Violent Triumphs
White Monarch, 3
I’ve become a queen to the forsaken, a leader to thieves, and the wife of a man who instills fear in all who cross his path. He was the husband I didn’t want. Now, I can’t fathom life without my king.
I should’ve been ready for anything. Like the caterpillar that feeds on poison during metamorphosis, I was raised in the dangerous world of cartel crime. But nothing could’ve prepared me for Cristiano de la Rosa, his brother’s poison, or the Calavera cartel.
This is still a story about a love strong enough to topple households, unite enemies, and divide brothers. Resilient enough to bring down those who would try to destroy it . . . and selfless enough to make the ultimate sacrifice.
But I was warned, and so were you. Death’s day always comes.
This time, it will find what was once a caterpillar is now a butterfly—and hell hath no fury like the White Monarch.
Violent Triumphs is the conclusion to the “emotional, steamy, and dangerous” USA Today bestselling White Monarch series.
Praise for Jessica Hawkins
The White Monarch Series is hands down the best thing I've read in 2019! Twisty, chaotic, sexy, smart, and well written, this is major goodness! I'm living for every word. An absolute must read.
Angie’s Dreamy Reads
The sexual tension between Cristiano and Natalia is off the charts…The writing was spot on, the story line moved along beautifully, and the relationship aspect was so full of angst that I couldn’t put the book down.
.
Avid Reader Book Blog
Cristiano steals the show. This man. I am next level obsessed. For a Cartel leader who shows no emotions, this man was fierce, lethal, and without even trying, completely romantic…The action, the suspense, the passion, the angst. Gah. Jessica has blown my heart and my mind.
Booksandbandanas, Goodreads
Jessica Hawkins has raised the bar where sexual tension and anticipation is concerned. At this point in the game, no one writes it better. Jessica has nailed it.
Rox, Goodreads
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Violent Triumphs is also available in:
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Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Hawkins
Editing by Elizabeth London Editing
Beta by Underline This Editing
Proofreading by Paige Maroney Smith
Cover Designed by Najla Qamber Designs
Cover Photographed by Perrywinkle Photography
Cover Model: Michelle Serna
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
1
Natalia
I suspect you might even like the feeling of surrender.
Cristiano’s distant words echoed through the darkness falling over my mind. He hadn’t meant submitting to death, but the hands around my neck demanded that.
The back of my skull throbbed where it’d been slammed against the tile floor. One moment, I’d been trying to tell Cristiano something important over the phone. The next, dragged through our bedroom and pinned on my back by an immovable weight.
Now, pinpricks of white light pierced the black. Stars in the night sky, promising peace. It wouldn’t be difficult to walk toward them. The dark had always been a fierce presence within me. Unknown. Ever-inviting.
Surrender would be simple. My body and my training had failed me—I hadn’t even fought back. Or maybe nothing up to this point had been real. Maybe this had all been a dream, and I was being torn from sleep.
As my windpipe closed under the grip around it, my screams relented. The shrill house alarm faded into a peaceful buzz. My fear ebbed, an ocean of tranquility rising in its place.
Heaven.
Mamá waited with open arms.
Go to her. Be with her again. Submit.
I wasn’t waking up; I was dying. Cristiano was the last person I expected to see at the gates of Heaven, but there he was, waiting in his suit and tie. Thank God. Wherever I was going, Cristiano was there, and he wouldn’t let anything hurt me.
He and my mother would be the light, the serenity, the prize for giving in to death.
All I had to do now was succumb. Go to him . . .
Cristiano.
“Cristiano is dead.” A scratchy male voice took hold of me the way strong hands locked around my throat. “You have nothing to fight for,” he said. “Go to sleep.”
The word scraped through the dregs of my consciousness. Dead.
That was why Cristiano waited for me at the gates to eternity.
But he could not die. He was untouchable.
What was a world without Cristiano de la Rosa? Grief flooded me, but just as quickly, it ebbed. And in its place, fury swelled. Someone had killed Cristiano.
The voice above me thought I had nothing to fight for, but it’d just given me a reason.
Nobody—nobody—would get away with murdering my husband.
Fight, Natalia. Surrender is not an option.
Reality flickered. Carotid arteries. No oxygen. I forced myself out of the encroaching darkness. Clawed at the tightening fingers around my neck. I arched my back until I was looking upside-down in the bedroom mirror propped against one wall. My first night here, we’d stood in front of it—Cristiano wrapping his arms around me from behind, demanding my submission. I hadn’t given in then. And over time, I’d grown stronger. Mentally, emotionally—and physically. Under Cristiano’s guidance.
I wanted those moments with him back. For him to survive so I could look him in the eye and tell him I’d resisted, and I’d won.
Because he’d taught me how. He’d taught me strength.
With a clicking noise, I struggled to turn my head and see where it was coming from, but my vision blurred. Moonlight glinted off metal. A knife? Fuck. I began to thrash under him.
“Shh,” he said. “This won’t hurt.”
I had no defenses against a knife. No weapon. Nothing on me but flimsy satin pajamas and plenty of exposed skin. But my breath . . . it was coming back.
Change your mindset, Cristiano had told me. You’re in control . . . you can take down an attacker . . . you can fight for your life and escape.
That was all I had to do. Escape. Run. I wasn’t at the level I needed to be to win, but I had the will to survive on my side—and the fact that he’d removed a hand from my neck to pick up the blade. I only needed to incapacitate him long enough to outrun him and get to the panic room.
My first self-defense lesson on the lawn had taught me more than hand-to-hand combat. There was the art of diversion. The magic of distraction.
Have you ever been to Disneyland? I’d asked Cristiano as his bar of a forearm had locked around my neck from behind.
The sound of Cristiano’s answering laughter heartened me.
Words scraped from my throat. “Cristiano . . . isn’t . . . dead.”
The attacker’s face bent toward mine, giving me my first close-up glimpse of him in the dark. Crooked nose, foul breath, beady eyes. “What?”
“He’s not dead. I can”—I let my voice falter—“take you to h-him.”
He leaned closer. “¿Qué?”
I rammed my forehead into his mouth, and blood burst from his lip. “¡Cabrona!” he cursed.
The butt of my palm slammed into his trachea. Plastic clattered to the ground. I only had enough strength to shock hi
m, but it was all I needed. He loosened his other hand around my neck, and I punched him in the same spot, harder this time.
Alarm crossed his face with his guttural shout. The fact that he could shout at all meant I hadn’t crushed his windpipe. I fisted my left hand and made good use of the extravagant diamond Cristiano had saddled me with. I jammed my wedding ring into the man’s throat over and over until he’d released me completely to grab his own neck. Blood trickled onto me as he wheezed so hard, my own chest went tight.
With a bare foot, I kicked him in the crotch, crawled out from under him, and jumped up. I’d taken only two steps when his hand grabbed my ankle, and I fell forward. My head cracked the mirror. It teetered, and I rolled away a split second before it toppled to the ground.
The short fight had winded me, but he hadn’t gone down yet. Movement from the corner of my eye spurred me to get back up. I grabbed the biggest shard of broken glass within reach and got myself to stand. The moment I was on my feet, the man seized me from behind. He pinned my elbows to my sides with one arm, grabbing at the glass with his other hand. I held onto it until blood dripped down my fingers, but he wrestled it from me and put it to my throat.
“Nobody . . . told me . . . you’d fight back,” he panted, struggling to speak. If his mouth hadn’t been in my ear, I wouldn’t have heard him over the blaring alarm. “Your husband teach you that?”
“Fuck you.”
“It’s a nice surprise. Very exciting. But I’ll cut your throat if I really have to.” His front flush against my back, he lifted my chin with the glass as his tone turned from amused to foreboding. “Your husband stole from us. This is the price. For every woman Cristiano took, we’ll kill two inside these walls.”
I’d been in this position before, at the mercy of a menacing man and his whims. And I’d been just as scared.
But Cristiano had taught me a valuable lesson that day he’d simulated jumping me on the lawn.
I was not to be underestimated. I’d survived my time in the Badlands by doing my best to protect myself from every angle—mentally, physically, emotionally. Cristiano had pushed me as far as he could without injury. But now, I had to be willing to get hurt.
I yanked on my attacker’s wrist with all my body weight. The glass sliced the length of my throat as I rotated until the man’s arm was twisted at an unnatural angle. I wrenched it as far back as I could and kneed him in the nose. He stumbled backward through the archways to the balcony as blood gushed from his face.
Run? Or stay and fight? I had to decide—
“Maldita perra.” He charged at me with the shard of glass. “You fucking bitch.”
Too late. I’d broken the first rule Cristiano had ever taught me.
Don’t hesitate.
I covered my face and ducked a second before a gunshot exploded through the room. I lowered my arms as his body jerked and staggered onto the balcony. He coughed, reaching for me, blood gurgling from his mouth.
I wouldn’t hesitate twice.
I sprinted at him and shoved him as hard as I could. He flipped backward over the wall and tumbled down the rocky cliff. His guttural yells echoed through the mountainside until he hit a crag with a thud, and landed on the strip of shore below.
Silence descended. Even the alarms became white noise. I’d killed a man. I hadn’t thought about it. Just rushed him . . . pushed him . . . murdered him.
I clutched my neck. Something warm and sticky filled my palm. I pulled my hand away—blood. He would’ve killed me without a second thought. I didn’t owe him one, but I peered over the edge anyway. There was just enough moonlight to make out his shadowed figure, arms and legs splayed like a broken action figure. A dark shadow seeped over the sand. “Oh my God.”
“He’s dead.” I whirled to find Jaz’s petite frame in the doorway, her gun aimed at me. She raised her voice over the sirens and added, “It’s a long way down.”
A beat passed as we stared at each other. “Thank you,” I said.
She lowered the pistol. “They cut the electricity and killed the generators,” she said. “We have to take the stairs to the panic room.”
“They?”
“There are more men in the house.”
I glanced back over the wall. High tide. The frothy ocean licked at the distorted body on the shore. “He said they’re here for us,” I told her. “The women. As payback.”
“Are you with me?” Jaz asked.
A breeze passed over my half-naked body. “I should—”
“There’s no time,” she said, turning. “Come on.”
She hurried through the room, and I followed as we sprinted down to the second floor. “Wait!” I said at the mouth of the staircase and turned back.
“What are you doing?”
“We have to get Pilar.” Keeping my back to the wall, I made my way down the dark hallway to her bedroom, where I hissed her name.
After a second, Pilar slid out from under the bed, her face streaked with tears. “Natalia. Ay, Dios mío.”
“Come,” I said, squatting to help her up. “Hurry. Are you hurt?”
“N-no.” She shook as she got to her feet. Jaz guarded the door, poking her head into the hall before beckoning us over.
Pilar gasped. “You’re covered in blood.”
“I’m fine.”
“Who’s doing this?” she asked. “What do they want?”
“Come on,” Jaz whisper-ordered.
I took Pilar’s hand and let Jaz lead us through the dark, trusting her intimate knowledge of the house. When we reached the ground floor, she ushered Pilar and me ahead of her. “Run. I’ll watch our backs.”
We crossed the main room and slowed as we approached the kitchen, the quickest route to the cellar and panic room. Jaz raised her gun and entered first, her eyes narrowed sharply as she surveyed the room.
“It’s clear,” she said, nodding at a door that led to the garage. “Through there. You know the way?”
“Sí,” I answered. “What about you?”
“Right behind you.”
I grabbed Pilar’s arm and sprinted forward. My bare feet slapped the tile, and we were within reach of the handle when Pilar tripped and pulled me down with her. My head just missed the corner of a table, but my cheekbone smacked the ground. Pain shot through my face, but I quickly forgot it when Pilar screamed.
I looked back and slapped a hand over my mouth. We’d fallen over Rocío, a woman who’d worked alongside Fisker in the kitchen. Blood splattered the ground and cabinets, darkening the floor around her.
“Shh.” Jaz yanked Pilar to her feet and, when she didn’t quiet, silenced her with a slap across the face. Jaz squatted. Held her fingers to Rocío’s neck. “She’s dead.”
My throat closed. “She—she was going to the panic room, too.”
“Maybe.” Jaz made the sign of the cross, picked up a gun next to Rocío’s body, and nodded toward the refrigerator. “But she went down fighting.”
I followed her gaze to what looked like a man’s body slumped in one corner. “Is that one of them?”
“He’s not one of us. Other cartels don’t realize that we always fight back. Every one of us. We win, or we die trying.” Jaz handed Pilar the gun. “But everyone in this house fights.”
“I don’t know what to do with this,” Pilar said, holding out the Glock like it was a ticking time bomb.
“If anyone comes at you, pull the trigger,” Jaz said, closing Pilar’s hand around it. “You need to watch Natalia’s back. She’s probably the one they want. And she’s going to get you both to the panic room.”
“What about you?” I asked.
Jaz’s eyes dropped to Rocío. “I told you,” she said, swallowing. “I fight.”
“No, Jaz.” I pulled her arm to get her to face me. “You don’t understand. Those men are here for us. They’re looking for any woman, and they will kill you.”
“I have a job to do. Just like Rocío did.”
I still didn’t know exac
tly how Jaz had ended up in the Badlands, but I could piece some of it together. My first morning here, she’d revealed that she’d used sex to survive at some point in her past. Cristiano had said earlier tonight that Jaz hadn’t known much kindness. Considering the Badlands had partly been built as a safe haven and rehabilitation center for victims of the pleasure trade, forced labor, and more, Jaz most likely fell into one of those categories. “Maybe they won’t kill you,” I said. “What if they take you instead?”
She froze, fear clearly working through her. “I—I can’t hide down there while . . . while the others defend us.”
“You’re not hiding. You’re protecting us.” I wanted to yell to get through to her, but I struggled to speak as it was, my throat aching. I gripped her arms and shook her until alarm crossed her face. “We need you. If you don’t come with us, then I’m staying here with you.”
“No, please,” Pilar begged through a sob, her wide eyes fixed on Rocío. “You can’t leave me alone.”
Jaz shook her head. “If you die, and Cristiano survives—he’ll kill me himself.”
“So where do you think he’d want his most tenacious fighter?”
“With you.” Jaz’s jaw firmed. “Fine—let’s go.”
We all tumbled through the door, into the garage, and down the staircase to the cellar. At the door to the panic room, I was shaking too hard to get my thumb on the fingerprint scanner, so Jaz took over. Within seconds, it lit up green, and the lock clicked open.
I let Pilar and Jaz go in first. After the near complete darkness of the house, the safe room’s overhead lights seared my eyes and turned everyone a dull shade of gray. I pushed the door shut, and the slam echoed in the otherwise complete silence. Even Pilar had stopped crying. Locked in the vault, I pressed my forehead against the cool steel door.
Violent Triumphs (White Monarch Book 3) Page 1