And so now, I’m just really fucking cranky.
But you’re free to think of me and everything you destroyed when you’re dying alone as a decrepit old man in this cold, empty palace.
Fucking cranky and really fucking heartbroken, that is.
I didn’t destroy shit, and none of it had to be this way.
Two days after Isla decided to defy me and caused a potentially giant and permanent thorn in my side, I’m in the middle of preparing notes to address the committee overseeing the implementation of the Freedom of Information Access Initiative, and my phone starts buzzing on the desk in my study.
Ernesto Reyes.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
I don’t know specifically why he’s calling, but I’ve got a pretty good idea.
“Good morning, suegro,” I answer, and then pause. “It is morning in New York, correct?”
Ernesto heaves a deep, raspy chuckle. “It is, mijo. Around 8:30. And I know it’s late afternoon there. How is your day treating you?”
“Very well.” I recline in my large, leather office chair and absently thumb through the stack of documents on the desk. “I have a meeting with the committee tomorrow morning to discuss the first phase of the initiative. I’ll be sure to have the minutes sent to your office later this week.”
“Excellent, excellent,” he says. “I’m pleased with the expedited process and the reception I’ve seen while perusing some of the local news from Corwick. Most of the analysts are speaking about it in a hopeful way. I think we should all feel good about that.”
“Yes, we should.” I swivel the chair from side to side and roll my wrist in a circle as if I can mentally will him to wrap it up before he gets to the topic I’m worried about.
“And speaking of the local news,” he goes on, and fuck. Here it is. “My daughter, Liliana… you know she’s one of these millennials, verdad?”
He chuckles heartily, and I match his laugh.
“She is indeed,” I agree.
“Yeah, yeah…” He chuckles again. “She loves that celebrity gossip. And she brought to my attention a little story about you and Isla that popped up in her Twitter feed this week.”
Fuck.
“Is that right?” I say neutrally, gripping my hand into a tight fist.
“It is. There were some pretty high def pictures that turned up,” he goes on, and there’s a mouse click in the background. “Looks like Isla’s got a nasty bruise on her face.” He pauses heavily, and my stomach curdles. “I also saw the statement you gave to the press about it, but I was wondering if you could give me the non-bullshit-saturated version of that, jovencito.”
My mouth is suddenly dry as a desert, and I gulp. “Ernesto, in all honesty, Isla and I have—”
“Actually, I don’t have any interest in hearing whatever mierda you’re about to try to feed me,” he rumbles. “You and I have an agreement, an understanding, and a contract. You gave me your word that if I placed my daughter in your care, that you would take care of her. I am not fucking stupid, Malachi. I know what all of those marks on her face really were, and I know they didn’t happen because she tripped on the fucking stairs. I had to answer to my wife because of that. You promised me that you and your security detail would ensure that estos matones would never be able to reach her. I didn’t think I had to specify that she needed protection from you also!”
“No, suegro, you didn’t need to specify that,” I say compliantly, shoving back from the desk so I can stand up and pace. “You’re not incorrect that I…” I cough. “Lost my temper the other day, and I behaved in a way that I regret, however—”
“However, nada!” Ernesto bellows. “Do not forget who I am, niño. Do not forget that I have no problem coming after you, just like all of those pendejos are trying to come after her. The piddly laws of your small country are no match for what I’ve got in my arsenal.”
“Underst—”
Ernesto ends the call before the entire word exits my mouth, and I toss the phone onto the desk.
“God dammit, Isla,” I growl, raking my hand through my hair as I march out of the office.
I furiously speed-walk the entire way from the east wing to the west wing, and once I arrive at her chamber at the end of the hall, I throw the door open without knocking.
And of course, she’s not in there.
I slam the door shut and spin on the balls of my feet, stomping away in search of her.
After descending the wide staircase, I cross the house, and the sound of conversation that’s way too fucking chipper grates on my nerves. The closer I get to the source of it, I’m able to decipher that it’s Isla and Mrs. Maisely doing some fucking thing in the kitchen, and I hook around the corner in the large dining room into the hall that leads to the kitchen’s service entrance.
Gripping the doorframe, I stride into the kitchen and find the both of them, clothing and hands covered in flour while they appear to be rolling out cookies, and what the fuck?
“Duchess,” I snap.
Both Isla and Mrs. Maisely jump as they look up at me.
“I demand an audience with you,” I hiss, pushing against the doorframe and pivoting back out of the room. “Clean yourself up and meet me in the library. Alone.”
It’s pushing five in the evening, and I decide that’s late enough in the day for a drink, so I pour a stiff glass of scotch from a crystal decanter while I wait for her. Three minutes later, I hear the soft pad and shuffle of bare feet crossing the marble and then the oriental rug in the library, and I whip around to point at her with my glass.
“Sit down,” I bark.
Isla immediately plants her spectacularly round ass on an ornate, emerald green couch in the center of the room, but shoots daggers at me with her seething russet eyes.
“What is your problem today, Malachi?”
I stride across the library, suspending the crystal tumbler at the level of my waist as I stop in front of her and tower my height over her defiantly upturned face. “I just got off the phone with your father.”
She’s leaning forward toward me for all of two seconds before sitting back against the couch and arching one elegant, black eyebrow at me. “And?”
I down the entire glass of scotch. “And the little stunt you pulled the other day showed up in Lili’s Twitter feed.”
“Ha!” A quick, breathy laugh expels from her throat as she crosses her arms over her chest and crosses her legs. She’s dressed in a classy-as-hell white blouse and slim-fitting black pants cropped just above the ankle, and with her hair tied back into a thick, ebony ponytail, she looks like the Latina version of Audrey Hepburn. Something about her appearance hits me over the head with the idea that, if only she hadn’t fucked me over, she honestly would have been the perfect duchess. She always had been the potential perfect duchess. Beautiful, charming, raised well with all the proper social graces, and not to mention the fact that I’d never loved anything more than her. Now that she actually is my duchess, it’s all a filthy, twisted alternative version of everything that could have been. “What’s done in the dark will be brought to the light, cabron.”
I pitch forward, bracing one hand on the back of the couch behind her so I can level my gaze on hers, our faces only a breath apart. “I know what that means, so don’t make me wash out your filthy mouth with soap.”