Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  He walked away, leaving me in darkness as I hung on his words, torn between never wanting to see him again and a temptation to call him back—in a way that felt all too familiar.

  Diego pushed his way through the crowd. “Who was that?” he asked when he finally reached me.

  “I don’t know,” I said, hugging myself. “I told him I didn’t want to dance.”

  “And the bastard put his hands on you anyway? I should get Barto so we can hunt that cabrón down and teach him some manners.” Diego searched the space around us. “I told you not to come.”

  “You knew I would anyway.”

  He paused, then glanced over my costume, and his expression relaxed. “In a mask that didn’t fool me for a second. You make a liar of an innocent butterfly, Natalia.”

  “I didn’t lie,” I said, cozying up to him, pulling gently on his bolo tie. The braided leather was held together by a metal shield with his family name in decorative script. “I said I’d stay home, and I did. This is my home.”

  He drew his brows together, something unfamiliar sparking in his eyes, but then he glanced away.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  I ducked my head to get him to look at me. “No, it’s something. Tell me.”

  “I promise, it was a passing thought.”

  I crossed my arms. “Diego.”

  He took my shoulders and brought me close to kiss my forehead. “It’s nothing bad. I just had this weird . . . sense of joy hearing you call this place home again.”

  His sense of joy was my sinking feeling. Diego’s attachment to this town was stronger than mine; he’d never lived anywhere else. There were times I questioned how devoted he was to leaving here. He said he wanted a life in California with me, yet he continued to embed himself in the cartel and ingratiate himself with my father.

  “This place will always be part of me,” I said, “but I can’t call this home again. Not knowing that every day I’m here, every day you’re here, death is a possibility.”

  “I know, and of course, I’m in complete agreement that the U.S. is where we belong.” He pecked me briefly and ghosted his thumb over my bottom lip. “Let’s not argue about something we both agree on. We should move before someone recognizes you.”

  I ran my fingertip over the curling, cursive letters of the de la Rosa engraved on his metal tie. “You won’t make me go back to the house, will you?”

  “Not if you swear you’ll stay by my side every moment.”

  “An easy promise to make.” I smiled as he guided me through the crowd by my shoulders until a friend waved at us from the main room.

  “There’s an announcement coming,” Tepic called. Dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, fanny pack, and aviators, Tepic was as wild as the curls on his head and only as tall as me, but compact and mighty nonetheless. As we approached, he took an entire tray out of a waiter’s hands. “Come one, come all,” he said, showing us an assortment of narcotics. “What kind of night do you wish to have?”

  “A sober one.” Diego waved a hand. “None for us, compa.”

  I glanced around the room for the skull-faced stranger. There was something about him my mind tried to grasp on to, like a word at the tip of my tongue.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Tepic eyed me when I looked back at him. “I’m Tepic, like the city I come from.”

  “You don’t say.” I laughed and shook his hand. “Mucho gusto.”

  “You must’ve missed the gossip,” Diego said, sliding an arm around my shoulders and looking into my eyes. “Should we let him in on our secret?”

  Tepic lowered his sunglasses, gaping. “Talia? I didn’t recognize you in that mask.”

  “That was the plan.”

  “Costa will be happy to have you here for Easter,” he said, looking up as the music lowered. “Speak of the devil.”

  On a large, wide balcony overlooking the main room, dancers stopped the can-can and parted, gathering on both sides of the gallery. My dad appeared through red velvet curtains and came to the railing, scanning the crowd and waving as his staff herded everyone into the same room. I moved behind Diego but kept my eyes on Papá, who looked almost cherubic with a cheeky grin, red face, and his crown tilted to one side. He tapped his scepter against the tile to get everyone’s attention, but the effect was muffled by a clear tarp on the ground. Soon, silence fell over his audience.

  “Thank you all for coming to celebrate tonight,” he said almost drunkenly yet maintaining the sense of calm and composure he’d become known for in a world of chaos. “I know you’re all eager to get back to the party and to the drinking,”—he paused for some laughs—“as am I. But there’s a quick matter I want to resolve while all my closest friends and colleagues are in one place.”

  Diego glanced over his shoulder at me, his eyebrows drawn in question. I shrugged.

  A waiter handed Papá a champagne glass. “On this day, the Cruz cartel welcomes back an old friend.”

  A murmur moved through the crowd as Tepic whispered to Diego, “¿Qué está pasando?”

  Diego kept his eyes up and shook his head to say he didn’t know what was happening. “No sé.”

  If Diego didn’t know about this, I wasn’t sure who would. I slipped my hand into his and squeezed.

  “Years ago, a wrongdoing was committed, and I intend to make it right before all of you tonight.” Papá looked over his shoulder, into the wings. “Let it be known that a Cruz doesn’t cower from his mistakes or turn his back on familia.”

  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 respec
t 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?”

  “What’s the matter, Diego?” Tepic asked, getting another cigarette and his lighter from his fanny pack. “You look like you’ve never seen a man’s head blown off. Or blown it off yourself.”

  Diego rubbed the inside corners of his eyes. “Not in front of Natalia.”

  In front of me, my father had once dragged a drunk out of a restaurant by his hair for waving a gun near my family. My mom had told me to stop crying; that was how Papá handled his business. Dad had returned ten minutes later and ordered a towel and ice for his bloody knuckles followed by a slice of tres leches cake. Over the years here and there, I’d witnessed him knock his men around or order to have people “taken care of” and “made an example of.” I was no stranger to the stories about him, either—like the one where Papá had supposedly addressed a package with an army general’s fingers in it to the mayor and dropped it in a public mailbox.

  I had always known my father to be feared, but to me, he was just Papi. Now, because of him, I’d seen a man’s brains. I breathed through another urge to vomit.

  Careful to avoid where I’d gotten sick, Diego stooped to pick up some of the butterflies that’d fallen out of my hair. “I’m sorry you saw that,” he said to me.

  “Sorry?” Tepic asked. “She just watched her father take the sweetest kind of revenge. Anyone who’s lost a mother should be so lucky to witness what Talia just did.”

  “It should’ve been Cristiano,” I heard myself say. It had been a long time since I’d wished death on him.

  “Not if he didn't do it,” Tepic pointed out.

  I quelled my shaking and tried to piece together my thoughts. “There’s no way he didn’t,” I said to Diego as he stood. “You were there. You saw. There has to be an explanation.”

  “I know. Come on out of the dirt,” he said, extending a hand to me.

  I took it, wiping my bare feet in the grass before I stepped over a row of tiny lanterns. Diego led me to the glowing fountain, set my delicate hair clips on the ledge with my mask, and helped me out of my wings.

  “How is Cristiano back?” I asked. “And why does Father believe he didn’t do this?”

  “I don’t know.” Diego crouched to strap my shoes back on. “But I’m going to find out.”

  I stood. “I want to hear it from my father.”

  Diego pulled me into a hug, shushing me. “Just take a minute to calm down,” he said, rubbing my back. “Breathe.”

  I buried my face in his chest, where it was familiar, where his shirt smelled like soap, suede, and cigars—where it was safe. Warm. I wanted to stay in his arms and pretend I hadn’t just watched my own father brutally murder a person. That Cristiano hadn’t just reentered our world. That everything I knew about my mother’s death hadn’t just been called into question.

  How had Cristiano pulled this off?

  How could my father shame my mother’s memory this way?

  “I need to see my dad,” I said, disconnecting from Diego.

  He held my elbow. “Not tonight, my love. You’re not even supposed to be here.”

  “I don’t care.” I frowned up at him. “I want answers. I demand them.”

  “Cool off. Let Costa do the same. Can you even look him in the eye right now?”

  That hadn’t occurred to me, but Diego was right—even though I wanted answers, the thought of facing my dad made my stomach roil again. It would be too hard. Diego knew my mind better than I did in that moment, so I surrendered to the safety of his arms, deciding to wait until the morning to approach my father.

  But I wouldn’t let him off the hook. Not for this.

  I shifted my focus to the other side of the equation—Cristiano. Why was he back? Where had he gone? What had given him the confidence to return with a million-dollar bounty on his head?

  “I didn’t even know Cristiano was still in the country,” I said.

  Tepic tapped ash from his cigarette. “Me neither.”

  “Who are the Calaveras?” I asked.

  Diego and Tepic exchanged looks. “You mind if I smoke?” Diego asked me. “I could use one.”

  “I don’t care,” I said, drawing back. “Are they a cartel?”

  “Stay,” Diego murmured, one arm around my shoulders while Tepic passed him a cigarette. As he stuck it in his mouth and lit it, he nodd
ed. “Calavera is a cartel that came to power while you were away,” he said, exhaling smoke, “and has been growing at an exponential rate. They move narcotics too, but they’re mainly in arms trafficking, like my father was, and extremely private—”

  “As they are violent,” Tepic added.

  “They’re like a gang of misfits from all over,” Diego said. “Tightly knit. Supposedly make big decisions as a whole. But also a little cultish over their leader.”

  “Cristiano?” I asked. “And you didn’t know it was him?”

  “I didn’t even know he was back.” Diego shook his head. “Their leader was anonymous until now. Most likely hiding behind a front to keep his identity secret.”

  “Because of my family?” I guessed. “If we’d known where to find him, it would’ve been Cristiano up there on his knees just now.”

  “I assume so.” Diego took a drag, squinting ahead. “The question is why Cristiano’s back, what he wants, and how he pulled this off. I have no doubt he’s filled Costa’s head with lies.”

  “Even with that display, you still think Cristiano’s guilty?” Tepic asked.

  “I don’t think it.” Diego pressed his lips into a thin line. “I know it.”

  “You would too if you’d seen what we did,” I told Tepic. Cristiano had killed my mother. If I’d walked in a couple minutes earlier, I probably would’ve witnessed it. Why was Father denying it, and in front of such important people? “It must be blackmail.”

  “Wow, Tali. Good thinking.” Tepic stopped pacing, looking from me to Diego. “That’s got to be it, hasn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past my brother.” Diego nuzzled my hair. “He was always dangerous, but if the rumors are true, Cristiano became something else entirely after he fled here.”

  I kissed Diego’s cheek. Sometimes I forgot that the day I’d lost my mom, he’d essentially lost a brother. “What rumors?” I asked. “The ones I heard were mostly in regard to his whereabouts.”

  “It’s, ah,”—Diego grimaced—“not really suitable for your ears.”

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out another way,” I said. It brought me no joy to hear graphic details about the man who continued to haunt me, but if he was back in our lives, then I had to know what I was dealing with.