“There’s always a choice.” Cristiano tugged at his shirtsleeve, then held out his arm. “Do you mind?”
I looked at his hand. “What?”
“My cufflinks.”
We slowly made our way through the square decorated with papier-mâché figures, multi-colored flags, and flower bunches. Men in sombreros and women costumed in traditional ancient dresses with woven baskets on their heads moved aside, peering through the tinted windows, some of them tossing out angry words at our intrusion. We weren’t supposed to be driving through here.
“You can remove them yourself,” I said.
“But I’m asking you to.”
Was an ask ever truly that with Cristiano? I heard the demand in his words. Hesitantly, I pulled his wrist to me and slipped the sterling silver bar of a grooved cufflink through its hole. “What would you have done in Diego’s shoes? Or mine, for that matter?” I asked. “Although, I suppose you’d have to know love to truly understand the lengths you’d go to for it.”
“I should warn you, each time you say my brother’s name, a vision comes to mind. One I don’t like. So unless you wish to provoke me, you won’t speak his name again.”
His cuff hung loose. He nodded at it, so I rolled it up, my fingers grazing a vein of his thick, dark-haired forearm. “What vision?” I asked quietly.
Once I’d secured his sleeve at his elbow, he shifted to give me his other hand. “If I vocalize it, it’s likely to anger me. Not wise when you’re trapped back here with me.”
Diego’s name could’ve called up a memory for Cristiano that haunted me as well. Eleven years earlier, Diego had accused his brother of murdering my mother knowing it would cost Cristiano his life. Diego had chosen justice over family, and in the cartel, betraying family was the ultimate sin. I could still see Diego clear as day, aiming his gun at Cristiano and me, and I wasn’t even the one he’d wanted to shoot.
I removed the other cufflink, clutching both silver pieces in my palm. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more composed man than you were in that church,” I said to see if I could gain some insight into what made him tick. “Now you’re angry. What changed?”
It was his turn to look out the window. Cristiano didn’t have to acknowledge any of my questions, and that made answers precious. No matter the topic, anything could be considered a clue to the man behind the calavera mask. Who was Cristiano? What did a man as cold and callous as him fear? Desire? Love?
And why did I care?
Information. Once the only vice of a girl whose family told her nothing under the guise of protection, and later a burden when I’d wanted to forget everything to do with this life, could now be the thing that saved me. It would be easier to survive my enemy if I knew what he wanted. What he expected. What drove him.
Not just survive him, but maybe even escape him.
I was metaphorically chained to Cristiano by the power he held over the lives of the people I loved. I couldn’t run. But that didn’t mean there weren’t ways to get free of him.
I grazed a fingertip over the smooth skin of Cristiano’s wrist, lightly enough to make it seem like an accident. “What made you angry?” I pressed.
He continued to stare out the window for a beat, then turned to me. “Jealousy is new to me, but I no longer allow emotions to overtake me, so I was able to conceal it in the church.”
Jealousy? I schooled my expression to hide my surprise, both at his answer, and that he’d answered at all. Perhaps his response shouldn’t have caught me off guard me, though. Cristiano had expected me pure. Was he upset that he’d gotten his brother’s hand-me-down? Or was it simply the primitive urge of a husband who’d wanted to have his wife first?
He’d threatened to remove Diego’s hands just for touching me—but what had Cristiano thought would happen? He’d walked into the middle of my relationship with Diego. He’d disrupted our wedding.
He’d won.
When he reached for my ankle, I sprang back.
“Is the ache from the shoes?” he asked, pulling my foot into his lap. “Or the cuts?”
My heart pounded as the hair on my arms rose. I could never forget that Cristiano could—and would—touch me at any moment. I shifted my back against the door so I was facing him. “The cuts have nearly healed.”
“You had a good doctor.” The corner of his mouth lifted as his big fingers struggled with the stiletto’s delicate buckle. Days earlier, my fear of Cristiano had been overridden by how gently he’d tweezed glass from my feet. Instead of taking advantage of a situation, he’d helped me.
We cleared the town and accelerated down a two-lane highway, surrounded by desert on both sides as we barreled toward the storm clouds gathered ahead. I crossed my arms. “You’re a doctor, captor, and husband all rolled into one,” I said. “Lucky me.”