1
Antonio
Hushed whispers filter through the crowd as I approach the casket.
Manuel D’Sousa was a formidable player in our world before cancer ravished the hulking giant, leaving him a hollow shell dusted with mortician’s rouge. Even a skilled undertaker couldn’t conceal his sunken chest and gaunt features.
As I peer into the satin-lined coffin, the din of the room fades, until there is only his dying directive echoing between my ears.
“After I’m gone, Quinta Rosa do Vale will be yours. In exchange, you will marry my daughter. You will protect her from my enemies and yours—with your life, if necessary.”
My gaze sweeps over D’Sousa’s lifeless body, stopping at his face, as though waiting for him to come to his senses—to drag himself from the bowels of hell, and grab me by the throat until my eyes bulge from their sockets.
But there is only an eerie stillness about him.
Is this what you really want, old man?
You’re leaving me with your prized grapes and your innocent daughter? Me? A man so depraved, he would kill his father with his bare hands, while cursing himself for not having done it sooner.
This is the life you want for your precious child?
Now it’s too late to change your mind, fool. Too late for her. Too late for me.
Our fate is sealed in blood.
Till death do us part.
Maybe I’m the fool.
2
Antonio
I step away from the casket, into the receiving line, quietly taking note of the tear-stained faces in the room. Normally I don’t stand on line for anyone, but it’s good for the locals to see me paying my respects.
The D’Sousas have always been well-loved in the valley, especially Manuel’s late wife, Maria Rosa, who fed the hungry and championed the underdog. In an ugly twist of fate, she was murdered in the street by the very type of person she took under her wing. The sonofabitch slit her throat in broad daylight.
It happened six years ago, hours before my father drew his final breath. Although the two events were unrelated, people whispered that God had taken an angel, but spared us the devil.
I don’t believe in most of that shit, but even I have to admit, the universe works in mysterious ways.
Maybe it can use some of its magic to get this damn line moving.
I glance toward the long, windowless wall where Cristiano, one of my most trusted men, is standing, his sharp gaze scouring every inch of the packed room for trouble. If it’s here, he’ll find it.
The line begins to thin as it winds beyond the casket. Soon, I’ll catch a glimpse of my future bride.
My future bride. Just the thought of it makes the acid churn in my gut. The very last thing I need while securing my hold over the region is a wife.
It’s not personal. I haven’t seen her in years, and it’s been even longer since we spoke.
The last time, she was about ten or eleven, riding a horse that was much too large and spirited for a young girl. She had no trouble controlling the powerful animal. I remember being impressed by her skill. When I praised her, she smiled coyly at me from the saddle, her lively eyes sparkling with mischief.
She’s not smiling today, and the sparkle has been replaced with a veil of grief.
Daniela D’Sousa is dressed in black from head to toe, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, like any dutiful daughter mourning her beloved father. But she’s not just any daughter. She’s the D’Sousa princess, a princesa, the closest thing to royalty in these parts.
As I inch closer, I see how young she is—and vulnerable, with the glazed expression of a teenager who has been dragged through hell and survived. No doubt the last weeks of her father’s life took a toll on her, and now, at just eighteen, she’s faced with the daunting task of carrying on a storied family legacy—alone. At least that’s what she believes.
While Manuel never shied away from tough conversations, in the end, he didn’t have the balls to tell his only child he’d bequeathed her to the son of o diabo. That task was left to me.
I push aside the thoughts of our arrangement, and distract myself with studying Daniela. It’s not too taxing.
Her dark hair is pinned neatly to the top of her head, exposing a smooth, elegant neck. Even in mourning she’s quite lovely, with all the polish one would expect of a princess groomed to one day become queen.
I continue to watch, as she accepts each condolence with poise and grace. Those who pick the grapes are shown the same respect as those who own the valuable vineyards and port houses. She’s like her mother.
Someday she’ll be a useful asset to me—her kind heart the perfect complement to my black soul. Her soft center balancing my rough edges. Someday. But not today.
As Daniela waits for the line to move, she gazes toward the main entrance. When she does, the color drains from her face, and she shudders before exchanging a dire look with a woman standing a short distance away.
The older woman is as pale as Daniela.
Without turning my head, I glance at the entrance, expecting to find a demon lurking.
I find two.
My uncle Abel and his oldest son Tomas darken the arched doorway, casting an ominous shadow over the room. Unlike Daniela, I’m not surprised to see them. They’re here for show—to see, and to be seen—much the same reason I’m here. But I don’t like it.
Abel was my father’s younger brother, married to my mother’s younger sister, Vera. My father always had the upper hand in the relationship, but the brothers were mostly friendly competitors, often scheming against the other port houses.
My cousin Tomas and I, on the other hand, are fierce rivals who seldom exchange a civil word. It’s been like this since we were boys. But like my father, I, too, have always had the upper hand.
One day Tomas will take over my uncle’s entire port business, the legal and the illegal enterprises, and our rivalry will grow even more bitter. But with D’Sousa’s vineyards in my clutches, my power in the valley will be unassailable. For as long as I’m alive, my cousin will forever be second string.
I catch Cristiano’s eye from across the room. He nods. He saw Daniela’s reaction, too.
She’s afraid of them.
I want to know why.
3
Antonio
When I finally reach the front of the line, Daniela doesn’t pale, but she draws a heavy breath when she sees me and stands taller, with her shoulders pulled back and pupils dilated. If I held my fingers to her throat, her pulse would be racing. It’s a subconscious survival instinct, and I doubt she even realizes she slipped into battle mode.
“Bom dia,” she says so softly, her greeting is barely audible over the rustling in the room.
“Antonio Huntsman,” I murmur, taking her outstretched hand. The introduction is merely a formality. Everyone in the room knows who I am—including her. “It’s been a long time. Do you remember me?”
“Of course.” Her brow eases some. “Our mothers were friends.”
The best of friends, along with my aunt Vera. Of the three, only my mother is still alive—and that was purely luck.