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“You’re right, Padre.” My father sighed heavily and dropped his eyes to the papers on his desk, dismissing me. Even as Omar touched my shoulder, giving me the sign that we should just get out while we’re ahead, I pulled away. “Sir.” My father’s eyes met mine again. “What should I do about this life debt? Can it be undone?”
My father’s eyebrow raised. “Are you not a man?” He pushed himself to his feet, and for a split second, I saw the pain naked on his face. It was becoming too much to mask, and we would have to address his diagnosis with the others soon. Fucking pancreatic cancer, and the prognosis wasn’t good. “Have I taught you nothing about being a man?”
My hands drew up into fists, and almost unconsciously, I stood straighter, pulling myself up to my full height. “I am a man,” I said. “You taught me to be a man.”
“Then tell me,” he said archly, “what do we do with life debts?”
I had been imagining what it would be like to hit my father for years. Just once with all my strength. I wouldn’t live long beyond that moment, but I couldn’t help but think that it might well be worth it. “We repay them. A man lives up to his obligations,” I answered by rote and resisted the urge to pinch at the bridge of my nose. A headache was beginning to build in my sinus cavity, and if I didn’t do something about it soon, it would swell into a migraine. “So, I protect her from the Rojas. For how long?”
“You’re not going toprotecther; you’re going to marry her.”
The world came to an abrupt halt, and all I could hear was my own breathing in my ears. “Padre —”
My father’s gaze grew sharp. His patience was dwindling toward the end. “Is she pretty, this girl?”
I thought of Emma’s piercing blue eyes and her lush bottom lip. The ugly polo and those horrible shorts she wore did nothing to frame the curves of her body, but I still remembered the moment we first met, when she’d drawn her shoulders back, almost inviting me to study those hidden curves. I let myself think of her as a woman and not a potential threat. “Yes,” I said. “She’s pretty.”And not suitable, I added silently. She has no concept of this life. There would be so much that I’d have to teach her. My patience wouldn’t stand for it…even if I was curious enough about what she was hiding under those hideous clothes.
“So, what’s the problem? It’s more than time for you to find a wife. Marrying her would give her spousal privilege, so she can’t be used against you legally, and the Rojases wouldn’t come near her. After she starts giving you legitimate children, you can take a mistress if you like.” He shrugged the last part off, as if marriage vows meant so little.
I have been in shock before. I was shot in the chest, and I could remember my body going almost pleasantly numb. My brain kept me warm when my body started going cold from blood loss. My brain was trying to do that now. To flood me with enough dopamine to keep me calm. To keep me from lashing out. It had gone into survival mode because I was going to have a stroke. “I don’t know her.”
My father scoffed. “Like that matters,” he said. “You’re going to fuck her. You don’t need to have a conversation with her.”
“She’ll never agree to this,” I tried again. “I just spent the afternoon telling her she was going to die. HowIwas going to kill her.”
Still, Padre did not look the least bit worried. “She’ll see sense,” he said. “Once she realizes that we’re the only ones who can offer her shelter and safety, she won’t resist.”
Images of my mother came to mind, unbidden. I remember her as beautiful with a smile that could pull anyone out of a bad mood, Padre included. But there was always a sadness in the twist of her mouth when no one else was looking; her eyes could become flat and lifeless at times. She and Padre hadn’t known each other when they got married, and as far as I knew, she hadn’t been given much of a choice in the matter. She was brought from Venezuela to be his bride. A gift from a supplier Padre had made rich.
“Padre, I can’t marry this girl,” I said, and from behind me, Omar choked. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her from the Rojases, but I won’t —”
My father stepped around his desk. “Can’t?” he asked in a low, dangerous tone. “Won’t?” My father loomed over me; he was built like Omar, tall and broad, and he used his size to his advantage. I always wondered if he was disappointed that as his firstborn, I didn’t have his physique. He approached me, but I stood my ground. Trying to back away or run now would make things worse. Padre reached out and gripped my chin, squeezing tightly. “Are you telling me no,mijo?” He looked past me. “Omar, Andre.”
Each man stepped forward and took one of my arms. My father balled his hand into a fist and swung at my face, connecting with my cheek. The pain was immediate and sharp, but I bit back the groan. I kept my eyes ahead. This was not the first time I’d been on the receiving end of my father’s retribution — and I had been in Omar’s position, holding his arms, just as many times. I knew if I made a sound of complaint or pain, it would get worse.
The next blow landed on my jaw. It was weaker this time, and I took my eyes off the wall to look at my father. From this close up, I could see the whites of his eyes were starting to turn yellow. His skin was sallow. He could hide it as a hangover, but he and I both knew the truth.
“You dare to defy me, after everything I do for you? After everything I have built for you? That’s how you repay me?” He swung again, aiming low and striking me in the ribs. Then, again.
I gripped Omar’s arm, appreciating my brother’s silent support and willed myself to be quiet, to take this like I have so many times before. When I was a child, these punishments were about the pain. If you made a choice that would get you hurt, you wouldn’t make that choice again — or you’d get better at hiding it.
The last time that it had truly hurt, I was fourteen, and I had been caught with a neighbor girl in my bedroom. She’d been sent home crying, and my father burst my spleen with the force of his kicks to my torso. He worried about me fathering a bastard but didn’t mind the emergency surgery that I had to have to save my life. After that, I threw myself into training with my father’s enforcers. I spent years with bruises all over my body from sparring and on jobs for my father so getting punched and kicked was no big deal. Especially by him.
I waited him out knowing I could easily fight back. I could overpower my father and take away the power he thought he possessed over me…but that would be treason. It would be worse than declaring war; it would be suicide. Not one person would back me in my bid to lead the family if I did it that way, and coup d’états only work when there’s a following. So, I willed myself to accept the humiliation of being beaten like a disobedient child.
My father punched me in the jaw again, rocking my head to the side. My vision swam and I tasted blood in my mouth. I thought about spitting it out on Padre’s Italian leather shoes, and I had to bite back a smile. I could and would endure this because one day very soon, this man would die, and I would take his place as head of the family. I could wait that long.
Padre’s anger abated, and he stepped back, massaging his knuckles. “Let him go,” he said, and I tried not to laugh at his panting. Hitting me had taken more out of him than it had me. Omar and Tío Andre released my arms, and I rolled my shoulders, letting the flashes of pain settle. “Now, is there any more discussion about your marriage to —” He snapped his fingers at me.
“Emma,” I supplied for him. “Emma Hudson…and no, Padre, I don’t need to discuss this anymore with you.”
My father eyed me, determining whether I was being sarcastic or not. “Good. I expect you to present me with the marriage license by the end of the week.” He waved his hand, dismissing me, and Omar all but dragged me from the room.
“Do you have a fucking death wish?” Omar asked.
I shrugged as we walked. “It didn’t hurt.”
Omar put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a mess. He wore his ring.”
