Chapter 3
DEAN
The smell of roasted meat turned his stomach. He would’ve enjoyed it when food was just food, not another weapon in his father’s arsenal. Tonight, every plate was a stage prop.
The long dining hall gleamed under chandeliers and iron sconces burned along carved stone walls.
The table stretched out like a parade ground, its white linen spotless with crystal glasses lined up in military precision.
Servants in pressed uniforms moved silently between the few guests, setting down dishes that could have come from a five-star hacienda restaurant.
Everything from platters of carne asada, bowls of mole poblano thick with spice, stacks of warm folded tortillas, rice tinted saffron-gold, and tamales steaming in their husks. Sweet smoke drifted from roasted peppers, cutting through the tang of garlic and lime.
Dean sat at his father’s right hand, a place of honor meant to brand him as heir, while Yasmine sat beside him, Isabella dozing in her lap.
Father had graciously given Isabella back when he first walked in.
Now, Yasmine focused on Dean, running a finger along his arm to remind him to remain calm. It was as if she sensed he needed the reassuring touch. He respected it. He would remain calm, but he fucking hated it.
The twins weren’t here yet. God only knew where they were. His father could’ve tossed them in the dungeon or locked them away in a guest suite. Anything was possible, and that fact churned Dean’s gut. His father hadn’t said where they were, only that they’d be brought out when the moment was right.
The old man lifted his goblet, voice carrying with ease. “Family, tonight we feast, not just on food, but on fortune. My son has returned. The bloodline is whole again.”
A low murmur of approval rolled through the men at the table. All of them family of some sort, some he recognized, others he had no clue. Lieutenants, captains, cousins of cousins, every one of them with blood on their hands.
Dean studied their faces, coldly cataloguing.
A few laughed too loudly, eager to please.
Some kept their eyes down, afraid to meet his father’s gaze.
Two at the far end were the most interesting.
One scared and another leaned with restless hands.
They looked like they might be turned, if given reason. Not allies. Not yet. But cracks.
Dean shifted slightly, eyes flicking from one person to the next, taking in everything.
There were three cameras nested in the carved beams. Another in the iron chandelier.
The guards along the walls carried cell phones in their pockets and guns at their hips.
Each detail slid into his memory like rounds chambered in a rifle. Not ready to fire. Not yet.
“Eat,” his father commanded, gesturing at the spread.
Dean forced himself to pick up a tortilla, tearing a piece of carne asada with his teeth. The flavors should have been rich, smoky, and spiced. But instead they coated his tongue like ash.
Yasmine had already finished eating. She knew that keeping her strength up was important with the pregnancy. Now, she stroked Isabella’s hair, softly humming to her.
Then the doors swung open.
Two guards marched the twins inside. Dressed in tiny suits, their hair slicked back, they looked like they’d just been dragged into a nightmare.
Their hands clutched each other tightly.
When they saw Dean and Yasmine, they pulled free of the guards and bolted down the length of the hall.
He rose, catching them as they collided.
Their little bodies shook, but they didn’t cry.
“Daddy,” Tate gasped, face buried in Dean’s shirt. “We want home.”
“I know, but we can’t leave yet,” Dean whispered in their ears. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He held them close and kissed their heads.
The hall had quieted. His father leaned back, a pleased smile curving his lips. “Beautiful, aren’t they? Strong. They will learn well.”
Dean’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
He led the boys to seats beside Yasmine, keeping one hand on the back of their heads. They clung to him and looked up at with worried eyes.
“It’s okay, sit,” he encouraged.
The old man let the silence linger before he snapped his fingers.
Two more guards dragged in a man bound at the wrists, his face swollen, blood crusting his lip.
The young man didn’t look to be more than eighteen.
They walked right past Dean to the open section of the room and turned the young man around before forcing him to his knees. A gag muffled his desperate cries.
“Arturo,” his father announced, tone dripping disdain. “A runner who thought theft would go unnoticed. A rat in our house.”
The prisoner shook his head violently, trying to speak. His gaze lingered on Dean, wide and pleading. He was young, far too young to be in this position.
Dean’s gut iced over. He knew what was coming as surely as the sun would set the next day.
His father gestured, and a servant stepped forward with a polished wooden box. His father opened the lid and showed off what was inside. A knife gleamed, simple and brutal.
“Take it to my son.” The servant walked closer, his eyes void of all emotion. Like he’d seen worse, maybe had worse done to him. The box was placed before Dean.
“Proof,” his father stated. “Show us you belong. Show your children why men obey the rules. Show us that you are not scared to do what needs to be done and why you’re my heir.”
Yasmine sucked in a breath, hand clutching Isabella tighter. The twins stared at the man on the floor, confusion and fear written all over on their small faces.
Dean’s vision narrowed. He saw the guards, the guns, the cameras.
But…he also saw his father’s hand resting casually on the butt of his gun.
His father may be old, but either Dean, Yasmine or one of his children would be dead before the blade sheathed his father’s heart.
All that Dean could see was one of his children bleeding out on the floor, eyes wide like so many of those he served with, and he couldn’t do it.
He crouched beside the twins, bringing his voice down to a whisper. “Look at me. Not the strange man. Just me.” They locked onto his face, their hands gripping his sleeve. “Good. Now you’re not to watch this. You hide your faces, keep your eyes closed like this is a scary movie.”
“Is a movie?” Aiden asked.
Giving him a weak smile, Dean nodded. “Yes,” he lied. “Remember…don’t look.”
They nodded and Dean rose. The boys buried their faces into Yasmine’s side. Dean gave her a look, but she kept what she was thinking off her face.
The servant followed with the box in hand, and it wasn’t until Dean was right in front of Arturo that he gripped the handle of the large blade.
He could kill. He’d done it so many times that it was practically an art now, but that didn’t mean he wanted to kill this random kid that still had his whole life ahead of him. Still, Dean picked up the knife.
Arturo’s breath rasped through the gag, panic bleeding from every line of his body.
Dean’s voice dropped low, for Arturo alone. “I’m sorry, I take no pleasure in this. I’ll make it fast and as painless as possible. Close your eyes and picture something…someone you love.”
Tears filled the young man’s eyes and slipped down his cheeks, but he did as he was told and Dean walked around behind him and faced his father.
Dean locked eyes with the man that had the nerve to call himself Father. He was no father. He didn’t even know the meaning of the word.
He stroked the man’s hair once, offering all the comfort he could afford.
A whimper escaped Arturo’s lips despite the gag.
Holding his head in place he struck quick and clean.
The blade sliced across his throat from ear to ear and almost severed his head.
It was merciful. Dean lowered Arturo’s body slowly to the floor, sparing him the indignity of falling like he never mattered to anyone.
He chocked and twitched Dean held him still until his body grew silent.
Blood pooled, hot and metallic, the scent strong on the breeze from the open window.
Dean turned his body, shielding the worst from Yasmine and the twins in case they peeked. His stomach twisted, but his hands stayed steady.
The room buzzed with murmurs of approval, some disappointed at the lack of spectacle. His father clapped once, sharp.
“There,” he said, eyes gleaming. “My son. My heir. He is an angel of death…or are you the reaper?”
Dean set the knife back in the box, his expression all stone. Inside, rage burned, coiled tighter than steel wire.
“Neither…I’m a man, nothing more.” He dropped the knife into the box of satin. “And now you have your blackmail to hold over my head.” Dean looked up toward the camera to make sure it had a good view of his face.
He wandered over to the table and once more crouched beside the boys. Their eyes were wet, fixed on him.
“I told you not to look,” Dean whispered, with a firm tone. “It will be fine. Remember it is just a movie. Scary, but it will be alright. Take a deep breath.” He inhaled, exaggerating. They copied, shaky but obedient.
“Good, that’s it.” He never wanted his sons to see this kind of violence, to be part of this kind of depravity. He had run from this and had wanted to shield his family from ever having to see the things he’d endured. This more than anything broke Dean’s heart.
Yasmine’s face was pale, eyes shining with fury. She mouthed one word at him when his father looked away.
Survive.
Dean watched his father raise his goblet in a toast. “To the future. To blood. To obedience. The heir has returned!”
Dean’s throat ached and burned with acid, but he lifted his glass. He needed to bide his time.
Find the cracks. Expose the cracks. Then take a fucking jackhammer to them. One day, he’d split them wide open.
The words were on a loop inside his brain like a carousel. But for now, Dean sat. He kept his children close. And he waited for the next command. His father would slip up. The arrogant ones always did.