Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
The men exchanged an unfriendly glance. Over Pilar? She and Alejandro had become close spending time together here at the house, but Barto had known her for most of her life as my friend. He’d been quieter than usual tonight, his eyes roaming the room and the company. He was obviously uncomfortable as a guest in the Badlands despite Cristiano’s invitation.
As Pilar exited the room, Jazmín entered with a tray of tall shot glasses and a liquor bottle that looked more like a piece of art. A pewter mermaid embraced the tequila, her tail gracefully wrapped around a decanter topped with a skeleton.
“This is a two-thousand-dollar bottle of tequila,” Papá remarked as Jaz poured each of us a shot.
“It’s aged three years in French oak barrels right here in our region—only a hundred bottles were produced,” Cristiano said. “Sirena del Deseo.”
“Mermaid of desire,” I translated. Our eyes met. Cristiano and I had snuck down to the strip of beach below our balcony earlier. “Mi sirenita,” he’d called me—my little mermaid—as we’d swum and danced in the ocean, then fucked under the hot Mexican sun.
As Jaz distributed the drinks, Cristiano brought the back of my hand to his mouth for a kiss. “With the decanter, the artist tells the love story of a Mexican warrior who traveled to the very depths of the sea in search of his beloved mermaid.”
“How romantic,” Pilar said, crossing the room from the kitchen, her hands full with a cake. Behind her, one of the kitchen staff carried in a stack of plates and silverware. She set toothpicks on the table near Cristiano.
“Ah, Pilar’s famous tres leches cake,” my father commented.
She blushed, handing him the serving utensil. “As our guest, you get first slice, señor Cruz.”
“I don’t think the tequila is meant to be romantic,” I said, back on the decanter. “The warrior on top is a skeleton.”
“It is a love story, but a tragic one,” Cristiano said, “as he did not survive his quest.”
The warmth of his palm against mine did nothing to stem the trail of chills up my arm, nor did the graveness of his frown.
When we all had tequila and cake before us, I asked, “What’s the occasion?”
Cristiano’s mood lifted with a smile. “Do I need one to celebrate my wife and her family? Salud.”
We each raised our tequilas with a “¡Salud!” and sipped.
“Though, if my calculations are correct,” Cristiano added, lowering his glass, “today does mark six weeks since we stood in the church and said our vows.”
My eyes stayed locked with his. “Six weeks and a lifetime.”
“Give your husband a kiss to celebrate,” he said.
I pursed my lips, but not for a kiss. Everyone was watching, and Cristiano knew it. “When we’re alone.”
“No. Now.” He leaned over. “Come. Un beso.”
Drawn to him like a magnet, I inclined forward to meet him, balancing on his thigh as my mouth found his, the full, warm lips all at once new and familiar. I curled my fist against his leg. I knew him intimately and still had so much to discover. But I drew back quickly when I remembered we weren’t alone, lowering my eyes to the table as I blushed.
“What happened to your neck?” Barto’s abrupt question and hardened tone made my eyes jump to his. “That looks like the beginning of a hypertrophic scar.”
I covered the ugly imperfection as Cristiano and I exchanged a glance. I didn’t want to lie, but we hadn’t broached the subject of Belmonte-Ruiz’s strike with my father yet. The scar wasn’t overtly noticeable, but had started to become pink and raised. I’d originally put on a turtleneck for dinner, but on such a warm June night, Cristiano had said it looked suspicious—before reminding me to wear the symbol of my survival with pride.
“It’s nothing,” I said with my first bite of cake.
“She fell into a mirror,” Pilar volunteered. “It broke.”
Barto snorted, his knuckles whitening around his fork as he turned his glare on Cristiano. “She fell? You expect anyone to believe that?”
“Barto,” my father warned, then turned to me. “Is that true?”
“She can’t be honest,” Barto said. “If she is, she may ‘fall’ again. Or maybe it will be Pilar this time.”
His statement hung as eerie silence descended over the room. All eyes drew to Cristiano. He ate a chunk of his cake, chewing slowly before swallowing it down with a gulp of tequila that must’ve cost thousands of pesos. Looking at Barto, he leaned back in his seat. “Fuck you.”
Alejandro grabbed Barto’s arm as he tried to stand. “Tranquilo,” Alejo said. “Relax, friend. Cristiano hasn’t laid a hand on Natalia, and he never will.”
“Why should I believe it?” Barto asked.
Cristiano sucked his teeth. “Natalia and I need to speak to Costa in private.”
Alejandro and Pilar stood with their dishes, but Barto stayed where he was. “I’m here to protect and support Costa,” Barto said. “You can say anything in front of me.”