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"What will you do?" I ask for my benefit as much as his.
Angelo has found himself in a predicament so similar to mine, and admittedly, I want his answer to reflect the one I feel burning within me right now.
"I will destroy him and take everything he loves." He rises to his feet, tucking the file inside of his jacket. "Including her."
I nod, and my gaze drifts back to the knife on my desk. The one engraved with the De La Rosa crest. It's the knife that's been passed down for generations to every firstborn son. It would only be fitting that it's the same knife I plunge into Eli's heart.
"And what will you do, Santiago?" Angelo asks, his eyes moving between me and the knife.
My answer is simple, a potent cocktail of my grief and too much scotch.
"I will do the same."
19
Santiago
I'm stumbling down the hall when a small hand wraps around my arm from behind, determined to halt me. I sway slightly, trying to shrug it off, but the grip tightens.
"Santiago."
My wife's voice is like a sweet caress, one I have indulged in far too many times. I can't turn around. I refuse to face her. She won't poison my thoughts anymore.
This must be done tonight.
"Stop," she commands as I lurch forward again.
When I fail to obey, she wraps both her arms around my waist, as if the weight of her body could possibly slow my progress. That's what I tell myself, and if I weren’t so inebriated, I would know it to be true. She is featherlight in my arms, but right now, I'm having difficulty carrying my own weight.
"Look at me," she pleads. "Turn around and look at me."
I don't. I can't. I keep forging on, dragging her along with me. The knife is still clutched in my palm, the blade heavy and sharp. Perhaps I should have grabbed the sheath. But I will not allow her to slow my progress.
"Go back to bed," I snarl.
"This isn't you." Her voice rises. "You're drunk."
I ignore her logic and put one foot in front of the other, Ivy's feet screeching against the floor as she stubbornly refuses to let go of me. We're approaching the foyer. I'm close to freedom. My escape. And somewhere in the murky depths of my mind, I'm aware when I return tonight, there won't be any warmth to be found.
I will have my relief. I will set into motion what needs to be done to draw Abel out. But the cost is too great to consider right now. Best to plunge headlong into it, worrying about the consequences later.
"Santiago," Ivy growls, finally releasing me, only to run around my front and intercept me by slamming her palms against my chest. "I know what you're doing."
"Eavesdropping again?" I stagger back slightly as I hurl the accusation at her.
She raises her chin, eyes locked onto mine. Tears hang precariously from the edges of her lids. And here I had stupidly thought I was done making her cry.
A foolish notion if ever there was one.
"Don't." I bring my thumb up to wipe the moisture away.
She grabs my forearm, her gaze moving to the knife. "You can't do this."
"I can and I will."
My voice is gravelly. The drink, probably.
Her lip wavers, and she gently directs the knifepoint to her chest, holding it there. "Then you may as well stab me first."
When I don't answer her, she draws in a ragged breath.
"You won't just kill him," she whispers. "You will destroy my heart. Can you live with that?"
"You will hate me for a time," I croak. "But you will get over it."
"No, I won't." She tightens her grip on my arm. "I will die too. Killing him is killing me. It's killing what we have together."
"No," I growl.
"Yes." She brings her other hand up to my face, and reflexively, my eyes fall shut as she strokes my jaw. "You are not this man. You won't do this to me."
I want to tell her how wrong she is, but I am failing to harness the resistance I once had to her charms. When she touches me this way, when she begs me so softly, nothing else seems to matter.
Abel is a distant memory. My hatred for Eli is eclipsed by something bigger. Something that seems to have snuck inside me like a thief in the night, replacing the darkness with a glowing ember. An ember that Ivy stokes every day.
"You are poisoning me." I toss the knife onto the floor, and it skitters away. My fingers wrap around her face, hard, and she mirrors the action with her own fingers on my jaw.
"Accept it," she bites out. "Quit fighting what you feel."
"I have no feelings."
"You're a liar."
I don't know who moves first. One second, we're ready to strangle each other, and the next, our lips are colliding. She's dragging up her nightgown as I pick her up and stumble over to the entry table with a decorative vase on top. I plant her ass on top of it, spreading her thighs open, baring her pussy to me as she fumbles with my belt and zipper.
