Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“We’re missing the parade,” I called as I skipped down the corridor, my woven leather sandals clicking on the tile. I rounded the corner into my parents’ sunny bedroom, tripped, and landed in a puddle.
A pair of combat boots stopped in front of me. I raised my eyes to meet the cold, distant gaze of a man dressed in all black—Cristiano de la Rosa, a high-level member of my father’s security team.
“Get out of here,” he ordered. “Now.”
Cristiano was all brawn, beast, and towering height with opaque eyes to match his hair. Based on the stories Diego had told me, people feared his older brother, but I had no real reason to. Though their parents had been enemies of ours once, Cristiano and Diego had been on our side for eight of the nine years I’d been alive.
Plus, Mamá had always told me—go to Cristiano in an emergency. He would protect me.
But something was off. He didn’t like me being here.
In one of his large, powerful hands, he held an army-green duffel bag. In the other, a solid black gun. Then, there was the blood—on his pants, splattered on his shoes and hands.
And on mine. Warm and sticky between my fingers, soaking through my fancy skirt. Not even its metallic smell could mask my mother’s signature perfume.
I looked over my shoulder. I hadn’t tripped over my own two feet, but hers. Mamá was lying on her back. Sunlight glinted off the large, gold necklace she’d bought for the parade. Her gleaming black hair was coming loose from its bun after she’d spent all that time pinning flowers in it. She shouldn’t be on the ground in her expensive new dress—it was already ripped at the neckline. The vibrant design almost hid what seeped through its fabric, pooling on the terra-cotta tile underneath her body.
Blood.
Goose bumps started at my scalp and spread to my fingers and toes. No.
Gasping for air, I scrambled to her side. “Mamá.”
Her lids eased open as she struggled to focus. “Natalia,” she managed.
My chin wobbled as I fought back tears and grasped her still-warm hand. A bruise formed on her cheek.
“Mija.” She fought to keep her eyes open, but they went glassy as her gaze shifted over my head. “Please, Cristiano,” she begged, her voice strangled. “Please don’t . . .” She shuddered with the effort. “My daughter . . .”
“I’m here,” I whispered, but she wasn’t talking to me.
I looked up at Cristiano. His jaw sharpened as he clenched it and turned his face away. “Sueña con los angelitos.”
Dream with little angels. When I turned back, she’d gone still.
“No,” I whispered.
Cristiano tossed the bag and gun onto the cloud-like comforter and reached for me. On instinct, I dove under the bed, knowing he’d be too big to follow—and came face to face with la Monarca Blanca. I wrapped my hand around the cold, hard metal of my father’s two-tone silver-and-gold-plated 9mm. Time slowed as I ran my thumb over the pearl grip where the name was engraved into the side.
White Monarch.
I choked back a sob. This was the kind of emergency I was supposed to go to Cristiano for, but he was the one standing over my mother’s dead body as she begged him for mercy.
He grabbed my ankles and slid me out from under the bed. I screamed in a way I never had before, ear-splitting, throat-shredding, as I tried to kick him off.
He clamped a hand over my mouth as his other arm circled my body and pinned my arms to my sides. “Natalia, hush,” he said in his chillingly deep voice as he lifted me off the ground. “Let me handle this.”
I wailed against his hand, thrashing and trying to hit him with the gun, but my arms were trapped. I slammed my heels into his thigh and groin.
But Cristiano was the cartel’s most lethal soldier for a reason. It wouldn’t have mattered who I was—nobody could match his strength, which had to be that of two men. By the age of twenty-three, he had more kills under his belt than most in the cartel.
He’d been raised as a weapon.
His hands had taken the lives of our family’s enemies—but never any of our own.
Until now.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Diego rushed into the room with his gun drawn. He stopped short and sucked in a breath as he noticed the body. He shut his lids briefly. I tried to call for my best friend, but Cristiano’s hand muffled my words.
Diego’s eyes flew open and darted over Cristiano and me. He was dressed for the parade in a loose, white button-down and jeans. He scanned the room, his gaze shrewd as he tucked some loose strands of his brown hair behind his ear. “What the hell is this? What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Cristiano said. “I got here right before you did.”