Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“And us,” Cristiano said.
Vicente was only another in the long line of those Diego had wronged.
But at least with him, it’d been business. Not for me. This was deeply personal.
“One of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made was underestimating Diego de la Rosa,” Vicente said. “We spread rumors of our deaths and hid our identities so he’d never come looking for us.”
“You were a liability to him,” Cristiano said. “If anyone found out Diego had helped . . .”
“Diego’s life would be over.” After another coughing fit, he turned his head and spit in the dirt. “With Bianca’s death, Diego ingratiated himself to Costa,” he said and wiped the corner of his mouth with his bare shoulder. “He rose in the ranks of the Cruz cartel. Became a trusted advisor. And wrapped his grip so tightly around Costa’s daughter that she’d do anything for him—including turn against her father if he pulled the right strings.”
My face heated as all gazes turned to me. I’d happily tangled myself in a snake’s grip and had never even felt the squeeze. Everyone in the room knew it, too.
Including Cristiano.
I’d been a fool.
With my mortification, tears heated the backs of my eyes. I couldn’t stay in that room any longer without breaking down. And I’d never give the Valverdes the satisfaction.
I’d heard enough anyway.
I turned and walked past Cristiano, hurrying down the underground hallway that too closely resembled a tunnel, through the proverbial museum of body parts, and climbed the stairs.
My fists shook. I didn’t think of going anywhere, but my feet carried me toward the house.
How could it be? How?
Diego had held my hand at my mother’s funeral and many times since. He’d picked out my dress for the service and worked with the state to get paperwork in order. Later, he’d helped Papá with the details of arranging the elaborate mausoleum that would become my mother’s final resting place.
Maybe my blindness to his true character could’ve been excused then, while I’d been grieving.
But for the eleven years after? What excuse did I have for that?
I reached for the door handle to walk in the house. My hand trembled along with the rest of me, the threat of sobs immobilizing me. I fought to hold them in. I couldn’t break down here, in front of the staff, and where anyone from the Badlands could come across me. They, and Cristiano, depended on me to be strong.
They were fools to depend on me at all.
If I believed this to be true about Diego, then I had to admit a much scarier truth.
I’d been tricked and manipulated to the point I didn’t even know what parts of me were real, and what had been molded by Diego.
Hands turned me by my shoulders, and arms surrounded me, pulling me to a strong, sturdy chest. The deep, controlled bass of Cristiano’s voice hummed in my ear. “You’re okay,” he said. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
Instantly, my body loosened, my tears subsiding. I’d felt this sense of security before, breathed in this same masculine mix of sweat and dirt. Unlikely as it’d been, Cristiano’s solid body had acted as comfort in the tunnel. I’d clutched his neck, silently begging him not to let go, not to leave me behind.
But that hadn’t been the only time I’d been soothed this way.
Days later, Diego had held me in the safety of his arms as we’d lowered Mamá into the ground.
All the while, he’d been responsible. His comfort had been a lie. Maybe Cristiano’s had been back then, too—maybe it was now.
Cristiano guided me up the staircase to the top floor. In our bedroom, he released me to shut the door behind himself. “Natalia—”
“Every Día de los Muertos, Diego lit a candle for her,” I said. I looked around the foreign room, its quiet fireplace, white gauze curtains, the empty space where the mirror had been, a bar cart where Cristiano sometimes fixed a drink in the evenings. How had I gotten here? I’d been moved into this bedroom like a pawn. “He brought her favorite dessert to the house, and flowers to her as una ofrenda.” The remoteness of my voice matched my sagging posture, my curled fists. “He listened to me talk about her for hours. He held me as I cried.”
“He manipulated you.”
Jarred from the memories, I turned to look at Cristiano. “What he did to me weeks ago, he did out of desperation.” Even if I found it vile, at least I could understand why he’d lied to get me to the church—his life had been on the line. “To trade me for his own safety—that is an act of a desperate man.” I turned my body to Cristiano as my voice rose. “But to allow a woman who’d treated him like a son to get raped and murdered in her own bedroom?” I yelled. “That’s not desperation. It’s devoid of humanity. Did you know about this?”