Page 29 of Beautiful Savage
The laughter that follows is real, the kind that comes from people who've been laughing together for years. It rolls through the gap in the door and lands heavy in my chest. My hand goes to my sternum, pressing against the ache that blooms there.
Through my sliver of view, someone walks past. Just a flash of apron and dark hair, hands carrying a platter. Sera who bought the lemons, maybe, though I only see her for a heartbeat before she's gone.
"A toast," a woman's voice commands. Warm but weighted. Marisol. "To the magnificent woman who returned my brother to me, and who cooks for us every week."
The sounds shift. Chairs pushed back, crystal singing as glasses meet.
"To Sera," multiple voices say together.
Another pause, then the sounds of sitting, eating resuming.
A male voice, quiet but carrying: "Bless this food and those who prepared it."
"Amen," several voices respond, though one adds, "Bit late for that, Gabriel," and gets a laugh that breaks the solemnity.
That must be Gabriel Delgado, Marisol's brother. He was in the newspapers too, the heir who ran away to join the seminary, but recently returned to Miami, fallen from grace.
I step closer to the door, unable to make myself stop. Through the gap, I can see one more detail that makes my chest tighten. An empty chair at the corner of the table. Place setting intact, wine glass unfilled, napkin folded. Waiting.
Gunner's chair. The family dinner that's happened every Sunday for years, and he's not here.
Because of me.
The weight of it presses down on my shoulders. I've cost him this. This warmth, this belonging, this family that clearly adores him despite everything he thinks about himself.
The conversation drifts for a few more minutes. Talk of the club's good week, someone mentioning the bar takings are up, a measured voice providing details about staffing. Then crystal strikes wood, and the room's energy shifts like weather changing.
"So we're just not going to talk about it?" Marisol's voice drops into the warmth and freezes it.
"Cariño." That must be her husband, Nico, with a warning in his tone.
"No.Nine years of Sunday dinners. Nine years his backside's been in that chair. And now?" I hear her chair scrape. "Empty as a confessional on a Saturday night. While he plays house upstairs with some painter's daughter."
My hand flies to my mouth, holding in the sound that wants to escape.
"That's not…" Adrian starts.
"Isn't it?" Marisol's voice sharpens. "He took her from her home. Dragged her here because her father was painting in our garden. And now he thinks she's connected to Hallstein?"
The name lands strange in my ears. Hallstein. Who is that?
Another voice, careful and measured:
"The timeline fits. Nicolas Gilles was in the garden three weeks ago. Just after the breach at the docks, and right before Gunner learned about Hallstein's upcoming Pentagon appointment. If Hallstein sent the painter to spy on us…"
"Then the daughter is just leverage," Nico finishes. "That's what Gunner's read on the situation is."
My knees go weak. Just leverage. That's all I am to them. To him. Not a person, not even a proper captive. Just a tool in some game I don't understand.
"But he hasn't confirmed anything," Sera says. "In three weeks, he hasn't pushed her for information. Hasn't even asked about her father properly."
"Because he's lost his fucking mind over her." Marisol's words are bullets, but there's a crack down the middle of every one. "Nine years since the discharge took him apart, nine years gluing himself back together one ugly piece at a time, and now, when it matters most, he goes soft over a pretty face. Jorge would be ashamed. I'm scared, which is worse."
"That's not fair." Adrian's voice carries steel under the warmth now. "You didn't see him when he brought her in. This isn't just business for him."
"Which is exactly the problem." I hear Marisol's heels on the floor, pacing like a caged animal. "Hallstein is about to become untouchable. Pentagon advisory commission on military justice reform. If this girl is working for him…"
"She's not at this table," another female voice cuts through, sharp as knives. "That's your answer right there."
