turn in the chair to look up at him, resting my hand over his. “If this is going to work, you can’t hide the dark stuff from me. After all that’s happened, I think I’ve proven I’m strong enough to handle it. If your mother was resentful, maybe it’s because the people in her life treated her like a porcelain doll.”
Diego offers his smile again, but it’s strained and slightly sad. “You’re not porcelain. You’re steel—hard and hammered to a beautiful finish. I knew that the first time I saw you.”
He slips his hand from beneath mine and strokes my cheek. Then, he moves toward the window, staring out into the night.
“My mother hanged herself in one of the third-floor rooms,” he says. “She moved herself up there once I made it clear I didn’t want her in my presence. I’d had enough of her manipulation. She’d been dead for two days before Mariana found her.”
I press a hand over my mouth, my stomach twisting and quivering. “Holy shit,” I whisper into my palm.
Diego goes on talking as if I haven’t said anything, his back hard and unmoving, the fabric of his shirt stretched tight over the bulges of muscle.
“In families like ours, it’s the father’s job to mold the son in his image. It’s rare for mafia sons to grow up to be anything other than gangsters. It’s the only life we know. Once I was old enough to understand what it all meant, my father started teaching me about the business side of things. On my tenth birthday, he bought me my first gun. We spent hours at the range practicing. As his son, I had to be of use. I had to put aside my toys and my video games and act like a man. I couldn’t be weak. Tears were the worst sin I could commit, and if I shed a single one he thrashed me with his fists.”
My throat starts to constrict until I can hardly breathe. Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. The last thing I want is for Diego to take them for pity. My heart is breaking at the image of a handsome little boy, trying to be brave when a grown man is coming at him with massive fists. I’ve seen the portrait of Diego’s parents in the conference room where he meets with his men. The man had been large like his son—muscular and intimidating. I can’t imagine being so small and helpless in the face of that.
“My mother had other ideas,” Diego says between slow sips of Scotch. “She argued with my father all the time about my training. He wasn’t pushing me hard enough or teaching me the most important lessons … things she insisted I needed to know if I was going to fill his shoes someday. I don’t think they knew I overheard most of their squabbles. When I wasn’t being trained, I was practically invisible to them. Two nannies were responsible for making sure I was fed and clothed and taken to school. The only time our family was together was for Sunday mass, and even then it was like sitting with virtual strangers. I barely knew them.”
“Anyway, Mother finally got sick of waiting for my father to become the man she wanted him to be. He was weak, and his mistakes either lost the cartel millions in cargo or goods, or got his soldiers killed. The Pérez family had more enemies under his reign than any other boss in its history. He was too quick-tempered and impulsive, and everyone knew it. So, one day, my mother came to me and explained that our lives were in danger. At least half my father’s men were planning a coup. They wanted to put someone more competent in his place and were willing to kill him to do it. Once that happened, we would be next. No one could be left behind who could fight to take the family back. My mother, me … Marcella.”
He hangs his head and goes silent, the glass hanging limp in his hand. I can’t stop the tears now, no matter how hard I try. My shoulders are shaking with silent sobs, and I’m overcome with the need to close the space between us and wrap my arms around him. I don’t think he’d take kindly to that, so I force myself to stay in my chair.
“How old were you?” I ask, trying to keep the grief out of