Page 87 of Bad Blood

Santi didn’t know shit about it.

Wait…“Five?” I ask, realizing I’m about to steer myself right into another shithole.

I grip the edge of my desk, bracing for the response that is every bit as toxic as I anticipate.

“Yes, you, me, yourmamá, your brother…and our new daughter-in-law.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Santi

My father glaresdown at his plate in disgust. “What the fuck is this?”

The waiter becomes a wax statue, his face frozen in terror as he glances across the table at me for guidance. Unfortunately, I can’t pull him from this fire.

I’m the one who lit the match.

Legado’s Cellar Bistro is a world-renowned five-star restaurant occupying a large portion of the eighth floor. The food is high-end and eclectic, which besides being completely empty due to renovations, is one of the main reasons I chose it for tonight’s festivities. My father is a product of his environment and a creature of habit.

Valentin Carrera will charge into enemy territory with nothing more than a vendetta and a steak knife, but when it comes to his food, he rarely strays outside his comfort zone. If his plate doesn’t have Mexican roots or come with a side of Texan nostalgia, he isn’t interested.

So, I may have enjoyed it a little too much when the waiter set a plate of sautéed baby octopus in front of him.

Bon appetit, Zeus.

My mother, however, isn’t so amused.Or at all.In fact, if looks could kill, I’d have eight baby octopus legs tied in knots around my neck.

“It’sJjukkumi Gui, s-sir. I-it’s a-a Korean delicacy.”

The man can’t form a sentence without stuttering, and instead of reveling in it, I find myself feeling sorry for theidiota. This newfound guilt Thalia has shoved down my throat is putting a damper on my fun.

Flashing the waiter a gracious smile,mamáleans in close to my father. “That looks delicious, Val. Do you mind?” Without missing a beat, she switches plates, placing her roasted duck in front of him while taking the octopus for herself.

Delicious, my ass.She’s full of shit but no one dares argue with her.

Crisis averted.For now.

Mamáglares across the table at me, her red lips pursing in that familiar, disapproving way—the one that always hits in the same raw places. The same scars. But it’s her eyes that wipe all traces of smugness from my face—narrow slits of blue, identical to Lola’s but much less innocent. Eyes that have always held endless well of devotion and the deepest source of pain.

For both of us.

She hasn’t changed much in two years. Even in her late forties, Eden Lachey Carrera is still striking. The long, cherry red hair I used to grasp as a security blanket as a young boy, now dusts her shoulders, but it’s still just as vibrant.

I wish happy memories were the only ones I had of her. The ones where I tugged on that hair and she laughed and squeezed me so hard I thought I’d die.

But they’re not, and I have Dante Santiago to thank for that.

Thankfully, the view to my right helps. I had to put the brakes on the spaghetti extravaganza, but Svetlana delivered on the dress.

This time, Thalia didn’t turn it into a Halloween costume—a concession that didn’t even require heated debate.

She looks like an angel, with those sexy loose curls flowing down her back. But it’s her dress that’s the star of the show. It’s white—elegant and sophisticated, while still showing enough skin to make me contemplate the ramifications of escorting her to the restroom for round two.

That Russian needs a raise.

Refusing to give the roasted duck a second glance, my father raises a stem glass ofGran Patrón Burdeos Añejoto his mouth and takes a slow sip, his dark gaze settling to my right as well. “I would toast to the happy couple, but it seems I wasn’t invited to the festivities.”

“Val…” my mother warns. I can tell they’ve already had words—none of them pleasant.