Violent Delights (White Monarch Book 1) Read online

  Violent Delights

  White Monarch, 1

  In the de la Rosa family, old grudges run deeper than loyalty, and betrayal is a three-letter word: war. But this feud isn’t between enemies. It’s between brothers. And I’m the prize.

  I was born a princess among criminals. An untouchable among thieves. Heiress to a life others have killed for, and one I'd do anything to escape. I vowed not to leave without Diego, my first love and best friend, but if his ruthless brother has his way, I won’t leave at all. Cristiano de la Rosa is a man as big and bold as his legend. Once upon a time, he was our cartel’s best soldier . . . until he became my family’s worst enemy.

  A man like Cristiano will bend fate to his will to get what he wants. Even if it means dragging me to hell—and tearing me from his brother's arms.

  “She is mine.” Three words from two different men.

  A life, future, and love I don’t get to choose.

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  Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Hawkins

  Editing by Elizabeth London Editing

  Beta by Underline This Editing

  Proofreading by Paige Maroney Smith

  Cover Designed by Najla Qamber Designs

  Cover Photographed by Perrywinkle Photography

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Prologue

  From my bedroom balcony, I danced to the upbeat mariachi music coming from the parade in town. Street fireworks popped and crackled to a soundtrack of trumpets and violins. I couldn’t see much beyond the fortress of olive trees surrounding the compound. They’d been planted after my first birthday party, when my father had been shot at in the backyard while holding me. The sicario had hit an inflatable bouncy castle instead, trapping kids inside and inciting a mob of screaming parents. That was what my best friend had told me, anyway, and Diego would know, since his parents had ordered the hit.

  I waved to one of the guards, who tipped his AK-47 to me. I was supposed to be at the Day of the Dead parade now, honoring the deceased. Diego had promised me two slices of sugar skull cake if I went early and got a good spot, but since Papá was out of town with half his security, my mother didn’t want me leaving the premises without her. And as important as every man around here acted, she was the neck that turned the head of the Cruz cartel.

  I went back inside to see why she was taking so long, twirling through the maze of hallways so the colorful, floral embroidery of my floor-length skirt ran together. Almost an hour ago, my mother had been nearly ready in an off-the-shoulder, white, green, and yellow dress with a red ruffle along the bottom. She’d pulled her hair back with silk, orange marigolds, and I’d stood on a stepstool to clasp her necklace, a starburst with gilded chains heavy enough to sink a small ship.

  “We’re missing the parade,” I called as I skipped down the corridor, my woven leather sandals clicking on the tile. I rounded the corner into my parents’ sunny bedroom, tripped, and landed in a puddle.

  A pair of combat boots stopped in front of me. I raised my eyes to meet the cold, distant gaze of a man dressed in all black—Cristiano de la Rosa, a high-level member of my father’s security team.

  “Get out of here,” he ordered. “Now.”

  Cristiano was all brawn, beast, and towering height with opaque eyes to match his hair. Based on the stories Diego had told me, people feared his older brother, but I had no real reason to. Though their parents had been enemies of ours once, Cristiano and Diego had been on our side for eight of the nine years I’d been alive.

  Plus, Mamá had always told me—go to Cristiano in an emergency. He would protect me.

  But something was off. He didn’t like me being here.

  In one of his large, powerful hands, he held an army-green duffel bag. In the other, a solid black gun. Then, there was the blood—on his pants, splattered on his shoes and hands.

  And on mine. Warm and sticky between my fingers, soaking through my fancy skirt. Not even its metallic smell could mask my mother’s signature perfume.

  I looked over my shoulder. I hadn’t tripped over my own two feet, but hers. Mamá was lying on her back. Sunlight glinted off the large, gold necklace she’d bought for the parade. Her gleaming black hair was coming loose from its bun after she’d spent all that time pinning flowers in it. She shouldn’t be on the ground in her expensive new dress—it was already ripped at the neckline. The vibrant design almost hid what seeped through its fabric, pooling on the terracotta tile underneath her body.

  Blood.

  Goose bumps started at my scalp and spread to my fingers and toes. No.

  Gasping for air, I scrambled to her side. “Mamá.”

  Her lids eased open as she struggled to focus. “Natalia,” she managed.

  My chin wobbled as I fought back tears and grasped her still-warm hand. A bruise formed on her cheek.

  “Mija.” She fought to keep her eyes open, but they went glassy as her gaze shifted over my head. “Please, Cristiano,” she begged, her voice strangled. “Please don’t . . .” She shuddered with the effort. “My daughter . . .”

  “I’m here,” I whispered, but she wasn’t talking to me.

  I looked up at Cristiano. His jaw sharpened as he clenched it and turned his face away. “Sueña con los angelitos.”

  Dream with little angels. When I turned back, she’d gone still.

  “No,” I whispered.

  Cristiano tossed the bag and gun onto the cloud-like comforter and reached for me. On instinct, I dove under the bed, knowing he’d be too big to follow—and came face to face with la Monarca Blanca. I wrapped my hand around the cold, hard metal of my father’s two-tone silver-and-gold-plated 9mm. Time slowed as I ran my thumb over the pearl grip where the name was engraved into the side.

  White Monarch.

  I choked back a sob. This was the kind of emergency I was supposed to go to Cristiano for, but he was the one standing over my mother’s dead body as she begged him for mercy.

  He grabbed my ankles and slid me out from under the bed. I screamed in a way I never had before, ear-splitting, throat-shredding, as I tried to kick him off.

  He clamped a hand over my mouth as his other arm circled my body and pinned my arms to my sides. “Natalia, hush,” he said in his chillingly deep voice as he lifted me off the ground. “Let me handle this.”

  I wailed against his hand, thrashing and trying to hit him with the gun, but my arms were trapped. I slammed my heels into his thigh and groin.

  But Cristiano was the cartel’s most lethal soldier for a reason. It wouldn’t have mattered who I was—nobody could match his strength, which had to be that of two men. By the age of twenty-three, he had more kills under his belt than most in the cartel.

  He’d been raised as a weapon.

  His hands had taken the lives of our family’s enemies—but never any of our own.

  Until now.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Diego rushed into the room with his gun drawn. He stopped short and sucked in a breath as he noticed the body. He shut his lids briefly. I tried to call for my best friend, but Cristiano’s hand muffled my words.

  Diego’s eyes flew open and darted over Cristiano and me. He was dressed for the parade in a loose, white button-down and jeans. He scanned the room, his gaze shrewd as he tucked
some loose strands of his brown hair behind his ear. “What the hell is this? What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Cristiano said. “I got here right before you did.”

  Liar. I inhaled smoke and gunpowder as I squirmed against Cristiano’s hand, trying to convey to Diego what I’d seen.

  Diego turned his attention on me, his forehead wrinkling as if he was trying to read my mind. He did this, I tried to tell him. Cristiano shot her.

  After a moment, Diego swallowed. “Put Natalia down.”

  “Holster the gun, and I will,” Cristiano answered.

  Diego looked at his pistol as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. He was no saint, either—he’d done things I wasn’t supposed to hear about at my age, according to Papá—but that didn’t make Diego anything like his brother. Diego was a lover, not a fighter. He was only sixteen, and he still had a chance to make something of his life. His eyes drifted from the firearm to my mother, then across the room. His expression eased as realization seemed to dawn on him. He turned back to Cristiano.

  “After everything they’ve done for us?” Diego asked and gestured the gun toward my parents’ walk-in closet. “This is how you repay them?”

  The safe lay open and empty except for scattered paperwork. The White Monarch had been in there, along with cash and my mother’s jewels. I tried to nod at the duffel bag but couldn’t move my head.

  “Careful what you say, Diego,” Cristiano said evenly. “You know I didn’t do this.”

  “Then who?” Diego asked. “The house is surrounded by security. Who else could get in here? In the safe?”

  “It was already open,” Cristiano said in an increasingly frustrated voice. “As I said, I walked in right before you.”

  Diego shoved his fingers through his hair, then spotted the duffel. “What’s that?” Diego would never hurt me, but when he raised his gun at us, my heartbeat quickened. He kept the weapon and his eyes on Cristiano as he moved toward the bed. With his free hand, Diego slid the bag across the comforter and glanced inside. “Cash and jewelry from the safe, but not much.”

  “I know.” Cristiano readjusted his grip around my torso. “I found it discarded by the bed.”

  “Where’s the rest of it?”

  Cristiano hesitated. “Someone must’ve been here—”

  “Impossible,” Diego said, and he was right. My father took no risks when it came to his family’s safety. “There are two ways in—through the guards out front or the guards at the tunnels.”

  Diego took a two-way radio from his back pocket.

  “Diego,” Cristiano said, warning clear in his voice. “Don’t.”

  He pressed a button and spoke into the device. “Doña Bianca has been shot. By Cristiano. I need security in here now.”

  Cristiano noticeably stiffened behind me. “Vete a la chingada,” he cursed. “You’re going to tell Costa I did this? I’m your blood, Diego.”

  “And Bianca was just as much my family.” The anguish in Diego’s eyes conveyed what my mother meant to him. At her urging, my family had taken him in when he was only eight and Cristiano was fifteen. Tears leaked from my eyes and onto Cristiano’s hand as I looked anywhere but at her body.

  “She was family to me, too,” Cristiano said through his teeth. He was so angry, his voice broke, and he forgot to keep my mouth covered. “You can’t accuse me of hurting her.”

  “All you do is hurt people,” I screamed. “You’re a—”

  He slapped his hand over my mouth just as the front door slammed downstairs. “Fuck,” Cristiano said. “Tell them I didn’t do this, Diego, or they’ll kill me on the spot.”

  “Release Natalia,” Diego begged. “Please. Try to remember who you were before all of this—you wouldn’t have hurt an innocent girl.”

  Cristiano started left then shifted to go right, as if trapped. Finally, he released my mouth but kept me against him like a shield as he one-handedly wrestled the White Monarch from my grip.

  He was going to kill Diego next.

  Diego.

  The boy who’d not only watched me grow up, but had protected me like an older brother. Who’d never treated me like a little girl despite a seven-year age difference. Who brought me stinky marigolds when I was sad and never complained that we could only ride our horses up to and along the fence Papá had built to keep me in, even though Diego could go anywhere he wanted.

  Diego’s eyes widened as Cristiano got the gun from me. It would devastate Diego to kill his own brother, but for Cristiano to shoot Diego, it would mean nothing. Cristiano took lives all the time.

  “You’re caught, brother,” Diego said. His nostrils flared as his anger finally seemed to override his confusion. “Don’t make this worse than it is. Put her down and face them.”

  Boots pounded up the staircase with a chorus of shouting men. Cristiano carried me toward the door, his back to the wall, eyes on Diego. He switched the gun to his other hand to lock the door.

  In that split second, Diego lunged forward.

  Cristiano whipped around and pulled the trigger.

  I screamed when the shot rang through the air, covering my ears as I hit the ground. Diego crumpled, clutching his bloodied thigh.

  Men pounded at the bullet-resistant door Papá had specially installed. Fists hammered the wood, followed by what sounded like the butts of their rifles.

  Cristiano picked up Diego’s gun, stuck it in his waistband, and leveled the White Monarch on his brother’s writhing body. “You left me no choice. Loyalty is king around here, but look how quickly it’s broken.”

  “Don’t shoot—I know a way out,” I exclaimed through my sobs. Cristiano towered over me, looking like the Grim Reaper himself. “I can help you escape,” I said.

  Cristiano stilled. “It’s not possible.”

  “I know a secret way.” My voice shook. I wasn’t helping my mother’s killer, I told myself, but protecting Diego and me.

  “Natalia, no,” Diego said, huffing as he made an effort to sit up. “He—he has to pay for this.”

  “Where is it?” Cristiano asked.

  Diego was getting unnaturally pale as if he might pass out any second. I got to my feet and started to go to him, but Cristiano grabbed my arm and yanked me back against his hip. “They’ll get in before he dies. Show me the way out.”

  Diego groaned and closed his eyes, and I inhaled a quick, stuttering breath to keep my panic at bay. “The c-closet,” I managed.

  Cristiano marched me back across the room and into my old nursery. Once I’d outgrown the space, my mother had converted it into a sizeable walk-in closet that held much more than just clothing. There were walls of shoes, purses, drawers, and mirrors, as well as an island in the center for her costume jewelry and Papá’s ties.

  Cristiano took a chair from my mother’s vanity dresser, wedged it under the closet’s door handle, and turned to look at me. “Now what?”

  I couldn’t think. There was a bullet in my mother’s stomach and one in my best friend’s leg. My bloodied skirt stuck to my knees. I was going to be sick. “The . . . the dresses.”

  Cristiano walked to me. He put the chilled metal barrel of the gun under my chin and tilted back my head to get me to look him in the eye. “If they get in here before I get out, I can’t promise we’ll both make it out alive. Show me the escape, or tell your father I didn’t do this. Those are your options.”

  I tried to swallow, but I couldn’t even breathe. I’d never been so sure I would die if I made one wrong move. I shook my head hard. “I won’t lie for you.”

  “Look what loyalty got me, Natalia.” He raised the gun higher and I glanced down the barrel. The silver nearly sparkled under the closet’s lamp. “Whether I did or didn’t do this, I’m dead. If they don’t get me here, they’ll hunt me down. That isn’t loyalty, and there is no justice.”

  “Loyalty?” I was shaking now, but there was no quiver in Cristiano’s voice, no tremble in his hand. “You killed my mother. Why? She ca
red about you—she treated you like a son.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as we stared at each other. “Show me the way out,” he commanded.

  “I’ll help you, but only to save Diego,” I said. “Promise you’ll never come back here.”

  “I can’t.” His expression hardened as his voice dropped. “Consider this a lesson—never trade your life for someone else’s.”

  I backed away slowly, turned, and went to the safe. Amongst the papers, I found the small metal box I needed. I popped it open, took out a key, and stilled with a bang from the next room. If security was breaking down the door, then Diego must not have been able to let them in. I quickly prayed he was still alive.

  I hurried to the closet that held my mother’s party dresses. They were heavy enough that I had to use both hands to push them apart so I could crawl through them. “In here,” I said.

  Against the closet’s back wall, I felt around for a keyhole. It was dark, but my father had walked me through this plenty of times. There were tunnels under the house all the security knew about, including Cristiano, but this secret passageway was only for my parents and me. When I’d pointed out to Papá that the men who’d built it must’ve known about it, he’d exchanged a grim look with my mother and changed the subject.

  I put the key into the hole, but it was already unlocked. I slid the wall open to reveal a dark, dank room. “There.”

  If Cristiano was surprised, he didn’t show it. “There what?”

  I pointed to a trapdoor inside. “Go down that hole. There are no lights; you’ll have to feel your way.”

  He stared into the dark. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

  “It’s your only choice.”

  He got closer, his presence looming tall. “Open it for me.”

  It wasn’t a request. Fortunately, my father had ensured that I knew the escape drill well, so entering the small space wasn’t foreign to me.

  I squatted down to unlatch the trapdoor that led to the one passageway nobody else knew about. Cristiano closed and bolted the door behind himself, extinguishing everything but a sliver of the closet’s warm light.