The absurdity of it all punched a hole in my composure, and I couldn’t stop laughter from leaking out in the middle of Tía Lupe’s platitudes. The more I tried, the harder my shoulders shook until my aunt stopped and stared at me in horror.
Some of my cousins had drifted off to take advantage of the mansion’s pool or arcade, but the remaining family observed me like I’d murdered their favorite pet.
“What’s so funny?” Tía Lupe demanded in Spanish. “Your father is on his deathbed, and you’re laughing? That is beyond disrespectful!”
“It’s funny you should say that, tía, considering you only come around when you want my father to pay your bills. How’s the house in Cartagena? Still under the million-peso renovation you so desperately needed?” Steel flickered beneath my amusement.
“You should talk. You’re a spoiled little brat who wastes my brother’s money without ever—”
“Lupe. Enough.” My uncle placed a hand on her arm and firmly steered her away from me. “Now’s not the time.” He cast an apologetic glance at me, and I summoned a wan smile in response.
Unlike Tía Lupe, Tío Martin was quiet, even-tempered, and cautious. He lived in the same half dozen outfits year-round and didn’t give a crap about the lifestyles of the rich. I had no idea how he’d ended up with someone like my aunt, but I supposed opposites did attract.
“No, Lupe is right,” Tío Esteban, my father’s eldest sibling, said. “What’s so funny, Xavier? You haven’t been home in months. You refused to take over the company, so poor Eduardo here is stuck doing your job. You are constantly pictured in the gossip rags, partying and wasting God knows how much money. I told Alberto to cut you off a long time ago, but no, he refuses.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what he was thinking.”
I did. Money was another form of control for my father, and the threat of cutting me off was more powerful than the act. If he actually cut me off, that would be it. I would be free.
I could’ve cut myself off, but I’ll be honest—I was a hypocrite. I railed against Lupe for using my father as an ATM machine when I did the same. The difference was I admitted it.
The money was a prison, but it was all I had. Without it, Xavier Castillo as the world knew him would cease to exist, and the possibility of losing the only value I had was more terrifying than living the rest of my life in a gilded cage.
“Oh, you know Alberto.” Tía Lupe scoffed. “Always holding on to the romantic notion that my dear nephew will someday stop being a disappointment. Honestly, Xavier, if your mother were alive, she would hate—” The rest of her sentence cut off with a shriek when I grabbed her by the front of her shirt and yanked her toward me.
“Do not ever talk about my mother,” I said, my voice deceptively soft. “You may be family, but sometimes, that’s not enough. Do you understand?”
My aunt’s pupils were the size of dimes, and when she spoke, her words shook. “How dare you. Let go of me this instant, or—”
“Do. You. Understand?”
The feather in her ridiculous hat quivered with increasing intensity. It was a testament to her unlikability that no one, not even her husband, stepped forth to intervene.
“Yes,” she spit out.
I released her, and she scrambled back to Tío Martin’s side. “Excuse us.” Sloane’s cool touch soothed some of the flames raging in my gut. “Xavier and I need to discuss some media matters in private.”
I followed her out of the room, passing my aunt’s vengeful gaze, Dr. Cruz’s frown, and a host of other silent judgment.
I wished I cared.
I was glad I didn’t.
Sloane led me to my father’s office down the hall. She closed the door behind us and faced me, her expression not betraying an ounce of emotion. “Are you done?”
“She had it coming.”
“That wasn’t my question.” Four strides brought her close. “Are. You. Done?” She punctuated each word with precision.
My jaw tensed. “Yes.”
Was what I’d done smart? Probably not. But it’d felt damn good.
Of everyone in my family, Tía Lupe was the last person who should talk about how my mom would feel. The two had never gotten along. Tía Lupe had seen my mother as competition for my father’s time and money—which was disturbing on so many levels—and my mother had disliked her sister-in-law’s shameless self-aggrandizement.
“Good, because if you’re done, it’s my turn to speak.” Sloane tapped the globe on my father’s desk. Red pins highlighted every country where the Castillo Group’s beer had the biggest market share.
Half the globe was red.
“This is your inheritance,” she said. “A global empire. Thousands of employees. Billions of dollars. You are the only direct heir to the Castillo Group, and even if you refuse a corporate position, your name means something. It means there will always be people looking to take you down, to take from you, to get what they feel like they deserve. Some of those people are right down the hall. Your job”—she jabbed a finger at my chest—“is to be smart. This is a critical time not only for your father’s health but for your future. If he dies, it’ll be a feeding frenzy, no matter what his will says. So unless you’re willing to give up your inheritance and work for once in your life, keep your hands to yourself and your temper under control.”
Unlike earlier, her touch burned.
Indignation shriveled beneath her steady stare. She wasn’t being malicious or unsympathetic; she was being practical, and in typical Sloane fashion, she was right.
“Tough love, Luna,” I drawled. “You’re good at that.”
I stepped away from her and toward the globe. I spun it idly, watching the Americas roll by, followed by Europe and Africa, then Asia, then Australia.
I stopped it when South America came into view again and plucked the pin out of Colombia. It pricked my thumb, but I hardly felt it.
“Have you ever wished someone would die?” I asked softly. “I don’t mean figuratively or in a moment of anger. I mean, have you ever lain awake at night, dreaming of how life would be better if a specific person didn’t exist?”
It was the closest I’d ever come to shining a light on my darkest thoughts, and the somber ticks and tocks that followed sounded like hammers striking at my walls.
The English grandfather clock in the corner was one of my father’s prized possessions. Rosewood case carved with an intricate inlay design, face crafted of chased silver, hallmarked numerals by a famous London silversmith. He’d paid over one hundred thousand dollars for it at an auction, and its imposing sentry felt like an avatar for his reproach.
A breeze brushed my skin as Sloane reached for the pin. “Yes.” Her fingers grazed my palm for a single, lingering second before she pushed the pin back into the globe. “It doesn’t make us bad people, nor is it an excuse. We can’t always control our thoughts, but we can control what we do about them.”
Her gaze coasted from the antique surface of the globe to my eyes.
