"Give me the file, Santiago," Angelo tells me calmly. "I can handle it."

Slowly, I release it. And then I watch him as he opens it, studies the name, blinks twice, and shuts it again.

"You are certain?" he asks again.

"I would bet my life on it."

Silence settles between us as he digests the news, his face unmoving. He stares at the closed folder, and I stare at him.

"What will you do?" I ask for my benefit as much as his.

Angelo has found himself in a predicament so similar to mine, and admittedly, I want his answer to reflect the one I feel burning within me right now.

"I will destroy him and take everything he loves." He rises to his feet, tucking the file inside of his jacket. "Including her."

I nod, and my gaze drifts back to the knife on my desk. The one engraved with the De La Rosa crest. It's the knife that's been passed down for generations to every firstborn son. It would only be fitting that it's the same knife I plunge into Eli's heart.

"And what will you do, Santiago?" Angelo asks, his eyes moving between me and the knife.

My answer is simple, a potent cocktail of my grief and too much scotch.

"I will do the same."

19

Santiago

I'm stumbling down the hall when a small hand wraps around my arm from behind, determined to halt me. I sway slightly, trying to shrug it off, but the grip tightens.

"Santiago."

My wife's voice is like a sweet caress, one I have indulged in far too many times. I can't turn around. I refuse to face her. She won't poison my thoughts anymore.

This must be done tonight.

"Stop," she commands as I lurch forward again.

When I fail to obey, she wraps both her arms around my waist, as if the weight of her body could possibly slow my progress. That's what I tell myself, and if I weren’t so inebriated, I would know it to be true. She is featherlight in my arms, but right now, I'm having difficulty carrying my own weight.

"Look at me," she pleads. "Turn around and look at me."

I don't. I can't. I keep forging on, dragging her along with me. The knife is still clutched in my palm, the blade heavy and sharp. Perhaps I should have grabbed the sheath. But I will not allow her to slow my progress.

"Go back to bed," I snarl.

"This isn't you." Her voice rises. "You're drunk."

I ignore her logic and put one foot in front of the other, Ivy's feet screeching against the floor as she stubbornly refuses to let go of me. We're approaching the foyer. I'm close to freedom. My escape. And somewhere in the murky depths of my mind, I'm aware when I return tonight, there won't be any warmth to be found.