For once, I was glad to have alcohol within my reach. I needed it. I took a shot that burned my throat on its way down, and turned to all the faces around the room, resisting the urge to blurt out accusations. One of them was responsible for the death of my Cristóbal, and yet, they behaved as noble, concerned family members, as though they cared about my fate. The only thing they might regret was not killing us both.

“Would you like something to eat, Don Cristóbal?” Angélica asked me.

“No, I’m fine.”

My face was flushed, I could feel it. I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees, and the silence became intolerable. I could tear off my spectacles and beard, shout my name, and demand to know who killed my husband.

But things weren’t so simple.

While Laurent and my sisters sat complacently across from me, Martin stretched to reach for another bottle in the cupboard. His jacket sagged open, revealing the menacing handle of a revolver.

If I became a nuisance, who’s to say that he wouldn’t shoot me? It would be convenient to all of my father’s descendants. Nobody in this land knew who I was or had any affection for me. They could always pay off the lawyer. He owed me nothing. In fact, he’d known of our travel arrangements in detail—Cristóbal had sent him telegrams from Spain and Cuba. Anyone here could’ve bribed him to send a mercenary to dispose of this Spanish daughter, this pest coming to claim part of the Lafont estate.

I used to think that people were innately good. The Puri that grew up in Sevilla and befriended everyone in the neighborhood wouldn’t have believed for a minute that this seemingly honorable group was capable of hurting her. But that Puri was long gone, she’d stayed behind in those Caribbean waters.

The taste of alcohol filled my mouth.

Aquilino removed a manila envelope from his briefcase, wiped his forehead and neck for good measure, and pulled out a stack of papers.

“Well,” he said. “Let’s talk about the issue at hand, Don Armand’s inheritance.”

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 4

One week earlier

My mother always said that men were only useful when they were gone. After Cristóbal got lost in the Caribbean waters, the nostalgia of our lives together enveloped me like a cloak. There was not an hour, not a minute of the day, that I didn’t think of him.