know. His parents’ execution. Bianca said he harbored resentment over it. And I, always priding myself on being a good judge of character . . .”
“You are,” I said. “This doesn’t change that.”
“He fooled me, too,” Cristiano offered, his tone solemn. “And I was his brother.”
I didn’t miss his past tense reference. I glanced to Cristiano, eager to go to him. That Diego had hurt my husband and father so deeply lit embers of rage in me. I wanted to be fair and just, but did that mean I couldn’t also be ruthless when the time came? If I had Diego here in this room, would I try to hold Cristiano back, knowing the damage he could do? Or would I let loose the beast?
Part of me wondered not just about Cristiano . . . but also what I was capable of in the name of revenge, especially for those I loved.
“Diego’s a liar and a coward who’d commit any sin to serve his own best interests,” I said. “He killed mi madre to avenge his parents, yes—but he also knew it would cripple you and give him the opportunity to stay by your side as you grieved.”
I let my father work through the equation on his own until his head bobbed up and down. “To gain my trust. To advise me. To infiltrate the Cruz cartel—so he could someday make it his own to replace the legacy he feels he’s owed.”
Cristiano stuck a toothpick in his mouth and sat back. “I’ll let Valverde fill you in on the rest,” he said. “How Diego ruined and exiled them, and how he’d planned to turn Natalia’s love against you—until I came along.”
“Qué cabrón,” Papá uttered. “I’d never have allowed that fucking bastard to do it.”
I wished I could agree with him and promise my father he would’ve always known my deepest loyalty. But if Cristiano hadn’t returned, I’d still be under Diego’s spell. After everything I’d already fallen for, would I have allowed him to eventually oust Papá?
I glanced at my hands. “I thought I loved him, and it blinded me.”
“You did love him.” Cristiano lifted his eyes to me as he struggled to add, “It’s okay to say. It was real for you.”
For me. That made things all the worse. Pretending I’d been tricked into false feelings would be easier than admitting I’d opened my soul to an enemy.
“You see now the man Diego is,” Cristiano said. “That’s what matters.”
“I warned you I’d have to kill him if he broke your heart,” my father said.
I nodded. “You did.”
One corner of Cristiano’s mouth twitched as he suppressed a grin.
“That gives me two reasons to put his head on a stick and send it down Main Street on a parade float,” Papá said, rising from his seat and towering over the table. “Now tell me where to find him.”
“I wish we could,” I said.
“Nowhere is safe for him now. Barto!” Papá called.
Barto entered
the dining room at once.
As Papá debriefed him, I met Cristiano’s searching eyes. His hungry gaze followed me around the table as I went to him. He pulled me into his lap before sliding my cake in front of him. “You didn’t finish your dessert.”
I put my arms around his neck. “I’m stuffed. I can’t eat another thing. If you want it—”
He stabbed his fork in it, picking up nearly half the slice, and shoved it in his mouth.
I blinked at him. “A full-course dinner and dessert wasn’t enough?”
“Never turn down food,” he said through his chewing.
I hadn’t seen him devour anything with such fervor since he’d eaten my panocha on this very table. The man was insatiable—and he’d been right about taking my virginity. Anything I’d experienced up until meeting Cristiano’s rooster was forgettable.
Papá cleared his throat, and we each turned to him. “I take it the marriage has been consummated.”
“Papá.” My cheeks flushed as my arms tightened around Cristiano’s neck. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is my business,” he responded, his eyes on Cristiano. “I promised I’d make your husband pay if he harmed you.”
“Does she look harmed?” Cristiano asked. “I said she’d be loved, treated well, and protected here. I’m doing my best on all fronts.”
I was treated well, and I was protected as much as anyone could be in our circumstances. But was I loved? Warmth pooled in my tummy as I studied, up close, Cristiano’s dark, angry stubble, the hollow of his cheek, and the fine lines around his devastatingly shrewd eyes.
Was love something he could voice when he felt it, or would he need time?
“Things have obviously changed between you,” my father said. I turned back to find him staring at me. “I guess knowing the truth has made a difference in how you view your new husband, mija. Yes?”
“Sí, Papá,” I agreed. “Surely there were better ways to go about making me his wife . . .” Cristiano had the decency to like contrite—even though he’d made it clear he had little to regret. “But I have a lifetime to punish him for it,” I added.
Cristiano’s mouth slid into a sinister grin. “A sentence I will gladly serve.”
“I expect grandchildren soon,” my father said in a good-natured tone that made Cristiano and I raise our brows at each other.
I turned my head to Papá. “Why . . .?”
“Do I need a reason?”
A surprised laugh escaped my lips. I tried to stand, but Cristiano’s arms tightened around my waist.
“With this news about Diego,” my father said, “I can’t help but think of family. Of what he cost me. Of how Bianca would’ve loved a grandchild, especially since it would be from Cristiano, whom she cared for.”
With my mother’s approval, even from beyond the grave, my heart fluttered. I leaned in and rubbed my cheek against Cristiano’s. “It’s a nice thought, padre,” I said. “One day. We have time.”
Cristiano was uncharacteristically silent on the subject. He had only one thing left to say as he patted the outside of my hip. “Go on to bed—I’ll be up shortly. Your father and I have business downstairs.”
Business was all I needed to hear.
The time to eat, drink, and be merry had passed. Now was the time to kill.
18
Cristiano
Maybe it was all the time I’d spent on farms today that’d turned me into an animal tonight. Maybe it was weeks of sleeping by Natalia and thinking of nothing but all the ways I wanted to take her. Or years of wondering about her life—if she’d flourished or had resorted to simply existing following Bianca’s death, and whether she’d still been blindly devoted to my brother or if it was more nostalgia than anything keeping them together.
It didn’t matter. Tonight, I’d embrace the animal. I’d proverbially lain her mother’s murderers at my wife’s feet. I’d slit three more throats in Bianca’s name.
On our bed, gripping Natalia’s hips with more strength than I meant, I pounded into her from behind like a dog mounting his bitch. I’d never been more grateful to have soundproofed a room. I must’ve known I’d end up marrying a screamer.
I wrapped Natalia’s long, dark hair around my wrist and pulled so her head drew back. I liked her from this angle, on her hands and knees, but I missed her face. Especially when it was screwed up in pleasure.
“Faster, harder,” she cried.
Was she serious? I’d never fucked like this in my life. If I went any faster, she’d end up in the next room. If I went any harder, she’d suck up my balls.
I slowed down instead, and after a few deliberate pumps, curved my hand around her ass. “For so long, you treated me like your own personal monster,” I threatened, grabbing a fistful of her ass, “Now, while I’m filling you, I want to hear you say you’re my wife.”
“Or what?”
She wanted to play. So did I. Natalia had poked the beast before, on our wedding night, when I’d bent her over the side of my bed and threatened to wreck her. Her pussy had left a wet spot on the tip of my dick. Maybe a week later, I’d given her a chicken dinner when I’d jammed El Gallo down her throat—and she’d cleaned her plate. She possessed a darkness that extended into the bedroom. Lucky for me.
“Say you're my wife, or I’ll spank your ass.”
She bit her bottom lip and deliberately didn’t respond.
I forced myself to withdraw from her, painful as it was to lose her warm, wet heat.
My palm landed with a sharp slap on the outer curve of one cheek, and she gasped. The shock on her face alone was enough to make my dick jump. I kneaded the meat of her ass, then lined up my hand in the same exact spot.
She dropped from her hands to her forearms, pressing her head into the mattress.
“Get back up,” I said.
“And if I want more?”
Beautiful. I spanked her twice with enough precision and force to make it sting. After a moment, my handprint bloomed on her skin. Maybe that was what I should’ve tattooed on her, because I’d never seen anything so fucking hot.
Or had I?
I lined up my throbbing head to her wet slit and thrust inside her. Her answering moan was almost as sweet as her candy pussy. Now that my cock filled her up, my handprint looked even better.
I took her elbows and pulled her upright. We both groaned at the new angle. I was fucking deep now. I kept her arms in a firm hold, using them as leverage to drive into her. “You’re trapped now, eh? This greedy little pussy belongs to me. Say it.”
She arched her back, dropping her head onto my shoulder. “It’s so . . .”
“So what?” Buried to the root, I nudged her cervix with a few short thrusts, and her tits bounced toward the ceiling.
“Is it possible to feel it in my stomach?”
I could see her better now. I wanted her mouth, her exquisite eyes on mine, and to see her delicate features shatter with her orgasm. “You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.” I captured her earlobe between my teeth. “But if you don’t call yourself my wife, I’m going to come in you and stay there until there’s no question you’ll get pregnant.”
She shuddered. In so little time, I’d come to known that specific tremor as the first quakes of her climax. “I don’t want your baby.”
“I don’t care.” I circled my hands around neck, pulling her back against me. “Look at me and say it.”
She could barely turn her head in my grip. I’d never put my hands around a woman’s throat this way. I wanted to scare her. I wanted her fear and her orgasm. Her ever-mesmerizing violet eyes found mine, and in them, I found clarity. Determination. Devotion. “I’m your wife,” she said levelly. “I’m yours. And you’re mine, husband.”
My ears rang with my impending eruption. I was holding her too hard, rutting into her, trying not to bruise her delicate neck as her cervix took a beating. I only loosened my grasp when I heard the word stop. I forced myself to slow
down long enough to make out what she was saying.
“Don’t stop,” she cried. “God, Cristiano. Please don’t stop.”
I fucked her to quiet her. She was a screamer up until the final moments, but her orgasms silenced her. When she went mute, she was close. She opened her mouth and gasped for air, dropped her head back against my shoulder, and submitted to her climax.
The moment her pussy gripped me, I was a goner. I released her neck and hugged her close as she milked me until I erupted.
As she went flimsy in my arms, I eased her onto her stomach, propped myself over her, and pumped slowly, keeping my promise. I spurted every last drop into her, and when I was done, I stayed buried inside her, plugging her up.
“We never talked about this,” she said quietly.
“What are you referring to?” I asked, even though I knew.
“What do you think?” she asked with that bit of sass I loved. “You know I’m not on birth control.”
I withdrew and sat on the backs of her thighs, prying apart her sweet pink pussy lips. “You just look so fucking good filled to the brim,” I said. “You should see how my cum looks inside you.”
“You know what happens when you do that, though, don’t you?”
I couldn’t help my laugh. “I’ve heard.”
I moved off her to lie by her side, brushing her hair off her face. “At your age, you’re extremely fertile.”
“Are you fertile at all at your age, old man?” she asked, batting her lashes at me.
I balked. “Thirty-four? Sorry to break it to you, but I’m in my prime. We could already be pregnant.”
“You say that so easily, like you’re letting me know you’re going out for conchas and coffee.” She took her gaze from me, looking at nothing on the bed between us. “We just started doing this, Cristiano. Is it a good idea—”
“I love how you say my name,” I told her, suddenly unable to think of anything else but kissing her. “Come here.”
“I can’t move an inch. After horseback riding, plus training to fight off predators during the day and giving into one at night, I’m so sore.”
Violent Triumphs (White Monarch Book 3) Page 18
