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At dusk, the back patio glowed with strung white lights, and a square, candlelit table set for two. I’d found my way here on my own since Cristiano had disappeared while I was in the shower, and I hadn’t seen Jaz since that morning.
A temperate evening with an air of romance suited the long, floral, strapless dress I’d bought in Mexico City a few summers earlier. I’d found it hanging on the back of the closet door after my shower. Cristiano sat at the table, an ankle crossed over one knee as he scrolled on his cell phone. His shoulders were as high as his eyebrows were low. This time, he definitely didn’t sense me standing there. I’d snuck up on him—a first.
I recognized the tableware as fine china and silver, impeccably set in the organized manner my mother had tried to teach me as a girl. A bottle of white chilled in a marble wine cooler.
“Are you expecting company?” I asked from the doorway.
The frown he’d been wearing disappeared as he slipped his phone into the pocket of a white, linen dress shirt open at the collar. His eyes drifted over my dress. “Hermoso. It’s beautiful.”
I smoothed my hands down the front of the dress. “The staff does all this for you?”
“For us.” He stood and pulled out the chair next to him. “Sit.”
I walked by him to the seat across his instead, to the only other place setting. “It seems someone prefers me to sit here.”
He reached over and grabbed the corner of the placemat to slide it next to his. “Yet I have the final word.”
In all things, I was sure. I took my place beside him.
“Wine?” he asked, drawing out the frosty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
My mouth watered for a taste—not of the alcohol but of an escape. A way to dull my senses. But I had to be sharp as a tack to keep up with Cristiano. “No, thank you.”
“It’s French. Or would you prefer something of the Russian variety?” His eyes twinkled the way they had the night at the club, when he’d pulled two shots of chilled Siberian vodka from nowhere.
“I find myself suddenly on the wagon,” I said.
“¿Qué significa?” He made a face. “What does it mean?”
“Sober,” I explained.
“Ah. Probably wise, but I hope you don’t mind if I partake.” He poured himself a glass and didn’t bother to look, smell, or swish before taking a gulp. “That was quite a show earlier,” he said, examining the glass. “I don’t know whether to thank you or spank you for it.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Why would you spank me?”
“You thought it would rattle me. And it did. I enjoyed it, but that doesn’t mean I condone it.”
“It was only fair. You showed me yours, I showed you mine.” I put my napkin on my lap, averting my eyes. “Now we’re even.”
He snorted. “Hardly. You didn’t even look.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If you’d seen what I’ve got to offer, you’d either have dropped to your knees to give thanks—or fainted.”
I gaped at him. “Your arrogance knows no bounds. Diego was—”
“Nothing compared to me.” His mouth slid into a sinister smile.
“Such humility,” I mocked.
“I know when to be humble and when it isn’t necessary. In this case, I know what I have.” His eyes drifted over me. “But I have yet to know my own wife. Though I’m certain she has no reason to be humble, either.”
“I’m not a piece of meat,” I said.
He picked up his knife and scraped the blade across the tongs of a fork as if sharpening it. “Bon appétit, ma chérie.”
Hunger glinted in his eyes, but not for food. It wasn’t the first time I’d pictured him devouring me like an animal.
Fisker stepped onto the patio and set down a plate in front of each of us. “Escargot à la Bourguignonne in garlic-herb butter. Enjoy.”
I frowned at the dish, confronted with the first of the many horrible rumors I’d heard about the Badlands. “Are these . . . ?”
“Escargot,” Cristiano said blankly. “Have you been to France?”
“No,” I said, wondering how a half-dozen snails had made it onto my plate. Tepic had warned of satanic rituals like this—but compared to what my mind had conjured up, this was fairly ordinary. I couldn’t help it—I started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Cristiano asked. “Snails are a delicacy in France.”
“I know. It’s just . . . I heard these rumors about Calavera.”
He used a two-prong fork to remove the meat from its shell and dip it into the sauce. “Well?” he prompted.
I pinched one between my tongs. “I heard your cartel is like a cult.”
“What’s that got to do with snails?”
“You eat them and other strange foods, then you speak in tongues, sacrifice virgins, and throw rotten fish at whores.”
Cristiano chewed, nodded, and didn’t deny any of it. “I suppose to people who’d never been outside of México, likely those spreading these rumors, foreign foods like drunken shrimp, bratwurst, bird’s nest soup—or snails—would seem strange.”
