Page 10 of Play for Power (Central Sparks #3)

the spawn of satan

Rosie

“ G ood evening, Miss Garcia.” My parent’s latest maid answers the door to their New York penthouse. I smile politely, taking a deep breath to steel my nerves as I enter. I am a boss bitch and I take shit from no one.

I’m a boss, I take shit from no one.

I’m the baddest bitch. I’ve got this.

I pump myself up, rolling my shoulders and neck to loosen the tension headache forming in my head.

I have nothing to sweat. Another appeasing dinner to keep the parentals happy.

Plus, there are other ways I can fuck with them while still being the obedient daughter.

My parents have always known I have an unfiltered mouth, this won’t be news to them.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” The sound of that gravelly voice makes my skin crawl and heat with rage.

Boss bitch. Boss bitch, I internally chant and try my best to hide my cringe.

Spinning to greet our guest, I plaster on my fakest smile and head in his direction, stopping long enough to pat him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Mickey, catch any STDs recently?” I smile sweetly at the way his sneer gives way to the nerve I hit, with both the nickname and calling him out on his inability to keep his dick in his pants at every strip club in the city.

“Why are you always a brat,” he growls.

“Maybe because you’re always a cu?—”

“Rosita.” My father makes his grand entrance at the perfect time and cuts off the insult I was dying to finish.

Mickey—because I refuse to use his real name and acknowledge him as a real person—smiles maliciously, deceiving everyone around him.

But I know who he is to his core. That’s what happens when you grow up surrounded by Satan’s helpers.

“ Padré .” I greet my father with a polite nod and he returns the same.

“Your mother is asking for you in the kitchen.”

Doubtful, that’s his way of telling me to make myself scarce, to leave men to discuss the important things.

I drop my smile as I walk past the devil and head in the direction of the kitchen.

On the way down the hall, I stop long enough to make sure no one is watching and swipe a stack of coasters from the table lining the hall.

“ Hola , Mama,” I greet as I enter. Of course, my mother wouldn’t be caught dead slaving away over a stove, instead she sits at a cute table by the window with a glass of wine, looking out over the city.

The kitchen is less of a domestic kitchen and more of a chef’s kitchen, which is currently staffed with two chefs in preparation for tonight’s dinner.

“ Hola , Rosita.” She sighs as I make my way to a cupboard for a glass, replacing it with the stack of coasters, and join her at the table.

It’s always weird having these little moments with the woman who birthed me.

They are increasingly rare, perhaps a few times a year.

Despite the fact she provided half my DNA, I don’t really have a whole lot to do with her.

“You ready for tonight?” she asks, nursing her wine. I take a seat and pour my own glass.

“What’s another dinner with Padré being overbearing. Nothing I’m not used to,” I respond, masking my frustration with sarcasm.

“One of these days, Rosita, you’re going to need to drop the attitude and grow up.

No man of a good family is going to want a wife who doesn’t know when to keep her mouth closed.

” My mother delivers the sharp words like a slap, except my tenderness toward her all but died when I was a kid, so they barely scratch the surface.

“Good thing I wasn’t planning on taking a husband,” I mutter while downing the entire glass of wine and pouring another one.

“I don’t know where I went wrong in raising you.

” She leans forward on the table and I omit the retort that she hadn’t raised me at all.

She sends me an intense look, her large brown eyes—my eyes—glaring back at me.

“Why can’t you be the good, amenable wife?

I don’t understand why you fight it when it could just make your life easier.

” I know she continues to belittle me in the hopes I’ll submit, but the thing is, she doesn’t know me at all.

Hasn’t the slightest idea that the armor surrounding me is impenetrable.

“Because, mother , you are utterly delusional if you think being traded like a commodity is any way to live a life. If you said you were happy, I’d laugh in your face.

I don’t aspire to be miserable and pathetic like you for the rest of my life.

Also, thanks”—I down the rest of my wine, finishing with a smile—“for the verbal lashing, I feel inspired for this amazing dinner party we’re about to have.

” I grin with as much feigned sincerity as I can and revel in the beet-red color that breaks out across her face.

As I head for the door to the kitchen, I discreetly swipe a salad server, holding it against my forearm, when I hear a chair scrape and the clip of my mother’s heels as she storms in my direction.

My heart rate picks up and I try to make it to the door in time, but she reaches me first, a grip on my arm. She spins me and has her face in mine.

“If you make this dinner hell for me, you will regret it,” she says under her breath, nothing but hatred in her stare.

“Why do you stay with him when you so clearly despise him?” I spit at her as I yank my arm from her grasp.

“What other option do I have?” she spits, straightening her posture, and that cool Garcia facade slips right back into place.

“Uh, to leave him?” I raise a brow, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to work out when this woman decided to let a man control her entire life. But then I’m really not that different from her, am I? We’re both stuck under the very same man.

“He is a husband, Rosita. I am the wife.” She flattens her dress and tucks her hair. “In your effort to ruin your own life, leave me out of it.” She pushes past me and into the main dining area.

I forced a sharp breath through my nose, resisting the urge to say something that would be regrettable, and instead, I mutter to myself, “Welcome home, Rosita.”

“Mr. Castillo,” I greet with a feminine handshake and a little bow of my head in respect. I am the good daughter, after all. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Likewise, Rosita.” He scans my body in appreciation, and I have to physically restrain myself from giving him a dirty look. If only I still had the solid wood salad server so I could accidentally smack him over the head with it. No, I left that in the powder room cabinets.

I ignore the blatant harassment and move on to his wife. “Mrs. Castillo. Long time.” I smile politely and she gently shakes my hand before leaning in to kiss each of my cheeks. Resting her hands on my shoulders, she, too, appraises me with an appreciative look, just less creepily.

“Ah, Rosita. As beautiful as ever. The years have been kind to you,” she boasts.

The years? I’m twenty-eight, not fifty. I have to internally roll my eyes as we each take our seats.

I usually take the head of the table at home, but of course, here, that is reserved for the men who rule the household.

Both my father and Mr. Castillo take the respective seats at each end, their wives to their left, and Mickey and I are left to take the middle seats next to our mothers.

“Miguel, how are things with the latest casino?” Father asks Mickey as the wait staff fret around the table, filling up wine glasses and placing down the entrées.

“Well, the opening week has proven quite profitable and the hotel is booked solid for the next six months.” He smiles politely to my father.

“A wise investment. We have the new development going up in Vegas next year, have you thought any more about the proposal?”

“I have?—”

“There are other stipulations you need to fulfill first, Antonio,” Mickey’s father—also named Miguel, because they could not be any more pretentious—interrupts Mickey’s response and delivers my father a look across the table.

“What is he talking about?” I direct to my father, noting the way his jaw clenches.

“Nothing you need to worry about right now, Rosita,” Father says, not making eye contact, but I assess the two men at each end of the table. They are pretty much in a stare-off. This time I don’t hide my eye roll.

The wait staff clears the table after we eat our entrée in silence, making room for the mains.

“Mrs. Castillo, how is the floristry going?” Mickey’s mother, while somehow married to a monster and spawned the devil himself, is usually quite polite. My go-to for the easy conversations.

“Well, thank you, dear. We did Andrea Santiago’s wedding last weekend, which was an amazing project.” The fashion influencer from Monaco who is like celebrity royalty over there.

“I saw that on Instagram, the flowers looked lovely.”

“Thank you, Rosita.” She smiles politely at me, and the rest of the table settles into a tense silence. We dive into our mains, and every now and then I clock the death stares both Papa Miguel and father deliver each other.

“Well, my work is going great, too, thanks for asking,” I say with a touch of attitude, bringing my glass of wine to my lips and drinking, like I had all the time in the world as I feel my mother’s body tense beside me.

“I have this new manuscript from a friend that I think is going to be a best seller, and I get to be the editor! The team is a bit overrun, but when we get to it, it is going to be a?—”

“Rosita, enough,” My father scolds me, interrupting my story.

“Apologies. I had thought hearing a boring story about your daughter was better than barbequing your dinner guest with your glare. Of course”—I raise a palm to my chest—“I was wrong, again. I’m such a silly girl,” I say, with a bucket load of attitude.

Ignoring my mother’s whisper-scolding, I meet my father’s glare with one of my own, hidden behind my polite facade as to not worry our guests about there being an insolent child.

“Still haven’t managed to get a hold on your wild daughter, I see, Antonio,” Mr. Castillo says through a smile, like the downfall of his friend brings him joy.

The way my father clenches his jaw is a giveaway that he is pissed, and I make a mental note to leave immediately after dinner and avoid being alone with him in the foreseeable future.

Mrs. Castillo pushes the food on her plate around with a fork and refuses to make eye contact with anyone.

Mother, of course, is half drunk and downing her third glass of wine.

God, I need to get out of here.

The mains and dessert finish without further conversation.

I do my best to remind myself not to stick my foot further in shit and manage not to stir the pot.

I like drama as much as anyone, but I know I’ll pay for it later and I’m smarter than that.

I switched out wine for water because I didn’t want to risk stumbling home, I wanted a chance to go out and at least end the night on a high.

Eventually the table is wrapped up and we file into the living room where the men huddle and drink their whiskey, and the women are seen, not heard.

The night gets later, and with our guests saying their goodbyes, I choose this moment to try to escape.

Grabbing my purse and heading back into the living room.

“I will take my leave, thank you for the lovely meal.” I briefly wave at everyone and then spin on a heel to leave.

“Rosita. Can I see you in my office a moment,” My father calls, and I still on the spot, looking at him over my shoulder.

“It’s getting late, Padré. I need to get home.” I smile politely and take a few steps toward the door.

“That wasn’t a request.” He grumbles, and that built-in instinct to obey rears its ugly head. Swallowing to wet my suddenly dry throat, I glance at my mother and our guests, bid them goodbye, and follow my father into his office with my chin raised.

He stalks toward his desk as I click the door closed.

“We need to discuss the arrangement,” he states as he moves things around his desk, I suspect looking for his favorite pen. I don’t tell him it was now sitting in the ice bucket of his favorite bar cart in the den. It’s the small pleasures in life.

“No.” My heart rate spikes despite the niggle of joy I almost had at watching him wonder if he was losing his mind or his memory, searching for the misplaced pen. I throw my purse to the chair in front of him as I storm in his direction. “You said I had more time.”

“You need to stop playing games, girl. It’s time to grow up. Your family needs this?—”

“You don’t need shit! You are the wealthiest man in all of Chile, probably Monaco and the US as well, what more could you possib?—”

“That is enough!” he shouts, his search for the infamous pen all but forgotten.

His voice vibrates the room, and I feel his palpable rage through my veins.

My eyes meet the floor on instinct as I attempt to breathe calmly out of my nose, counting to three to stop my sharp tongue from getting me into trouble and rapidly blinking away the sting in my eyes.

“You have embarrassed me in front of our guests.”

You embarrassed yourself, are the words I don’t say.

Keeping my focus on the floor, he continues, “It is time to hold up your end. Your family requires you to do your duty. You are not a child anymore, Rosita. You need to take responsibility for your life.” He scolds me and gestures for the seat in front of him.

I take it, like my body operates on autopilot, still not making eye contact.

He unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat, relaxing back into his chair and swirling his whiskey glass.

I can feel his fixation on me like a burning brand, and my entire skin itches from the scrutiny.

“We need to sort out the terms. You will be amenable. And you will behave. Is that understood?”

I breathe slowly, trying to get a hold of my racing heart and steady myself. I refuse to show weakness in front of anyone, especially this man, and I know if I speak my voice will give me away.

“I asked, is that understood? ” he repeats, an air of menace around him.

“Yes, Padré .” Dammit. There is no way he didn’t hear me falter.

Despite my weakness bettering me, I remain immovable as my father plans for the entirety of my life, like I am not human. Like my life means nothing at all.