Page 6 of Dark Reunion

CHAPTER 3

DEAN

The smell of roasted meat turned his stomach. He would’ve enjoyed it when food was just food, not another weapon in his father’s arsenal. Tonight, every plate was a stage prop.

The long dining hall gleamed under chandeliers and iron sconces burned along carved stone walls. The table stretched out like a parade ground, its white linen spotless with crystal glasses lined up in military precision. Servants in pressed uniforms moved silently between the few guests, setting down dishes that could have come from a five-star hacienda restaurant.

Everything from platters of carne asada, bowls of mole poblano thick with spice, stacks of warm folded tortillas, rice tinted saffron-gold, and tamales steaming in their husks. Sweet smoke drifted from roasted peppers, cutting through the tang of garlic and lime.

Dean sat at his father’s right hand, a place of honor meant to brand him as heir, while Yasmine sat beside him, Isabella dozing in her lap.

Father had graciously given Isabella back when he first walked in.

Now, Yasmine focused on Dean, running a finger along his arm to remind him to remain calm. It was as if she sensed he needed the reassuring touch. He respected it. He would remain calm, but he fucking hated it.

The twins weren’t here yet. God only knew where they were. His father could’ve tossed them in the dungeon or locked them away in a guest suite. Anything was possible, and that fact churned Dean’s gut. His father hadn’t said where they were, only that they’d be brought out when the moment was right.

The old man lifted his goblet, voice carrying with ease. “Family, tonight we feast, not just on food, but on fortune. My son has returned. The bloodline is whole again.”

A low murmur of approval rolled through the men at the table. All of them family of some sort, some he recognized, others he had no clue. Lieutenants, captains, cousins of cousins, every one of them with blood on their hands.

Dean studied their faces, coldly cataloguing. A few laughed too loudly, eager to please. Some kept their eyes down, afraid to meet his father’s gaze. Two at the far end were the most interesting. One scared and another leaned with restless hands. They looked like they might be turned, if given reason. Not allies. Not yet. But cracks.

Dean shifted slightly, eyes flicking from one person to the next, taking in everything. There were three cameras nested in the carved beams. Another in the iron chandelier. The guards along the walls carried cell phones in their pockets and guns at their hips. Each detail slid into his memory like rounds chambered in a rifle. Not ready to fire. Not yet.

“Eat,” his father commanded, gesturing at the spread.

Dean forced himself to pick up a tortilla, tearing a piece of carne asada with his teeth. The flavors should have been rich, smoky, and spiced. But instead they coated his tongue like ash.

Yasmine had already finished eating. She knew that keeping her strength up was important with the pregnancy. Now, she stroked Isabella’s hair, softly humming to her.

Then the doors swung open.

Two guards marched the twins inside. Dressed in tiny suits, their hair slicked back, they looked like they’d just been dragged into a nightmare. Their hands clutched each other tightly. When they saw Dean and Yasmine, they pulled free of the guards and bolted down the length of the hall. He rose, catching them as they collided. Their little bodies shook, but they didn’t cry.

“Daddy,” Tate gasped, face buried in Dean’s shirt. “We want home.”

“I know, but we can’t leave yet,” Dean whispered in their ears. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He held them close and kissed their heads.

The hall had quieted. His father leaned back, a pleased smile curving his lips. “Beautiful, aren’t they? Strong. They will learn well.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

He led the boys to seats beside Yasmine, keeping one hand on the back of their heads. They clung to him and looked up at with worried eyes.

“It’s okay, sit,” he encouraged.

The old man let the silence linger before he snapped his fingers.

Two more guards dragged in a man bound at the wrists, his face swollen, blood crusting his lip. The young man didn’t look to be more than eighteen. They walked right past Dean to the open section of the room and turned the young man around before forcing him to his knees. A gag muffled his desperate cries.

“Arturo,” his father announced, tone dripping disdain. “A runner who thought theft would go unnoticed. A rat in our house.”

The prisoner shook his head violently, trying to speak. His gaze lingered on Dean, wide and pleading. He was young, far too young to be in this position.

Dean’s gut iced over. He knew what was coming as surely as the sun would set the next day.

His father gestured, and a servant stepped forward with a polished wooden box. His father opened the lid and showed off what was inside. A knife gleamed, simple and brutal.