"The final meeting with the Tribunal is this week," I tell him.
He nods in understanding. "And they will want to know your recommended sentence for your wife's crime. Or else they will impose one themselves."
I twist the cap off the bottle and take a long pull as Judge studies me.
"You’re not in an easy position," he says. "Have you decided what you will tell them?"
"What is there to say?" I close my eyes and savor the burn in my throat. "She is guilty. I have nothing to offer in the way of her defense."
"That may be. But her guilt isn't the issue. The issue is what her punishment will be, and if it will be enough to satisfy them."
I tilt my head back, staring up at the shadows dancing across the ceiling. "You're the Judge. You tell me. What would you do if you were in my position?"
"She will already bear the shame of her crime every time she enters the public," he observes. "She will be shunned, whispered about, and despised. But the question is what punishment could be equal to the shame she has cast on you?"
I meet his gaze and take another long pull from the bottle. He doesn't need to explain what he means. Ivy didn't just poison me. She drove a goddamned stake through my reputation. As a Sovereign Son, there is an expectation that my wife will have unwavering loyalty and respect for me. I knew going into this marriage the best I could expect was to have her fear and submission. She would never love me, and I could never love her. There is no loyalty or respect between us. But for her to so blatantly broadcast it to The Society is a slight that cannot be tolerated. The upper echelon must know I have this situation under control. That I am capable of doling out the harsh punishment that will satisfy them and restore the natural hierarchy of order.
"Short of killing her now, I see only one solution." My fingertips move over the scars on my face, covered in ink. A permanent reminder of the damage the Moreno family has inflicted upon the De La Rosa dynasty. Ivy too, will require something permanent. Something horrific. Something that will maim her for life and serve as a reminder of what she has done and who she really is.
"It seems to me you have already decided," Judge remarks. "But if there is one piece of advice I can give you, Santiago, it's this. If you go down this path, there is no coming back from it. When you dole out this type of justice, there must be no question of guilt because you can't take it back once it's done. As you are well aware, those scars do not fade away in time."
He rises to his feet and sets a tote bag onto my desk. Something he must have carried in with him, but I didn't notice it until now.
"What is that?" I ask.
"Her things from the cellar. I thought perhaps you might want them back."
* * *
Fire licks across my flesh, smoke burning my eyes as I crawl through the rubble, dragging my half limp body deeper into the burning remnants. Searing pain is the only solace I have as the screams of men burning alive around me fade into the roar of the inferno.
"Leandro," I try again to call out for him, but my voice is too weak, choked by the suffocating blackness.
He was right beside me. My father and my brother were both right there. My body collapses onto the floor as I gasp for breath, stretching out my mangled arm. In the flicker of flames and shadows, I see a shiny black shoe. Italian leather. Laces perfectly knotted. A rose emblem on the sole. It could only be my father or Leandro.
Using the last of my strength, I drag myself forward again, grabbing onto the leather to pull me closer. But instead of leverage in the weight of his body, I find nothing but give. It takes me a few sputtering breaths to realize I'm holding his severed leg in my hand.
His blood drips down my arm, mixing with my own before it splatters onto the concrete. At last, darkness takes me.
"Santiago."
Something shatters around me, and I hurl myself back, crashing into what feels like a brick wall. I'm swinging without a thought, punching the air, fighting off invisible demons when Mercedes's voice drags me from my delirium.
"Jesus, Santi! Wake up! Open your eyes."
I freeze, forcing my eyes open, blinking several times as my chest heaves with ragged breaths, and I take in my surroundings. I'm slumped back into my office chair, paint dust from the wall behind me covering my shirt. There’s a bottle of scotch broken on the floor, and my knuckles are bloodied from hitting something. The wall. The bottle. I can't even be sure at this point.
Mercedes is standing in the doorway, surveying the scene with undisguised frustration. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snaps.
Her lip is trembling, emotion choking her voice, and for one terrible moment, I find myself questioning if I actually hurt her.
"You didn't come near me," I say hoarsely.
"Of course, I didn't," she hisses. "I'm not an idiot. I know what you're like. But this is getting out of hand, Santi. You haven't had nightmares this bad in months."
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake off the memories. "I haven't been sleeping enough. That's all."
"No, you haven't," she barks. "Because you're a goddamned mess. You're drinking night and day. Slumped over this desk every waking moment. Storming around The Manor like a zombie. You need to snap out of it."
"Watch how you speak to me," I warn her.
"No." She crosses her
