The women on his arms titter, but his gaze sweeps past them, over the gathering staff and guards, until it lands higher up the stairs.
"Margarita!" he calls, grinning wide enough to show every perfect tooth. "Come show yourself to an old man before my heart gives out."
I don’t see her at first. She must have been waiting in the shadows, watching the scene unfold with that predator’s patience of hers. Waiting for the perfect moment to make her entrance. Without a sound, she brushes past me, a whisper of silk and something expensive clinging to her skin, her entrance timed for maximum effect. She moves to the top of the staircase as if she’s answering the roll call of royalty, her chin tilted, eyes alight with a mix of amusement and disdain.
"Who," she says, in a silky voice, just low enough that everybody needs to strain, "is this brute bellowing my name through the house as though he owns it?"
In the low amber light, she is… perfection. Not a day over forty, though I know she’s almost double that age. And somehow, Silvestre Valverde also doesn’t look a day over fifty; a wolfish grin spreads over bronzed skin. He, too, has to be in his eighties.
The room stills.
"Margarita," Silvestre booms again, that grin never faltering. "Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to make an entrance worthy of me."
Her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. "And don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to arrive without an entourage of giggling ornaments."
The two women at his sides exchange glances, clearly not used to being dismissed so publicly. He only laughs, a deep sound that seems to shakethe walls.
"You wound me," he says, but there’s nothing wounded about him. He lets the women go without a second glance, spreading his arms wide as if to receive her. And she indulges him. Slowly, she begins her descent, each step deliberate, her gown pooling and shifting around her like liquid shadow. All queen, all power, all command. She doesn’t even glance at the two young women, who now stand awkwardly by the door, jealousy plain on their faces.
When she reaches him, Silvestre pulls her into an embrace that’s far too familiar and far too lingering for my comfort. And then, to my horror, he kisses her, deep and indulgent, like a long-lost lover. There is no doubt in my mind that he's Isabella's father and that the two of them have been lovers for ages.
I feel my stomach turn.
The two discarded women stare, mouths parted in disbelief, as if the scene before them has rewritten the rules of the world they live in. All I can think is that whatever history these two share, it’s not justhistory, it’s ammunition. The kind of weapon that can level empires or start wars with a whisper. And in my world, being anywhere near that kind of firepower doesn’t make you safe. It makes you a target.
Roberto sidles up to me, making an exaggerated gagging sound under his breath. "My grandma is making a spectacle of herself," he mutters, all mock disgust.
Before I can respond, he slips into his gentleman’s mask, offering me his arm like we’re about to descend into a ballroom scene from some gilded age. His palm rests lightly against my hand, the grip is just firm enough to remind me who’s really in control.
We start down the stairs together, and from a side staircase that leads below, Aurelio appears, flanked by two of his men. He steps forward with that smooth, deliberate stride, his gaze already on Roberto.
"Roberto," Aurelio says with the politeness of a man who never says anything without a reason. "Allow me to introduce my father, Don Silvestre Valverde."
Silvestre's grin widens, and he sweeps an arm toward me. "And who’s this lovely creature?"
Before I can answer, Margarita drifts in beside him like a shadow taking form. Silvestre turns to her with a roguish smile. "Where are my daughters, Margarita? You didn’t keep them from me, did you?"
My gaze darts to Silvestre's laughing green eyes, the same ones I envied on Isabella.
I also notice something else: Margarita is watching Aurelio out of the corner of her eye. Watching the place he just came from. Her smile doesn’t falter, but the smallest crease forms between her brows, a frown she’s too skilled to let anyone else see.
Whatever’s behind the door Aurelio emerged from… she’s already decided it matters.
A few hours earlier…
I come to slowly, my head pounding like someone’s been using it for a punching bag. The air is damp, metallic, and smells like rust, blood, and old screams. My arms are stretched high; my wrists are bound in steel cuffs that bite into the skin. My feet barely touch the cold, wet concrete. I notice I'm also naked. Not for pain. For humiliation. A message:you’re nothing here.
A voice cuts through the haze. Smooth. Amused. "You’re finally awake."
I lift my head. Aurelio Valverde stands a few feet away, perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place, like he just stepped into a boardroom instead of a goddamn torture chamber.
"Now, puta," he says, the word dripping with contempt, "why did you plan to break into my home?"
It comes back to me in a rush.
Sophia.
Fuck.
