We’re quiet when we wake up, though I still lie in his arms. I don’t say a word. I really don’t have much to say. Well, actually I take that back. I have a lot I wish to discuss, but now isn’t the time.

He explained mostly everything, as promised. If it isn’t the truth, he worked damn hard on that story. I don’t see why he would lie. What’s the point in keeping me? He can’t want me that badly.

Still, I’ll have to ask for proof—the truth somehow. I want to believe he was close to Daddy . . . to Mom. But I still have to remember that he is dangerous and ruthless and cruel. He can and will lie to get what he wants, and it’s clear he’s always wanted me.

He is still Draco Molina, the most wanted, most vicious man on earth. I must never, ever forget that.

"Maybe we can do something a little different this morning?" I suggest when Draco sits up on the edge of the bed. The sun is bold and bright today, heat blazing through the window and on my skin.

"Like what?" he asks.

"Like hang out at the pool, drink mimosas. I'd actually like to start treating this place like more of a vacation if I'm going to stay here, and not some prison."

He glances over his shoulder. "Breakfast is important to me. We can do the pool afterwards." He pushes off the bed and enters the bathroom with a massive bulge in his briefs.

I climb out of the bed as well, tiptoeing to the bathroom. Lingering by the door, I think of where to start, like whether I should bring him back to bed and ride him until he says yes to the pool idea, or whether I should actually be decent and ask why he doesn't like to skip breakfast.

To be polite, I go with the latter. I can convince him later.

"Why don't you like missing breakfast anyway? I still don’t understand why it’s such a big deal to you," I call when I hear the trickle end. The toilet flushes and he lets out a deep, slightly agitated sigh.

"Does it matter?" He comes my way, shoulders broad, eyes surprisingly mellow.

"Yes, it does. I want to know."

He maneuvers past me, walking toward the window to open the sheer curtains. "Personal," is all he says.

"Draco. You told me no more secrets."

"It's not a secret," he says, tone clipped. "Many know the reason why. I just don't wish to share it right now."

He keeps his back to me but I walk forward, grabbing his wrist to spin him around. He huffs when he's facing me, glaring hard like he'll cut my hand off for touching him.

I don't care. He doesn't scare me. He can't because I know now that he won't harm me. After knowing the truth—about Toni, his father, and mine—he won't do a thing to jeopardize this again.

"Tell me," I insist, bringing my hand up to stroke his chiseled jaw. "I am tu reina, after all." Your queen.

I’m surprised to see him smile at that. Just barely. I grin, but it fades when he speaks. "The story will make me seem weak."

I scoff. "I think I, of all people, know you are far from weak."

He inhales and then releases a drawn-out breath, grabbing my hand and bringing me toward the door. We’re both still half-naked. All I have on is a T-shirt. All he has on are his briefs. He doesn’t seem to give a single damn.

He pulls the door open and walks down the hallway, toward a room that I don't think I've even bothered to go into before. It's right beside the doors that lead to the terrace. Another set of double doors. A red curtain hangs over the windows from the inside so no one can see what the room has inside.

He looks me over once before reaching above the doorframe and pulling down a key. When it’s unlocked, he grips one of the door handles and steps right in.

I expect to see something dangerous in here. Something bad, like a vat of acid with body parts in it, more weapons, or even a collection of skulls.

I’m wrong.

It's a normal room, similar to his galería, only smaller, and no canvases to paint on, but there are paintings hanging on the wall. All of them look the same.

Dark. Red. Horrifying.

There are some of men that look like Draco, only older, with colder, dead eyes. Actually, now that I notice, they are all of the same man. He’s wearing different clothing in each one. Looking in different directions. Some with a mustache. Some without.

"This is where I keep my . . . darker works of art," he announces, voice heavy and deep.

I step past him, scanning each one thoroughly. The dark paintings with the red obviously prove to be blood by the way it's splattered and aggressively enhanced.

But the man—the same man? I just don't get that one . . . that is until I come across one painting that has the man, but his face is demolished. There are red slashes all over his face, red dripping from his empty eye sockets. His mouth is hanging open in disbelief, as if he’d just seen a monster before losing those eyes.

"Who is he?" I whisper without looking back. I can't pull my gaze away. It's such a terrifying portrait. Almost too real. Definitely gruesome enough to cause nightmares.

"Uncle."

"Thiago's dad?" I inquire.

I look back, and he bobs his head slowly. "You pick up on things well."

"Why does he look like this here?” I point at the portrait. “All cut and mutilated?"

"Because the way he looks there is exactly how he looked the last day I laid eyes on him.”

My eyebrows bunch together as I finally face him, begging for details without words.

He swallows thickly. "When my father died and I was sent back here, to Mexico, my mother let my uncle, Manuel, stay here with us. I was only seventeen, didn't know much at first—well, not as much as I'd wanted to—but I knew it would come. I was still naïve to it all, thinking things would get better for Mamá and me. They didn't. They only seemed to get worse while he stayed here to ‘care’ and ‘provide’ for us."

"How?" I ask.

"Because he was an abusive, dirty, ignorant hijo de puta that didn't deserve to live. While he was here, I was young. I was weaker, which made him assume that I was also dumber. I was still hurting from the loss of my father, so I was quiet, and he thought the quiet would be my ruin. Mother sympathized, but she couldn't get through to me back then, but only because I wouldn't let her. I figured she couldn't understand because she wasn't there. I witnessed that murder first hand. I was there, unable to do anything but watch and run." He pushes a rough hand through his messy hair, glaring at the painting of his uncle Manuel now. "He stayed with us for about a year. At first he was quiet. Calm. But I know now that he was only studying us. Our schedules. Calculating our moves. Thiago stayed here as well. His mother had recently passed, so he was quieter then, and slightly reserved. Still a shit talker, but he mostly kept quiet. He was close to me, though. That was back when he actually had some damn sense—when I could trust him to have my back.

“Anyway, around the fifth month or so of Manuel’s stay, he started to show his true colors. I didn’t grow up around that man. Hardly knew a thing about him. Mamá trusted him to handle what was left of my father's cartel. I know she only did it so we could continue to live in the lifestyle we had, but I really wish she wouldn't have. He only wanted to steal what my father built, take all the money, and leave us with nothing. I noticed it beforehand, his dirty ways, so I scheduled meetings with the men we had left. Some were still loyal to the Molina family, and still getting paid, thanks to my father’s accountant, and Lion, too. I remembered how things were run, what he made them do on each day of the week, the runs and pick-ups. I told them moving the drugs wasn't going to stop just because my father was gone, and neither was the money. We needed it.

“Manuel heard what I was doing behind his back and tried to become the alpha of our home. He started making rules for us to follow like this was his house. Like he had created this—built all of this,” he growls, holding his hands out and scanning the room.

“His first rule was for me to butt out of the cartel business. I refused. I still did my part. It was my job now—my role to carry on this family business. Lion told me not to give up or back down—not to let it tank, because he needed us to make things work for himself. I did it for him, because I promised and I owed him. The second rule was to show up for breakfast at the same time every morning. Seven exactly. Every single day. I did that, not because he wanted me to, but because I rather enjoyed having breakfast with my mother. I didn’t want her feeling any lonelier than I knew she was. He expected me to slip up with that, but I woke up before the sun had even risen to take care of business, answer to the guards and the men and go to the docks sometimes. I never slipped up. I was punctual and still running the men my father left behind. He envied what I was capable of—hated that I was catching on so quickly at such a young age. He knew that one day we weren’t going to need him anymore, and that the Molina cartel would still be ours.

“So one morning he decided to try to make an example out of me. He wanted to make a statement.” His breathing grows heavier. Thicker. His jaw ticking. “He had all of the guards in the dining room, posted, waiting, as we ate breakfast. I didn’t know what they were doing. At the time, I didn’t care. It was my birthday. I had just turned eighteen. August 22^nd. I thought they were there to wish me well without actually speaking on it. To show respect.” He shrugs. “I remember it being me, Mamá, Thiago, and Manuel at the table. Mamá had the chef make my favorite pecan pancakes with hot syrup. It was supposed to be a good day.

“We ate some. There was a lot of casual talk between me, Mamá, and Thiago. Manuel was quiet, and intentionally being ignored. I’m assuming he became fed up, because after a while he finally cut in, started with some bullshit talk about how he was running things now, and that he didn't need me to do it. I fired back. I told him I knew what I was doing, and it's what my Pa would have wanted. He got pissed then.

“Thiago was worried, cowering. He never spoke back to Manuel and Mamá never spoke up. She knew not to butt in unless necessary, but I wasn’t like them. I was livid. How dare he tell me what the fuck to do on my birthday? How dare he try and belittle me? How dare he treat me like some worthless child? I remember cursing and cursing at him, spewing my hatred. The vile words didn’t fail me. I meant them all. My rebellious tongue made him want to hurt me. And he did. He hurt me by harming the only family I really had left.

“He pulled out a gun, put it to my head, told the butlers to bring out more food, and told me that I had to finish it all. Every last bite. There were loads of pecan pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausage. It was way too much to eat for just one person, especially me. But the plates kept coming out. The supply seemed endless. I refused at first, told him to kiss my ass and to go fuck his mother. I shouldn't have said that, because he turned right around and said, ‘How about I fuck yours instead?’"

I gasp, eyes stretching wide. Draco isn’t looking at me, but at the painting, eyes hard, fists clenched, seething. "Oh no," I breathe.

"He had paid one of the guards extra to hold their gun to the back of my head while he yanked my mother out of her seat and forced her over the table, right in front of all of us. He ripped her skirt from the back, exposing her while unbuckling his belt. He told me if I tried to move or do anything to stop him, he would make her suck his cock, too. He told me to eat it all, and that he wouldn't stop fucking her until I finished.

“So, with tears in my eyes, I continued eating. All while he continued to fuck my mother—his own goddamn sister,” he spits, and he’s fuming now. Fists clenching and unclenching, glaring hard at the mutilated portrait he’d created.

Oh, my God. I had no words. None. His own sister? To teach a lesson? To demonstrate power and control? How fucking demented.

"I scarfed it all down for Mamá, avoiding her eyes the whole time, and with a gun pointed at the back of my skull. Thiago ate some of it with me to help. Manuel didn't seem to care that he did. He was too busy enjoying the fact that he was fucking his own damn relative," he ground through clenched teeth. "Mamá wouldn't stop crying, and I could tell she wanted to turn and destroy him, but I could also tell she was taking it and not fighting back for my sake. She always endured the worst for me, but I think this was the worst she’d gotten because of my mouth. I was impulsive and could never shut up, and she always paid the price for it.

“I was getting fuller and fuller by the second. I threw up once, right in my own lap, but I started right back up and kept eating, stuffing myself until every plate was clean. And when I was done, he finally stopped, walked over to me, and came on me. He came . . . on me. Like I was his whore. Some fell on my cheek, my chest, and my pants. I’ll never forget what he said to me. He said, 'Remember that the next time you try to defy me. I'll fuck your mother right in front of you and use the cum her pussy milked out of me just to squirt it all in your ugly fucking face.'"

The room is dead silent. I can hear my ears ringing from it—a shrill ring of both terror and truth that nearly deafens me.

Draco finally releases his clenched fists and walks to the painting, nostrils flaring, scowling.

"I think he drew out a side of me that I never wanted to conjure up. A side of me that I always knew was there, but didn’t think I’d have to use until I was a little older. I'd seen it before, around my father, around Lion, even from some of the guards. It’s a darkness that sweeps over, a shadow that you can’t get rid of. It claims your soul for life. I wasn't blind to that sort of darkness, but I never thought I would become the man I did. Something inside me broke that day. It snapped—" he snaps his fingers"—just like that. No warning. No signal. Something just went off inside me, like my internal clock on patience and values had finally run out.

“That very same night, I shot the guard he paid to put the gun to my head, for betraying me. I shot him when he took a smoke break out by the beach, with the first pistol my father ever gave to me. I wanted to wait to kill him. I could come back for him. He was alone, so I hid him by that brown shed, left him injured, making him think he’d die slowly by bleeding out. And afterwards, I went up to Manuel's room—this very room right here—and stabbed him in his sleep. Right in the stomach. He thought I was weak, that I was too afraid of repercussions to retaliate. He was a fucking idiot to ever let his guard down while I was still around. He didn’t scare me. He only fueled the rage I had trapped inside me, giving me more than enough reason to unleash my aggressions.” His jaw pulses, face as hard as stone.

“I stabbed him one good time, just so he could bleed out and suffer, but still feel everything else I did to him. I stuffed his mouth with his own dirty, cum-stained underwear. I cuffed him to the bed with the chains I grabbed from the brown shed. I wanted him to see my face as I tortured him—as I sliced his face open, gash by slow gash. I wanted him to feel it when I gouged out his eyeballs and then slit his throat, bit by bit, relishing his agony. I wanted to watch him bleed and suffer. I wanted him to know that he was paying the price for every moment I sat at that table for breakfast. It wasn’t a quick death. Trust me on that. It was slow and painful. I’m certain he felt everything, and I took immense satisfaction in that.”

That sounds familiar. Too familiar. It’s the same thing I wanted for Bain. Slow and painful. Not the easy way out.

“He was my first kill, and I don't regret a damn thing about it,” he goes on. “In fact, I recall enjoying it rather immensely. I sometimes wish I could do it over and over again, the same way he plunged in and out of my mother, over and over again, knowing he was hurting her. Knowing he had shamed her and abused her trust and taken advantage of her when she was so vulnerable.” He turns to look at me. “So, when he was gone, I really became the king. I made new rules to abide by. I fired the guards I didn’t trust, and then had someone go out to exterminate them so they couldn’t say a word about who was in charge and running Mexico now. Me. El Jefe.

“Everyone under my roof, besides the guard, was to show up for breakfast on time, but they eat their fill, however much they wanted, and they enjoy it. Being late, to me, is unacceptable, because I was always on time, even for one of the worst days of my life.”

He finally looks at me. “I may have been harsh to you at first about breakfast, but I swore to myself after that day that I would never let anyone disrespect me in my own home like that again. You follow my rules, and life is easy. Go against them, and it's you that makes it hard for yourself."

"Is that why Thiago hates you?" I ask.

"I’d say he hardly hates me," he chuckles. "He was more than relieved to see his father carried out and disposed of. His father was abusive and ignorant. He didn’t give a damn about his son. My mother was relieved as well, though she'd never admit to something like that. She was glad, and, I think, even slightly proud of me. Thiago is just confused now. He thinks he's smarter than I am. He has his talents, but running a cartel on his own is not one of them. I'm certain he'll come around and know where he really belongs. He knows what happens to those who betray me."

"Wow, Draco I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know—"

"There's not much you can say about it, Gianna. Don’t try and speak on it. You wanted to know the truth and you got it, so please, let's eat breakfast, and then we can discuss swimming. I will give you whatever you want, just as long as you can follow the rules I already have set." He steps toward me, tilting my chin. "Okay?"

"Okay," I whisper.

He plants a small kiss on my lips and then leads the way out of the room with my hand in his. But before he shuts the door and locks it, I catch sight of another painting that I missed, one that is above the bookcase in the far corner.

On it is a Caucasian man with a gun pointed at a Hispanic man sitting in a chair. They’re in a public place. A restaurant with a bar.

I realize right away who the people are.

It’s Toni, killing Draco’s father.

An image burned into Draco’s memory bank, one that will never, ever go away.