The luxury clothing store squatting in the shopping district on Canal Street is owned by IVI, so it isn’t a problem to wake someone in the middle of the night to meet me here. That’s the power of the De La Rosa name. As a Sovereign Son, nobody challenges my whims. And if they are smart, they follow my demands without question.

This mousy little assistant has done so to my exact specifications. The shop is dimly lit, with only a few flickering candles casting a soft glow over the expensive fabrics hanging from the racks. There is no background noise, not even the gentle whirr of a fan. Silence and darkness. They are my two constant requirements in life.

“I’ll return with a few more in just a moment, Mr. De La Rosa.”

She exits to the back room with brisk footsteps, leaving me to study my reflection in the mirror. It isn’t often I indulge in such an act, considering I had all but two of the shiny surfaces removed from my home. The grotesque sight of the face staring back at me is almost unrecognizable. Although improved from the surgeries, and somewhat hidden beneath the permanent half Calavera mask tattooed on my face, the reflection still feels like a stranger to me. A face more suited to Dia de Los Muertos, with shading around the eyes and jaw, creating a lifelike representation of a skull. One foot in the grave, some might say.

I added the markings to cover my scars, but they also serve as a reminder of all that was lost. A permanent memorial to my father, my brother, and the friends taken the day Eli Moreno betrayed me.

I’m not even aware of the soft clicking of the door until Mercedes is upon me, making her presence known with a smirk as she comes to a standstill beside me. My sister is tall and beautiful like our mother. She lures men in with a sweet smile, but she’s as toxic as poison. Her hair is long, the same shade of black as mine, and she inherited my father’s dark eyes, while I inherited my mother’s hazel. She is the youngest, too intelligent for her own good, and too spoiled to do anything with it. When it came to our father, Mercedes did not escape his brutality, but she was often shielded by Leandro and myself. As much as we could, at least.

“Santi.” She smooths her palms over my shoulders, examining the fabric of my blazer with a keen eye. “Is this new?”