Page 181 of The Final Cut

The exchange happens almost automatically, and for one impossible second, the room thins around us. I can almost hear another version of her saying it with sticky hands and smug eyes.

Older by minutes.

Chosen by minutes.

Loved by minutes.

Then it’s gone.

Marisol watches us like the glimpse costs her.

“You were kept separate from most cartel activities,” she continues. “As much as I could make you. Your father had to work for Mother, though. That created conflict.”

“What did he do?”

“Numbers. Properties. Shell companies at first. He was good with patterns, with money, with people who thought being charming made them intelligent.”

Shiloh makes a soft sound. I glance at him.

He raises both hands. “Felt personal.”

I can’t help snickering.

Marisol’s mouth softens for a second before the memory takes it back. “Frank wasn’t a criminal. Not in his heart. He thought he could work close enough to keep us safe and far enough not to become the thing he hated.”

Nash’s expression stays unreadable. “That never works.”

“No.” Marisol looks at him. “It doesn’t.”

Then her eyes come back to me. “We talked about leaving constantly. Your father, Cal, and I. Cal was your father’s friend before he became anything else to this family.”

“Cal knew my dad?”

“He loved him like a brother.”

My chest hurts.

Cal knew my father. Cal knew my mother. Cal raised me inside a house full of ghosts with names he rarely said, and I thought that was because speaking of the dead hurt too much.

Maybe it did. Maybe everything did.

Marisol keeps her hands folded. “The day came when talking was no longer enough. You and Delia were almost four. Mother began speaking about training.”

Delia’s mouth tightens.

“Training one of you,” Marisol continues. “Preparing one daughter to inherit. Teaching her the family, the prayers, the rooms, the discipline, the cost of command.”

My gaze flicks to Delia. There’s no question which daughter Isabel meant.

Delia sits still, hands folded, face locked.

“And the other?” I ask.

Marisol’s eyes shine. “An alliance.”

I don’t understand for half a second. Then I do. The air leaves my lungs.

“Marriage,” Delia supplies, because apparently one of us has to be able to say ugly things without choking.