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My mouth popped up. “You haven’t even heard who he is.”
“What’s there to know? He’s a Valverde. Their bloodline ends now.”
I shifted in my seat. “But—”
“The answer is no.” His gaze darkened on Cristiano. “If any man had anything to do with Bianca’s murder—”
“He’s not a man.” I swallowed. My father and Cristiano’s presence dwarfed me, but it couldn’t mute me. “He’s only seventeen. And he was a child when all of this happened.”
My father looked to Cristiano “You can’t allow it.”
Cristiano’s gaze drifted to the plate of crumbs before him as he flexed and curled his hand on the table. I could almost hear the wheels of his mind in motion. I’d made myself clear about Gabriel. What was there to think about?
“It’s Natalia’s call,” Cristiano said finally, “and the queen has decided to let him keep his head. I support her completely.”
“Natalia is too merciful”—he frowned at me—“I’m sorry, mi amor, but this is a man’s domain. If you want to be a queen, step up and—”
“I am being a queen.” With the weight of a proverbial crown, it took a little more effort to sit up straighter, but I did. “We don’t kill the innocent. Not every conflict is resolved with vengeance and violence. I learned that from you. You’re merciful. You’re fair. You showed Cristiano mercy when he was a boy, and look who he is now.”
“It’s a mistake,” he warned.
“But it’s mine to make.”
“The boy is a computer whiz,” Cristiano cut in. “He’s only been with us a week, but Eduardo reports he’s as talented as he claimed. He could have a lot to offer.”
I hoped that was true. I wouldn’t know if I’d made the right decision until—unless—Gabriel betrayed us. I was getting a crash course in the reality that my decisions no longer affected only myself, but my husband, and an entire town, too.
Cristiano’s expression soured as if he were about to endure a tooth extraction. “Enough of that.” He looked to me. “Tell him.”
Me? The nape of my neck got clammy. And for a moment, I understood all too well what my father had just been saying. I wanted to protect him from Diego’s gutless betrayal, from the news that he’d not only trusted an enemy for so long, but had kept him close.
I could ask Cristiano to tell him for me or have him take Papá into the basement to hear it for himself, the way I had. But Cristiano’s gaze challenged me. Showing strength when others needed it was part of my role.
I stood and rounded the table to sit in the seat next to Papá. When I reached out, he opened his hand, took mine, and brought my palm to his lips for a kiss. “¿Qué, querida? What’s wrong?”
“You warned me about Diego.”
He flinched back. “Yes, and finally, he’s out of the picture. Why are you bringing him up?”
“I should’ve listened—but even if I had, it would’ve been too late.” I paused to think of the best way to put it. I could soften the blow with gentle delivery—or, I could make my father hear me by speaking his language. “He fucked us over.”
Out of habit, I expected him to comment on my language, but he only gripped my hand more tightly and scowled. “Explain. Now.”
“The Valverdes acted out of desperation to salvage their cartel. But they had help. From Diego. And he was not a desperate man, but a vengeful one.”
My father’s eyes bulged in a way I’d never seen. I could always tell his anger by the way his gaze narrowed, overshadowed by his heavy brows. This was something more. “Diego . . . helped?”
“He’s the one who let the sicario into the house, tampered with the compound’s security system, and gave him the codes to the safe.”
My father had learned the necessary art of hiding his reaction, but it didn’t come naturally to him. Currently in safe company, his face turned cherry red as his hand shook holding mine. “I shouldn’t believe it so easily.” His low, deep voice reverberated through the room. “And that says everything. Bianca warned me.”
I squeezed his clammy hand. “He fooled everyone. Except maybe her.”
“Why?” Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. He shook his head. “I already know. His parents’ execution. Bianca said he harbored resentment over it. And I, always priding myself on being a good judge of character . . .”
“You are,” I said. “This doesn’t change that.”
“He fooled me, too,” Cristiano offered, his tone solemn. “And I was his brother.”
I didn’t miss his past tense reference. I glanced to Cristiano, eager to go to him. That Diego had hurt my husband and father so deeply lit embers of rage in me. I wanted to be fair and just, but did that mean I couldn’t also be ruthless when the time came? If I had Diego here in this room, would I try to hold Cristiano back, knowing the damage he could do? Or would I let loose the beast?
