“We’d better go down,” I say to Cat.
Even though Cat and I are early, our father and stepmother are already waiting in the airy foyer. It shows how anxious they are to close this deal with the Prince family.
Daniela is wearing a sleek gown of deep bronze, her hair in an elegant bun. My father has on a black velvet jacket with a matching bronze pocket square. He’s a man of substantial height and breadth, though Daniela is still always careful to select heels that will put her at least an inch or two below him. He has a mane of grizzled gray hair that makes him look like an elderly lion, and a broad, aristocratic nose. His mouth is the only weak feature about him—his lips thin and fleshless, always pulling down at the corners.
They turn to examine Cat and me as we come down the stairs. I slip my left wrist into the folds of my skirt, so Daniela won’t notice the bracelet.
Daniela frowns, displeased with something in our appearance. Maybe it’s Cat’s flyaway curls that can never be tamed, despite the best efforts of the professionals. Maybe she doesn’t think my waist looks small enough. It’s always something, and usually nothing we could actually fix.
My father nods his approval, so Daniela keeps silent.
“Be sure to curtsy to Rocco when you see him,” my father says.
I crush down the rebellious part of me that cringes at that instruction. I hate this formal parade of false affection. I hate that I’m expected to bow and simper all night long in front of all these hateful strangers.
I follow my father out of the house to the waiting limo.
We live in a traditional-style villa in Sitges, on the south coast of Barcelona. My father bought this place because of the unusually large plot of land and the clear view to the ocean. The grounds include a spa and sauna, a Turkish bath, several ponds stocked with exotic fish, a large outdoor dining area, and an orchard. Surrounded on all sides, of course, by hedges and stone walls.
He likes to think of himself as a gentleman, though we’re descended from fishmongers.
The Galician clans were all fishermen to begin with.
Then the Bay of Biscay ran barren, and they turned to tobacco smuggling instead. Smuggling was far more lucrative than fishing had ever been. The fleets multiplied and the fishermen grew rich with empty nets, and cargo holds stuffed with tobacco, hashish, and cocaine.
The Galicians made contacts in Colombia and Morocco. Spain became the entry point for the vast majority of the high-quality cocaine smuggled into Europe.
They built distribution routes to Portugal, France, and Britain, made alliances with the Albanians and the Turkish mafia to bring in heroin, too. They bought politicians and won the love of the people by sponsoring festivals, schools, and football teams. Juventud Cambados became the highest-paid football players in the nation, despite being located in a tiny town, all thanks to narco money.
But what had been a local operation between the tight-knit Galician clans became an international enterprise. The clans began to feud. Long-seated resentments flared up all over again, this time with exponential force behind them.
Threats turned into kidnapping. Kidnapping into torture and murder. A cycle of bloody reprisals split the clans apart.
This is where my father finds himself now: caught between the powerful Alonso clan who have allied themselves with the Brits, and the Torres family who owns the People’s Party and the Galician Premier.
My father needs a partner, or he’ll be swallowed up by one of the other clans. Or worse, crushed under their boot. He’s only clinging to his empire by his fingernails.
That’s where the Prince family comes in.
The Princes own the most powerful distribution network in Germany. With our product and their network, we’ll all become wealthy beyond measure.
For the small price of my marriage to Rocco Prince.
I’m sure his parents know they’re raising a psychopath.
He bounced around boarding schools across Europe to hush up the rumors of his cruelty, his depravity, his senseless violence . . .
I doubt there’s a mafia family in Germany who would give him one of their daughters.
But a desperate Spaniard . . . yes, my father will gladly hand me over. As long as he gets the protection he needs.
As we seat ourselves in the backseat of the limo, my father pops a bottle of chilled champagne. He fills four flutes, his hand steady even with the unpredictable motion of the moving car as we head into the city.
“To securing our fortune,” he says, raising his glass.
Daniela watches as I drink mine down.
They used to ply the Incan virgins with alcohol and coca to keep them docile. To help them accept their gruesome fate.
“Have another glass, why don’t you,” Daniela says to me. “For your nerves.”
We drive down to Port Vell, to the Royal Shipyards. The old medieval dockyards have been renovated into grand venues for weddings and galas. The vast spaces that once held the bones of barquentines now host the elite of Spanish society in their tuxedos and gowns, their genteel laughter echoing high up in the rafters.
It’s almost midnight. In Barcelona we don’t even eat dinner until ten o’clock at night. This party won’t reach its peak until the early hours of the morning. I’m already exhausted just thinking about it.
My father takes my arm in a steel grip and steers me relentlessly toward the center of the room where I can see Dieter, Gisela, and Rocco Prince holding court amongst their many admirers.
The Princes look just as regal as their name. Dieter could be a Kaiser with his immaculately trimmed black mustache and his military-style tuxedo. Gisela is fair-haired and pale, significantly younger than her husband. Rocco stands between them, black hair combed straight back from his brow, face lean and pale and cleanly-shaven, cheeks so hollow that a dark shadow runs from his ear down to his jaw.
My father shoves me forward so I’m forced to sink into a low curtsy in front of Rocco. I can feel his eyes looking down the front of this ridiculous gown. He makes me hold that position a moment too long, before putting his cool, slim fingers under my chin and tilting up my face.
“Hello, my love,” he says in his soft, sensual voice.
His fingers feel as smooth and cold as a snake’s tail. I want to cringe away from his touch.
Instead, he lifts me to my feet, allowing his fingertips to trail over my collarbone and the tops of my breasts as he releases me.
I give a small bow to his mother and father. Dieter Prince takes my hand and lifts it to his lips in a brief, dry kiss. I much prefer his indifference to his son’s deliberate torment.
Gisela Prince briefly meets my eye then looks away. I’ve barely spoken to Rocco’s mother, but if she knows anything about her son, she must feel some measure of guilt over the fate in store for me. I would assume there’s a reason the Princes never had any other children. They might have worried that Rocco would strangle a baby in its sleep.
“Shall we dance?” Rocco says.
He doesn’t wait for my response. He takes my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor, which is already filled with whirling couples. The light, lilting Spanish guitar contrasts the tense repulsion I feel whenever Rocco touches me.
The musicians are playing a gentle Arrolo, but as soon as Rocco has me on the floor, he snaps his fingers, ordering them to switch to tango instead.
Asturias — Marc Lezwijn
Spotify → geni.us/rebel-spotify