Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Because today is the day that contract we signed is fulfilled. No one—not my father, not my brother, not even fucking God can stop what is about to happen. Because Santos Augustine is God, and he made clear five years ago and at every opportunity leading to this day, that I belong to him.
1
Santos
5 Years Earlier
* * *
Marnix De Léon is a fucking coward, and it turns my stomach to have to look at him. In contrast, my father stands tall and proud. To anyone not present in this room, you’d expect the opposite—De Léon with his head held high, with my father’s bowed low, face in shadows. I’m not sure you’d expect the Augustines and the De Léons in the same room at all, actually. Not as equals anyway, but here we are.
The Augustines have returned from exile, patriarchs of each family present and accompanied by attorneys, as if the transaction we’re carrying out is in any way legal.
The next generation is here too. My brother, Caius. Me. De Léon’s son, Odin. No women, though. They’re not necessary for this part. Not yet.
Even then, we only need the one—although she’s not quite a woman yet. That’s the part that bothers me. It makes me lose sleep at night, but I know what I have to do, what role I’m meant to play.
And she will be a woman soon enough.
“Santos.” My father calls my name.
I shift my gaze past Caius to him. Should Caius be the one named on that contract? He would be if it hadn’t been for me. My father adopted Caius when he married our mother. I am not first born, but I am blood-born. Caius stands like a statue, hands folded in front of him and face as unreadable as ever as I proceed toward the older men. I wonder what my brother is thinking. Would he want this if it was his to take? If she was his to take? Spoils of war.
“Father,” I say.
De Léon’s irritated gaze follows me as I step up to the desk. You’d never know looking at him that he buried his brother-in-law today.
I don’t bother acknowledging him. He fucked up. Overreached. This is the consequence of thinking too highly of oneself, believing oneself untouchable. No one is untouchable.
De Léon turns the fountain pen over to me. I see where the ink of his signature is drying, smeared where the crease of his fist had rubbed against it. He signed with a flair I’m not surprised to see. He’s arrogant. We’ve always known that about Marnix De Léon. That arrogance has led to his downfall.
I meet De Léon’s flat eyes, which are colorless and washed out. I glance to my father, who gives me a victorious smile. I don’t take the pen. “Where is your daughter?” I ask De Léon.
“She is unnecessary. I decide for her.”
Is he trying to protect her, I wonder? Fatherly love? No, that’s not it. I know enough about the family to be certain of that fact.
The corners of my mouth lift into what I don’t think anyone would call a smile. “You don’t decide anything,” I remind him. He used to, but times have changed.
He gestures to one of his men standing by the door, but De Léon’s son, Odin, steps out of his corner and blocks his path.
“No need,” he says.
I turn to him. Odin is about eighteen now, three years older than his sister, Madelena. He’s almost as tall as me but thin, like he hasn’t quite grown into his height yet. He takes another step. I notice the limp, the tightening of his lips. Pain. Was he limping before tonight? I don’t recall.
“She’ll do as she’s told when the time comes,” he says.
“Get out of the way, boy,” the older De Léon says, but Odin doesn’t. He draws himself to his full height and, still blocking the door, looks at me—not his father.
“It’s been a hard day for her,” he says in an appeal to protect his sister.
I study him. No love lost between father and son, but he does love his sister. Noted.
“She was very close to our uncle,” he adds.
My gut tightens. I knew she was close to him. So was Odin. Their uncle was the last link to their mother. If there was any other way to do this, I would do it. The girl is fifteen, and I’m not that much of a monster. “It can’t be helped,” I tell him, because it can’t.
“Boy,” the father warns, making a move to come around the desk.
Odin sets his jaw. “No.”
I open my mouth, but before I get a chance to speak, the door opens. We all turn to find Madelena De Léon standing like she’d had her ear to the door all along. Her hair is wet, and she’s wearing different clothes than she’d worn to the funeral. She looks like she’s been crying for days. She glares at her father, then, without any hesitation, she shifts her gaze to me and holds mine. And I know in that instant, in the look in those eyes, that this girl will not bow meekly and do as she’s told. Not now. Not ever.