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)
Liar. I inhaled smoke and gunpowder as I squirmed against Cristiano’s hand, trying to convey to Diego what I’d seen.
Diego turned his attention on me, his forehead wrinkling as if he was trying to read my mind. He did this, I tried to tell him. Cristiano shot her.
After a moment, Diego swallowed. “Put Natalia down.”
“Holster the gun, and I will,” Cristiano answered.
Diego looked at his pistol as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. He was no saint, either—he’d done things I wasn’t supposed to hear about at my age, according to Papá—but that didn’t make Diego anything like his brother. Diego was a lover, not a fighter. He was only sixteen, and he still had a chance to make something of his life. His eyes drifted from the firearm to my mother, then across the room. His expression eased as realization seemed to dawn on him. He turned back to Cristiano.
“After everything they’ve done for us?” Diego asked and gestured the gun toward my parents’ walk-in closet. “This is how you repay them?”
The safe lay open and empty except for scattered paperwork. The White Monarch had been in there, along with cash and my mother’s jewels. I tried to nod at the duffel bag but couldn’t move my head.
“Careful what you say, Diego,” Cristiano said evenly. “You know I didn’t do this.”
“Then who?” Diego asked. “The house is surrounded by security. Who else could get in here? In the safe?”
“It was already open,” Cristiano said in an increasingly frustrated voice. “As I said, I walked in right before you.”
Diego shoved his fingers through his hair, then spotted the duffel. “What’s that?” Diego would never hurt me, but when he raised his gun at us, my heartbeat quickened. He kept the weapon and his eyes on Cristiano as he moved toward the bed. With his free hand, Diego slid the bag across the comforter and glanced inside. “Cash and jewelry from the safe, but not much.”
“I know.” Cristiano readjusted his grip around my torso. “I found it discarded by the bed.”
“Where’s the rest of it?”
Cristiano hesitated. “Someone must’ve been here—”
“Impossible,” Diego said, and he was right. My father took no risks when it came to his family’s safety. “There are two ways in—through the guards out front or the guards at the tunnels.”
Diego took a two-way radio from his back pocket.
“Diego,” Cristiano said, warning clear in his voice. “Don’t.”
He pressed a button and spoke into the device. “Doña Bianca has been shot. By Cristiano. I need security in here now.”
Cristiano noticeably stiffened behind me. “Vete a la chingada,” he cursed. “You’re going to tell Costa I did this? I’m your blood, Diego.”
“And Bianca was just as much my family.” The anguish in Diego’s eyes conveyed what my mother meant to him. At her urging, my family had taken him in when he was only eight and Cristiano was fifteen. Tears leaked from my eyes and onto Cristiano’s hand as I looked anywhere but at her body.
“She was family to me, too,” Cristiano said through his teeth. He was so angry, his voice broke, and he forgot to keep my mouth covered. “You can’t accuse me of hurting her.”
“All you do is hurt people,” I screamed. “You’re a—”
He slapped his hand over my mouth just as the front door slammed downstairs. “Fuck,” Cristiano said. “Tell them I didn’t do this, Diego, or they’ll kill me on the spot.”
“Release Natalia,” Diego begged. “Please. Try to remember who you were before all of this—you wouldn’t have hurt an innocent girl.”
Cristiano started left then shifted to go right, as if trapped. Finally, he released my mouth but kept me against him like a shield as he one-handedly wrestled the White Monarch from my grip.
He was going to kill Diego next.
Diego.
The boy who’d not only watched me grow up, but had protected me like an older brother. Who’d never treated me like a little girl despite a seven-year age difference. Who brought me stinky marigolds when I was sad and never complained that we could only ride our horses up to and along the fence Papá had built to keep me in, even though Diego could go anywhere he wanted.
Diego’s eyes widened as Cristiano got the gun from me. It would devastate Diego to kill his own brother, but for Cristiano to shoot Diego, it would mean nothing. Cristiano took lives all the time.
“You’re caught, brother,” Diego said. His nostrils flared as his anger finally seemed to override his confusion. “Don’t make this worse than it is. Put her down and face them.”
Boots pounded up the staircase with a chorus of shouting men. Cristiano carried me toward the door, his back to the wall, eyes on Diego. He switched the gun to his other hand to lock the door.
In that split second, Diego lunged forward.