He focuses his attention on me and tries for a smile again. “To answer your question, Ivy, Santiago thinks I, along with your brother, sent him and his family not to mention other countless Sovereign Sons, to their death.”

“What?”

“The explosion, it wasn’t a simple gas leak. I think it was revenge, and I set it in motion. Abel handed me the evidence of wrongdoing, and I took it to The Tribunal, unknowingly starting it all. Because those families that were excommunicated, that lost everything, they had their revenge that night or at least that is how it appeared. I need to talk to Abel. To hear it from him. Hear what he did. How many lives he was willing to forfeit.”

“Dad, I don’t understand.”

The door opens then, and Santiago stands in the entry. He locks eyes with my father, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.

“You heard, I’m sure,” my father says calmly.

“What?” I ask, standing, looking between them.

“If you’re saving your neck—”

“By hanging my own son?”

Santiago doesn’t reply.

“I won’t have more blood on my hands. I won’t have my grandchild’s blood on my hands. Not even your blood, Santiago.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“I think I know how Abel was funded,” my dad says. “I need my computer, some files I kept, but I think I know.”

“Ivy,” Santiago says, not looking at me. “Marco will take you home.” As if on cue, Marco appears behind Santiago.

“I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s happened.”

My father reaches out to take my hand. “You want to know why he hates me. Why he hates us. He thinks I set him up. He thinks I orchestrated the explosion that killed his family.”

16

Santiago

Ivy is waiting for me on the stairs when I walk in the front door, bundled up in my bathrobe, which seems to drown her small frame.

"What are you doing sitting here in the dark?" I ask.

"We need to talk, Santiago. I'm not going to bed without having this conversation."

I sigh, already dreading the inevitable fight as I join her at her side and help her up. "Come. Let's get you upstairs."

She doesn't protest as I lead her to our bedroom, but I know it can't be that easy. And I am proven right when I shut the door behind us and toss my jacket aside.

"I'm worried about my father," she says, emotion choking her voice.

That suffocating anguish in her tone lances through me, and I don't like it. I find that I am compelled to fix it for her, even though I know I can't. Not without sacrificing my own promises to my dead father and brother.

"Your father is well cared for," I answer stiffly. "He has the best medical treatment money can buy. He's in a secure facility—"