Page 12 of Shameless in Vegas

That said, however, the saturation of wealth that the Reyes family possesses is positivelysinful. Not that money itself is evil. Money is merely a tool. What you do with it is what is virtuous or sinful. If you use your piles upon piles of money to do good in the world, wealth is virtuous. If you hoard it simply as a means of personal indulgence, wealth is sinful.

For example, upon leaving Las Vegas with my latest husband, I am in possession of a single ring worth half amilliondollars. I am also now the owner of a wardrobe that accounts for the other half of that million dollars. For anynormalperson, that amount of money would last for the rest of their natural life with plenty to spare. According to Joaquin, the wardrobe should “get you by for the next couple of weeks or so, and then we can get more later.”

What. The. Fuck.

Despite him being my latest target, I do like Joaquin, but he is so disconnected from reality that I can barely resist the urge to laugh in his handsome face sometimes.

Case in point, the veritablepalacehe lives in with his parents in Southampton, New York. He has always lived here. He’s never had a job. He’s never had to do unspeakable things for merely a roof over his head and his next meal like so many impoverished people I’ve encountered during previous assignments. He’s always hadthisroof, which consists of soaring ceilings and is supported by beams and walls adorned by hand-carved accents. He’s always been fed by servants, who are clearing away the last of a tapas spread in the elegant, cavernous, wood-paneled lounge, where we dined on the light evening meal with Isla and Malachi.

Isla swirls a dirty martini, eyeing Joaquin over the rim while she leans comfortably against Malachi’s side. “If you don’t say something before they return, you will only make Papá’s reaction worse once they are here.”

Joaquin lifts his gaze to the ceiling, his annoyance palpable, and dumps the last sip of whiskey from his crystal tumbler into his mouth. “I’m not having that conversation over the phone.” He leans forward, setting his glass on the large, solid coffee table that separates the leather loveseat where he’s sitting with me from the one where they’re seated. “I’d rather do it in person so Mamá’s excitement about Natalia can act as a buffer,” he adds, picking up a crystal decanter to refill his drink and then turning slightly to top off the glass in my hand.

I offer him a closed-lip smile and slow bat of my lashes that temporarily distracts him. Setting down the decanter, Joaquin picks up his glass with one hand and drapes his opposite arm around my shoulders. His thumb tenderly strokes the side of my neck, and a smile plays on his lips.

“Mamá is going to love you,” he says, and the one memory I have of my own mother’s face flashes across my mind.

I was around five years old. I was sitting on stone steps. My knees were smarting from scrapes. She’d knelt in front of me to clean the injuries and bandage them. Then she looked up at me. Her eyes were the same dusty blue as mine. And then she sat on the step next to me, wrapped her arms around me, and kissed my head.

I believe she loved me. It seems like a loving thing to do, patching up someone’s injuries like that. Based on that one memory, I believe she loved me. But even her love wasn’t enough to keep me safe from the people who stole me from her, forced me into the only life I’ve ever known, and then murdered her as a means to turn me into what I am now.

Needless to say, I couldn’t care less if Joaquin’s mother will love me or not.

“I’m looking forward to meeting them both,” I offer politely.

“Mamá’s excitement will do little to buffer anything,” Isla hisses, pitching forward away from Malachi’s casual embrace. “You were the one who told me about what Papá did when he took offense at Colin bringing Elle here the first time, and they weren’t evenmarried. He’s not even Papá’sson. Colin has no inheritance to protect from women who Papá believes are opportunists. And he wasvicious. To themboth.”

“Oh yeah.” A sardonic laugh works its way out of Joaquin’s throat. “Yeah, Colin’s not Papá’s son.” He salutes Isla with his glass. “I’ll be sure to remind him of that sometime.” Lifting one finger off the side of the glass, he points at Malachi. “I’ll remind him that Mal’s not either, ‘cuz he sure has a hard time remembering that, too.”

Malachi tilts his head in a bored fashion and arches one dark eyebrow. “When are you going to stop calling me that?”

Joaquin settles back against the loveseat and draws me close to his side with an absent air of possessiveness. “Maybe after you prove that you’re not going to be a piece of shit to my sister this go ‘round.”

“You’re missing the point,manito,” Isla inserts. “This situation is not about anything Malachi did. It is about whatyoudid, and how you need to tread carefully in order to protect Natalia from the fallout.”

Joaquin hitches one shoulder. “I can protect her just fine.”

I couldlaugh.

Joaquin can’t protect me any better than he’s going to be able to protect himselffrom me.

Nobody can.

But I can’t let on to any of that, so I simply tense up nervously and shift my gaze between the three of them. “Cariño,I do not want to cause any problems for you and your family. Maybe it would be better if—”

“You’renot,” he insists. “He’ll throw a fit, but he’ll get over it.” Looking at Isla again, he jerks his chin as though challenging her. “He got over his beef with Colin supposedly disrespecting Lili by bringing Elle here, and he apologized to them both. He realized he was wrong about you going missing in college, and he apologized for—”

Isla slams her martini glass on the coffee table and leaps from her seat. “Heneverapologized forthat.” Her russet eyes are suddenly as sharp as daggers, and she looks ready to shank someone. “I wasdrugged, raped, andkidnapped, and he didn’t evencare.Nobodydid. It was completely glossed over, andnobody ever—”

“Darling,” Malachi interjects gently, standing up to encircle her waist with his hands and turning her toward him. “Just breathe. I know that you’re still—”

“Andyou… you…” she seethes at him, anger quaking her slender frame. It’s clear that the aftershocks of everything I know the cartel inflicted on her aren’t going away anytime soon, and a curious warmth of solidarity for Isla seeps into my veins.

“Youwere just as wrong ashewas,” she sputters, her tone bordering on hysteria that I haven’t seen from her yet. She’s right about that, and I wonder if I could figure out how to get away with murdering MalachiandErnesto even though it’s not part of the assignment.

Evil men deserve vengeance. And even though Malachi is currently cupping Isla’s face with tender hands, kissing her eyelids, and murmuring his remorse and regret for everything he did to her, it’s not enough to convince me that he doesn’t deserve a bullet between the eyes. But putting a bullet between Malachi’s eyes isn’t what I was ordered to do. Neither is slitting Ernesto’s throat while he sleeps.

No, the only murder I am permitted to execute is that of the man sweetly holding me against his side, who has never hurt a fly other than righteously killing men who absolutely deserved it.

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