"If Eli were to die for real, there would be a temptation waiting there even Abel couldn't resist. The elevation of his status in the Moreno family."
It's the undeniable answer to all of my problems.
Vengeance for my family's death.
A honey pot to lure Abel back to the Society.
There's just one thing standing in my way.
My unfortunate wife.
"Knock, knock."
I drag my attention from the knife in my hand to the doorframe. I'm surprised to find Angelo standing there, but I suppose it shouldn't be much of a shock. I've been expecting him to come back and claim the final piece of the puzzle he asked me for.
"You look tired." He walks inside and drops his body into the chair across from me.
"I am fucking tired," I murmur unintelligibly. "Life is exhausting."
"Yet here we both are, still waking up every day," he muses.
I offer him the bottle of scotch, which he declines.
"I know, you aren't here for pleasantries." I fumble around with the keypad on the safe in my bottom drawer, opening it up to retrieve the file I need.
When I sent word to Angelo that I finally had a name for him... a record of who was funding the mysterious bank account he asked me to track, I expected him to arrive within a couple of days. It's been less than ten hours, which tells me he jumped a flight from Seattle this afternoon.
"It's all in there." I set the file onto the desk between us, my palm covering it as if it can shield him from this news.
He glances at it, arching a brow. "You're sure?"
"The proof is there. They were good, but not as good as me. I have a name, an IP address, and every location they've funneled it through, traced back to the origin point."
He reaches out to take the file. But I still can't seem to lift my palm.
"Is this the person who incriminated you?" I ask. "The one who sent you to prison?"
He gives me a stiff nod. "Yes."
Both our hands are on the file now. His inching it toward him, mine adding resistance.
"Once you see this, there's no going back," I tell him.
He freezes, searching my face for answers. And at this moment, I think his betrayal was far worse than mine. I was betrayed by someone I thought of as a father. Angelo was betrayed by his own blood. He is the rightful Sovereign Son. The firstborn heir. But someone wanted to usurp him, and I'm not sure I can be the one to deliver this news.
If I'm being honest, I know he knows already. Intuition is a powerful thing. That's why I know I could not have been wrong about Eli. I felt his betrayal, and I still do.
"Give me the file, Santiago," Angelo tells me calmly. "I can handle it."
Slowly, I release it. And then I watch him as he opens it, studies the name, blinks twice, and shuts it again.
"You are certain?" he asks again.
"I would bet my life on it."
Silence settles between us as he digests the news, his face unmoving. He stares at the closed folder, and I stare at him.
"What will you do?" I ask for my benefit as much as his.
Angelo has found himself in a predicament so similar to mine, and admittedly, I want his answer to reflect the one I feel burning within me right now.
"I will destroy him and take everything he loves." He rises to his feet, tucking the file inside of his jacket. "Including her."
I nod, and my gaze drifts back to the knife on my desk. The one engraved with the De La Rosa crest. It's the knife that's been passed down for generations to every firstborn son. It would only be fitting that it's the same knife I plunge into Eli's heart.
"And what will you do, Santiago?" Angelo asks, his eyes moving between me and the knife.
My answer is simple, a potent cocktail of my grief and too much scotch.
"I will do the same."
19
Santiago
I'm stumbling down the hall when a small hand wraps around my arm from behind, determined to halt me. I sway slightly, trying to shrug it off, but the grip tightens.
"Santiago."
My wife's voice is like a sweet caress, one I have indulged in far too many times. I can't turn around. I refuse to face her. She won't poison my thoughts anymore.
This must be done tonight.
"Stop," she commands as I lurch forward again.
When I fail to obey, she wraps both her arms around my waist, as if the weight of her body could possibly slow my progress. That's what I tell myself, and if I weren’t so inebriated, I would know it to be true. She is featherlight in my arms, but right now, I'm having difficulty carrying my own weight.
"Look at me," she pleads. "Turn around and look at me."
I don't. I can't. I keep forging on, dragging her along with me. The knife is still clutched in my palm, the blade heavy and sharp. Perhaps I should have grabbed the sheath. But I will not allow her to slow my progress.
"Go back to bed," I snarl.
"This isn't you." Her voice rises. "You're drunk."
I ignore her logic and put one foot in front of the other, Ivy's feet screeching against the floor as she stubbornly refuses to let go of me. We're approaching the foyer. I'm close to freedom. My escape. And somewhere in the murky depths of my mind, I'm aware when I return tonight, there won't be any warmth to be found.
I will have my relief. I will set into motion what needs to be done to draw Abel out. But the cost is too great to consider right now. Best to plunge headlong into it, worrying about the consequences later.
"Santiago," Ivy growls, finally releasing me, only to run around my front and intercept me by slamming her palms against my chest. "I know what you're doing."
"Eavesdropping again?" I stagger back slightly as I hurl the accusation at her.
She raises her chin, eyes locked onto mine. Tears hang precariously from the edges of her lids. And here I had stupidly thought I was done making her cry.
A foolish notion if ever there was one.
"Don't." I bring my thumb up to wipe the moisture away.
She grabs my forearm, her gaze moving to the knife. "You can't do this."
"I can and I will."
My voice is gravelly. The drink, probably.
Her lip wavers, and she gently directs the knifepoint to her chest, holding it there. "Then you may as well stab me first."
When I don't answer her, she draws in a ragged breath.
"You won't just kill him," she whispers. "You will destroy my heart. Can you live with that?"
"You will hate me for a time," I croak. "But you will get over it."
"No, I won't." She tightens her grip on my arm. "I will die too. Killing him is killing me. It's killing what we have together."
"No," I growl.
"Yes." She brings her other hand up to my face, and reflexively, my eyes fall shut as she strokes my jaw. "You are not this man. You won't do this to me."
I want to tell her how wrong she is, but I am failing to harness the resistance I once had to her charms. When she touches me this way, when she begs me so softly, nothing else seems to matter.