And right now, I’m drunk enough to do whatever the fuck I want with no thought given to the aftermath.
With the necklace still draped around my neck, and the glass of scotch in one hand, I close my fist around the cold, heavy, ornate grip of the Desert Eagle and lift it out of the box. I set down the scotch only long enough to pull back the slide and check the chamber.
Fully loaded.
I release the slide, and it snaps back into place with that distinctive sound of metal scraping metal.
Then I pick up the scotch and go search for my wife.
SIX
ISLA
Present
Joaquin Reyes: I won’t hesitate to kill him, chica
Joaquin Reyes: Idc if I’ve known him my whole life
Joaquin Reyes: I can make it look like an accident
Isla Reyes: I’m fine, manito.
Joaquin Reyes: u sure?
Joaquin Reyes: I really can make it look like an accident :D
Isla Reyes: I know. Te quiero.
I stare at the thread of messages from my brother for about thirty minutes before setting the phone on the nightstand and give up on sleep for a little while. I haven’t had a lot of moments of homesickness, mostly because I’ve been too angry and resentful to be sad, but the messages definitely make me miss home right now.
It’s a little after eleven p.m., and there’s a batch of polvorones down in the kitchen, and I kind of need one right now. The recipe Mrs. Maisely and I used is the same one Mamá taught me when I was little, so a small taste of home will be enough to help me feel better.
The palace is cavernous and dark at this late hour, with only low-glowing sconces at intermittent places on the wall of the long hallway leading to the grand staircase. It’s barely enough light for me to get down the stairs and across the first floor. With pale moonlight spilling through the windows, the estate is reduced to a collection of shadows that stretch long and forebodingly across my path to the kitchen.
It’s also eerily quiet. I’ve never ventured out of my room at such a late hour, and Mrs. Maisely and the staff retired to their respective quarters hours ago. I don’t know where Malachi is, but I’m sure he’s brooding in the east wing like he always seems to do. The Beast to my Belle in this twisted version of what could’ve been a Disney fairytale had he not transformed into a living, breathing nightmare.
In the kitchen, I flip a switch that illuminates a line of pendant-style Edison bulbs suspended from the ceiling above the large, granite island. The plate of polvorones sits in the center, covered in plastic wrap, and I slip one out, turning it over in my hand as I recall his apology from earlier.
Apology,if that’s what you can really call it. I doubt he actually meant it and probably just didn’t like getting called out by Papá for being completely in the wrong. Malachi is a cold-hearted monster now, and he has no capacity to apologize for anything.
And I’m still going to figure out how to get the hell out of this marriage.
That is… if Papá will allow me to.
Suppressing a sigh, I dip my fingertip into the guava paste at the center of the cookie and taste it. Normally, the paste is baked along with the cookie, but I’ve always liked to add it afterward because that way it stays soft and moist, rather than chewy and sticky between my teeth.
Just as I’m lifting the cookie to the level of my mouth, my eyes catch a dark glimmer of red from the opposite side of the kitchen. The low glow of the Edison bulbs makes it difficult to decipher the figure that slowly emerges from the shadows for a second or two, but then it registers.
Malachi.
What is he doing down here at this hour?
Our eyes lock as he continues to approach me, and then my gaze flicks from his on reflex as I notice what looks like a rope of jewels draped around his neck. He’s also carrying a crystal tumbler of amber liquor and agun.
My hand stills with the cookie right in front of my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
The silver moonlight and dim, gold hue from the bulbs cast his hard, aristocratic features in sharply carved angles, and his pewter eyes glint back at me like those of a wolf stalking its prey. He rounds the corner of the large island and stops only a few inches from me, and then he sets the scotch on the counter.
