Mercy in Betrayal : Dark Mafia Romance

(Sons of the Mafia Book 4) Vi Carter &

E.R. Whyte
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/mercy-in-betrayal-dark-mafia-romance-sons-of-the-m
afia-book-4-vi-carter-e-r-whyte/
Mercy in Betrayal

Vi Carter and ER Whyte

Copyright © 2024 by Vi Carter and E.R. Whyte

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
 Contents

Dedication
Fullpage image
Fullpage image
Fullpage image
Fullpage image
Fullpage image
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
About the Authors
Social Media
Our Thanks
This one's for Anna, who has been (im)patiently waiting in the most delightful way.
 Prologue

Enzo

THE NARROW PASSAGE I walk along is more daunting than any of the bullet-ridden roads I traveled in Afghanistan. The
errand my father sent me on to secure our place in the heroin trade there was surprisingly easy—easy enough to bring us up to
speed with the Valachis, at any rate. They have the corner on coke, but this new deal should equalize us in that market for a
time.

Even if it does make me feel dirty.

My shoulders move with deceptive ease as my men walk quietly behind me. Each light on the wall is like the tombstone of
some dreaded memory, a place for me to stop and yearn for what I lost each time my father requested I come to his office. Each
time, he made sure I walked away a little bit harder and more resentful until hate was all I felt for the man.

Carina and I. Every walk down this hallway had ended in explosions of anger and abuse when Carina and I were children. My
gaze flickers up at the light fixtures. They’re like sentinels, lighthouses guiding wayward ships into a harbor loaded with mines.

No more.

My fingers dance along the waistband of my pants where my pistol rests; she hasn’t been used in a while. I have nothing else on
me since coming back from my assignment. Going to Afghanistan was risky, and the last thing I wanted was anyone tracking me
by my phone, so I hadn’t collected my device after arriving home. I knew that I was considered untouchable with my sister and
Luca Marzano aligned, but nothing was final—not until he put a ring on her finger and his heir grew in her womb. Even then,
I’m not sure I trust him. I’m not the trusting type. So, I took every precaution necessary.

We pause at the door, my father’s door, now mine. I’ll be the one on the other side of this chunk of oak. The one making the
decisions. The one behind the desk.

I give myself a moment, and my men pause behind me.

I should be feeling something, anything.

It was supposed to be Francis.

My hand curls into a fist. From the grave, my father’s voice reaches out and taunts me. I can’t stop the swell of resentment that
blossoms in the pit of my stomach at the thought of my brother. I don’t miss the constant reminder of how he was the golden
child.

I don’t miss him, and the thought shames me. Guts me.

His death didn’t make my life easier. When he died, I lost my sister, too. Now, the only person I have left to rely on is myself.
I’m tempted to reach up and touch the scar behind my left ear, a mark my father left with his belt buckle. It makes it easier to
hate the dead. It makes it easier to accept that this is now my domain, my castle.

Will I be as cruel as my father? How many men will fall under my rule; how many will prosper? So many questions I have no
answers for. This life, this position, was never meant for me.

Yet here I am, standing outside a door that’s slightly ajar. It should be closed.

I slowly remove my pistol and glance up and down the hallway. I meet the eye of my most trusted head of security, Arturo, and
he removes his own pistol and signals with it to the other men, letting them know we may have trouble ahead.

Arturo shifts closer, his gaze trained on the door, and he beckons for me to go behind him with two fingers. I grin and keep my
place at the front of the pack.

I trust Arturo with my life, but men won’t die on my watch because I was a coward who sent them into war like my father did;
my men would only fall if I fell, too.

I nod at Arturo. He isn’t happy, but he nods back, and using his fist, he raises it in the air and signals again to the men to move
forward. I turn and face the door one final time before I launch my shoulder at the solid oak, sending it flying open.

The light is off. I pause at the darkness in front of me, and from memory, I shift slightly to the left with my gun still raised,
running my hand along the plastered wall until I feel the light switch under my fingers. I flick on the lights, and the room is
flooded with a warm yellow glow. My men shift as one with me, everyone with their pistols at the ready. But I’m trying to
understand what I’m seeing in front of me.

My gaze skims across the heads of my father’s capos, gagged and kneeling on the floor. My focus lands on the Valachi men
stationed behind them, their weapons trained on their heads. I’ve been trying to contact the capos for the last few weeks. It’s
almost funny I should find them in this predicament.

I glare at Angelus 'Angel' Valachi, standing behind my father’s desk with his hands resting on the large leather chair.

My chair now.

“Do you want to tell me what is happening here?” I still haven’t put my weapon away, and I have no intention of doing so until
I understand this.

Angel raises his empty hands in the air, no hint of fear touching his features. He should be afraid. I could kill him with one click
of my weapon. That pisses me off.

“I come as a friend.”

“Enzo….” Arturo speaks behind me. I glance at my men; all their weapons are pointed at Angel’s head. He is the only Valachi
in the room unarmed, and yet he is the most dangerous of all.

He places his hands back on the chair in a relaxed gesture, his fingers flexing slightly before they grow still.

“Could we have a moment alone?” he asks as his gaze sweeps across my men.

I take another look at my father’s capos. Sweat stains their faces, and the smell of fear is heavy in the air. I have no love lost
for them.

I nod at Arturo, and he lowers his gun; the rest of my security hesitate a bit longer until Arturo turns, and they follow him out of
the room.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Angel offers. “You can put your weapon away now.”

I’m normally a shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later type of guy, but I also would like to walk out of this room with no holes in
my body. I lower my weapon.

“The Valachi have been using their resources to keep the property secure since Carina is living with Luca.”

“That isn’t necessary,” I bite. It's more than unnecessary. It's an overstep.

Angel doesn’t so much as blink.

“My father had men to take care of his property,” I continue. My father had men for everything. Even ones who didn’t mind
giving a kid a beating.

“You are correct, Enzo. But I thought you would prefer the way I was handling it.” Angel steps out from behind the desk, and
I’m hoping this is the part where he tells me what the fuck is happening. He glances at my father’s men, still on their knees.
“You see, I wanted to extend some compassion and kindness by renovating this office for you so you wouldn’t have to see the
carnage Geno D’Aquino created in this room. But I realized that would be a waste of time and money.”

For a moment, I regret lowering my weapon. “Why is this any of your business?” I step closer to Angel, and the air in the room
shifts.

I don’t see his men move, but I can sense it. The room settles as Angel raises one finger, telling his men to stay where they are.
“Mr. Scarpetta, I told you that I came here as a friend. The men who are kneeling before you are the men who swore to protect
your father. Despite them all being here, a common gangster was able to enter the Scarpetta home and murder the Don.”

Garbled shouts that I can’t understand start to come from the gagged mouths of my father’s men. One tries to rise, but the butt of
the gun sends him sailing to the ground. “Of course, if you wish, I can remove the gags, and you can torture them for hours just
to arrive at the same conclusion I’ve already come to: these men are traitors.”

More muffled shouts. I look in the eyes of men I’ve known my whole life, men who have shown me kindness at times or the
back of their hands at others. Each name dances in a line behind my eyelids. I blink their identities away like I would with an
enemy who once was a friend. It erases any attachment or emotion I might have toward them.

I’m drawn to the desk where my father should be sitting. Did he cry out in his final moments? I highly doubt it. I’m sure he was
spewing some poison about how they would pay with not just their lives but the lives of their families also. It didn’t matter
what his final words were in the end; all that mattered was making my mark here and now in front of Valachi. We're both sons
of the Five, with legacies to uphold. I can't show weakness.

“I’ll deal with this myself,” I say. “My men should be the ones to take them out since they will replace them.” I will not
surround myself with men I can’t trust.

Through smiling, victorious eyes, Angel nods. “If that is what you wish.”

Yeah, it fucking is. I jut out my chin.

Like a rising wave, all the men fight to get to their feet. Their main objective is to reach me as they continue to babble behind
their gags; one almost reaches me before he is beaten back down; his fingers touch my black polished shoe before he’s dragged
back to what will be his final resting place.

With each man kept away from me and firmly on their knees, their shoulders start to shake from tears that soak the gags.
I should feel something.

I don’t.

“Arturo,” I call, and the door opens. The rest of my men enter the room, their movements as one, and at last I feel something—a
swelling of pride.

“These men allowed my father to die. His blood is on their hands, and so they will die.”

I look at each of my men. “All we have is loyalty. Without it...” I wave a hand in the air. “There is no structure, there is no
respect. Loyalty is when you...” I step closer to Arturo. “Would you take a bullet for me?” He nods. I know he would.

“Disloyalty, well…” I face my father’s capos. “You will take their places.” I tell my men, “So first you must take their lives.”

I step aside and the Valachi release my father’s capos. More sobs and pleading fill the air. My men raise their guns. They don’t
fire; they wait patiently for my signal.

One of my father’s men holds up his bound hands; tears pour from his eyes, and I can almost hear him beg behind his gag.

“Kill them.” I give the command. The noise of so many pistols being fired at once sends a thrill through my body; the hair rises
along my arms and the nape of my neck.

When the gunfire ceases, my men move toward the fallen and start to lift the lifeless bodies off the floor.

“Let’s talk outside,” I say to Angel, and he nods in agreement.

He joins me as I stride from the room, and I’m once again struck at how comfortable he is. He shows no fear, even with the
awareness that I have a weapon, and his hands are empty. At least, that’s how it appears. He hasn’t indicated that he is carrying
anything. I’m no fool, though, and neither is Angel Valachi.

“Why did you arrange all this?” I ask.

Angel glances at the flickering light, and a grin coats his lips before he points at it. “I think it’s time for something new. Out
with the old.” He lowers his hand. “It’s time, Enzo, for a new generation to lead the mafia, men with loyalty and purpose. That
won’t happen with the old advisors stabbing each other in the back. We can’t survive like that anymore.”

He’s right, but I don’t say anything.

“I need men who are loyal like you.”

“You think I will be loyal to you?” I ask.

His laugh is quick. “Of course not. I want you to be loyal to your own. That’s all I seek.”

Angel holds my gaze for a beat even as my men pass by, dragging out the traitors who met their fate. He reaches into his pocket,
and I can’t help but reach for my waistband. Angelus smirks and holds up a photograph. I relax my fingers, and he hands over
the photograph without a word.

I take the small square of film and flip it over. It takes me a moment to focus on its unlikely subject, a young woman standing in
a shipping yard, surrounded by a group of men. Her red hair trails behind her like a flag, lighting my nerves on fire, I clamp
down on the instant attraction and hand the photo back to Angelus. “Yeah?”
A little smile crooks the corner of his mouth, and he ignores the photo. “Cassidy O’Rourke hid his little sister on a ship. He
was smuggling her out of Ireland.”

I shrug. “So what?” I’m intrigued, but I can’t show my hand.

He flicks the photo. “This isn’t Cassidy smuggling her onto the ship. This is where she landed. I know where she is.”

I shrug again and repeat my words. “So what’s it to me?”

“Her name is Rowan, and she is O’Rourke’s special little treasure. This is a union I would approve, Enzo. This is your new
beginning. The power this would give you with her by your side—”

I sneer. “I don’t need a woman to gain power.”

Angel takes a quick look at the image again. “You don’t. It’s not her but the union. She will be yours to do with as you wish.”

Before I can respond, he leans in. “Just think about it.” He presses the photo into my chest, and I accept it as his men appear
around him. He tips his chin at me, and with a knowing look turns and leaves, his men parting so he can walk between them
like a king.

I don’t move as my men continue to take out the dead bodies.

I glance down at the photo, my fingers trailing over its laminated edges thoughtfully.

Rowan O’Rourke. A pretty little queen for a new king.

 Chapter 1

Enzo

THE WOLVES HAVE COME out to play. Everyone smiles, talks, and laughs, but behind the smiles is calculation; behind the
words is always a double meaning, and as far as the laughter goes, it’s just a shield to conceal what they’re really thinking.

The room is filled with the most dangerous people in the world. If a stranger walked in off the street—not that they could with
all the security, but if they did—it would appear a simple gathering of beautiful, rich people, all eagerly awaiting the arrival of
the new year. Silver and burgundy balloons dance in the air above each table, a net holding them in place until it’s time for
them to drop down upon us at the stroke of midnight.

How I hate all of this. How I hate these people.

Actors, all of us, politely toasting each other while we wait to slide a knife between the ribs. Most of the time, you never even
see the threat coming. You have to be very good at the game in order to survive it.

It’s exhausting.

Laughter from a table a few feet away draws my attention. I noticed Luca and Carina earlier; it’s hard not to, with the large dog
that sits erect at Carina’s side. My lip twists wryly. Only my sister could get away with having an animal at her side at a posh
society event. He’s alert and trained to protect his owner, but more, I think he’s some kind of service animal.

I didn’t delve too deeply into the details.

The dog isn’t the only security they have in the room, of course. Some of the waiters, bar staff, and hotel security are owned by
more than one of the famiglia in this room. Two of the waiters and one of the catering staff in the kitchen are on my payroll.

My sister laughs at something Luca whispers into her ear. I spoke briefly to her when I arrived at the party, but like always, she
looks at me with a longing for more. I can’t give her anything more than I have. I’m not Francis, and that is what her heart truly
desires. She adored our brother; honestly, if I allow myself to go back to the past, I even understand why she adored him. He
was a magnet that attracted people toward him. Everyone loved him, even Luca, who looked at my sister with adoration. Luca
was best friends with Francis. After his death, they drifted apart, and I took glee in seeing the perfect trio broken apart.

I direct my attention away from the disappointment I seem to be to my family and distract myself with the view.

Not much light filters in from the ceiling-to-floor windows that run the full length of the large, dimly illuminated ballroom.
Lights twinkle from far-off skyscrapers in a cloudless sky. The sun set long ago, replaced with a round full moon that peeks
between the city buildings and shines brightly through the windows.

Everything appears serene. It’s not.

The slight bump against my arm is subtle, but I smile inwardly and turn to face Ivan Romanov. I don’t like many people, but I
make an exception for Ivan. He doesn’t show his hand ever, and in this world, that is not an easy feat. I wouldn’t say we are
friends, but if I had to give my respect to another leader, it would be Ivan. The suit he wears is all dark charcoal, apart from a
red tie the hue of freshly spilled blood. It’s apropos. Ivan Romanov has spilled a lot.

“I have news for you,” Ivan speaks plainly, without preamble. His words are heavy with his Russian accent, but each word is
clear. He isn’t looking at me, his focus pinned instead on Evie O’Hanlon and Cassidy O’Rourke. Their backs are to us, and
they are deep in conversation with another couple I don’t recognize, but I’m sure they are important to garner Evie’s and
Cassidy’s attention. This is their first public appearance since they announced they were together. I wouldn’t have paired them
together, but then again, if anyone was capable of handling the likes of Evie O’Hanlon, it was O’Rourke.

I didn't particularly like either of them.

“This new year may be hard for the Scarpettas,” Ivan proclaims.

This is what Ivan and I do: we share information. I haven’t seen him much in the last few years. Once the Valachis made their
marriage agreement with Ivan, he disappeared back to the part of the city the Romanovs controlled. The Romanovs hide
themselves in plain sight, working stolidly and under the radar as a unit, not really fully immersing themselves in the politics of
the Five Families as the rest of us squabble for more territory and control.

He’s always reminded me of a very cunning beast of prey, lying patiently in wait until he spies exactly what he wants and then
seizing it before it even recognizes the danger at hand.

“What do you mean?” I pick up my drink and face Ivan. I’ve fed him information about what happens with the other families,
in hopes that one day he may return that favor. Maybe today is that day.

My gaze narrows. Is it the docks? Ivan and I have a tenuous partnership as far as the New Jersey docks in Port Elizabeth. The
Scarpettas have helped all of the families smuggle shit in for decades. The idea that one of them would double-cross me
doesn’t sit well.

“Rumor has it…” Ivan pauses and runs a tattooed finger along his neck, nodding to a man in a gray suit. The man looks away
hastily.

Most of Ivan’s neck is coated in ink. It’s something most leaders avoid; marking our bodies makes us identifiable, but not Ivan.
He paints his skin without care. I don’t think even one tattoo is done without thought or meaning. I’m sure some of them are
rank markings. But it’s hard to know as he never discusses himself or his people.

“Cassidy and Evie think that their experience is more valuable than the Scarpettas,” he finishes.

I can’t help but glance at the back of the couple’s head in question. “Do they now,” I murmur.

“With word moving easily through the channels, some local gangs are considering switching allegiance.”

I glance back at Ivan.

“To the Irish.” He adds. His accent is heavier, showing his disapproval. I’m not sure if it is about gangs switching allegiance or
who they are switching their allegiance to. The Irish have long been a thorn in the Italian world. Most of them were crushed,
but not all. Some, like Evie O’Hanlon, we’ve learned to live and work with. Her power continues to grow.

Ivan picks up his drink but doesn’t bring it to his lips. “This is a problem for you, my friend. Angel does not allow any of us to
deal with customers directly. Without the gangs, you do not have the docks.”

He drinks like he didn’t just land a blow that I’m struggling to hide. He’s obviously had time to digest this information as it
affects him, too, yet he doesn’t show any signs of anger. But my own body sings with rage.
I rise, unable to control that anger that pulses through me. Ivan’s lips part like he’s about to speak but he drinks instead as I give
him a quelling look.

I can’t lose the docks. I move through the room as Angelus “Angel” Valachi carves his own path through the space; he’s like
Moses parting the Red Sea. His smile is painted on his face, and pinned to his side is his precious sister, shyly smiling at
people.

I can’t make a scene here, but the need to release some anger has me moving faster through the ballroom. I know I’m attracting
some attention, but I can’t slow down. I can’t seem to find my calm in the middle of the storm that’s tearing its way through me.
The Conrad, being a five-star hotel, wouldn't like it if I smashed up their luxurious ballroom.

To the left, I see one of my security guards start to make his way toward me. I flick two fingers in his direction, telling him to
stop, and he freezes on the spot. The double doors swing open as my palms hit both doors at once.

It should have been Francis…

My father’s hateful words haunt me and nip at my heels as I turn the corner into the corridor. I pass more arriving guests before
ducking down another corridor that’s empty. I pause and try to find my composure, but it’s nowhere in sight. A three-foot-tall
vase sits on a golden tabletop. I grip it with both hands and let it sail through the air. It smashes with a satisfactory crash
against the wall, shards of broken porcelain raining down, and I turn to the large mirror that hangs before the table.

Francis wouldn’t have lost the docks… I stare into soulless eyes, and my fist collides with the image. Fifty dark eyes stare
back at me; I blink, and they all blink back.

Gripping the edge of the table, I bend over, my fingers still itching with the need to destroy. My fingers dig into the table’s
surface, and I half expect it to crack under my death grip. Cheers have my head snapping up, my spine straightening, and I glare
down the hall at the room I just disappeared from. The new year has started. What a way to ring it in.

Just step down. Let Carina lead. Or Tom.

The echo of my father’s words have me glancing back at the shattered mirror. “Fuck you,” I tell him. I take a few deep breaths
and fix my dark tie that has fallen out from my suit jacket. I turn and walk, the pounding pulse of my own blood still ringing in
my ears.

With each step, I make a conscious effort to shake off the anger. I can’t allow Ivan to see the effect his words had on me. I must
show that even in the face of something as huge as this, I am in control.

I re-enter the room with composure and accept a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. I curse myself as I quickly switch
my hands and take the glass with my left. My right hand has a cut across it; I hadn’t noticed or felt the sting when I smashed the
mirror. I stuff my bleeding hand into my pockets.

I don’t know what draws my gaze back to Ivan, but he’s watching me and raises his glass toward me like he didn’t just deliver
a death blow to me. I hold up my own glass, and one of his brows raises as he seeks out my other hand that’s still buried in my
pocket. I can almost make myself believe that Ivan knows my hand is bleeding and what I just did. The balloons and streamers
float across tables and pour onto the floor. Cheers continue to ring out, and everyone around me hugs someone close by.

Cassidy and Evie move into my line of sight as the crowd shifts. They are hugging someone who I can’t see at first.

Evie pulls away from the woman she’s hugging, and I get my first glimpse of Rowan O’Rourke. The girl from the photograph,
in the flesh.

My mouth goes dry.

Rowan O’Rourke is young—far too young for me. She looks like a woman from a pre-Raphaelite painting, her hair long, wavy,
and vibrantly red against pale white skin. She’s wearing some kind of old-fashioned gown, and although it should look silly, it
looks good on her. Really good. She’s a tiny little thing but curvy, and the dress somehow accentuates every one of her
womanly curves, making my blood pound harder in my ears.

The pink leash she is holding doesn’t match her outfit, though. The leash leads to a large, ridiculous orange cat sitting on a
chair next to her. What is it with these women and their animals?

I shake my head a little. Such a strange little bird, Rowan O’Rourke. And yet, her very oddness somehow looks perfect on her.
She was made to stand out, even if she looks like she doesn’t want to be seen.

Glancing around, I notice that a fair number of men around the room are sneaking looks in her direction, and I find myself
taking a step closer. That won’t do. Her brother will have to continue to be protective of her just a while longer while I work
out how to best approach her.

I had known she would eventually make an appearance, and I could decide what I wanted to do about her. Here…now…
knowing what I do about the docks…it feels like serendipity.

Finding Angel in the crowd, I tip my glass to him in a salute and watch as a smile creeps along his face. Then I return my
attention to Rowan. I can’t take my eyes off her; her smile is rare and genuine in a sea of others. She’s real and innocent, and
because she belongs to Cassidy O’Rourke, she’s going to be mine.

She really is a lovely girl.

Her looks don’t matter, though. They're a nice bonus, but revenge doesn’t have to look pretty.
 Chapter 2

Rowan

CLEMENTINE TUGS AT HIS leash with a low mew, drawing my attention. I reach over to stroke the Maine Coon, his long
ginger fur gliding between my fingertips as he stands with his paws on the back of a chair, his feline gaze fixed intently on the
doors leading out to the corridor.

Glancing up, I’m just in time to see the back of a man as he exits amidst the streamers from falling party poppers and
celebratory din. “Really, Clem? All of that for a man leaving the room? You’re supposed to be my emotional support animal,
not a…matchmaker or whatever.” I’m not even certain what the cat wanted to indicate by signaling to the man walking away
from us.

Evie’s arms come around me just then, distracting me, and she swings me around. “Rowan, Cassidy…come meet the
Scarpettas. My erstwhile fiancé.” She giggles, obviously flush with the alcohol circling the room.

Cassidy’s gaze is fierce, but his smile is tender and slightly goofy as he looks down at Evie. He’s a little drunk, as well, but
watchful still. Cassidy’s always ready to pounce. “I think we already met them, love,” he says. He turns to me and reaches to
tug at a curl. “Happy New Year, sis.”

“Auld lang syne,” I whisper, echoing the song that just faded away.

His gaze sharpens upon me, even as Evie tugs loose to speak to someone. “It’ll be good for you here. A new start.”

“Yes.” My fingers curl into Clem’s fur.

Away from the memories.

Away from the constant fear.

I look into my brother’s drink-hazed gaze, though, and I know. We can cross oceans, but we’ll never really outrun everything
that happened over the past few months. Never outrun their deaths—

“Reset.” I say the word out loud, a reminder for myself. Cassidy blinks, then nods.

Pressure forms at my shin, Clem winding himself around my legs. He must have sensed that I was on the precipice, that place
where I stand sometimes on the tips of my toes, ready to fall forward into misery and memory.

I let myself fall over that edge once. Never again.

With a grunt, I pick Clem up and hold him against my body. He’s massive, his form covering most of my torso and hips, but he
settles easily into my arms. “I’m taking Clem to the window to look out at the cars.”
Cassidy takes a step. “I’ll go with you—”

Evie’s hand on his arm halts him. “Give her space.”

Their voices fade as I shuffle past strangers, fully aware by the stares and whispers that even if we haven’t been officially
introduced, I’m not a stranger to them. Evie and my brother have made excuse after excuse for me not being able to properly
enjoy New York over the last few months.

You’re in a foreign city.

As if Cassidy wasn’t in the same foreign city and as if a great part of the population didn’t appear to be Irish.

There are going to be a lot of eyes on us.

It’s not the right time to introduce you.

As though I was some ingénue making her first social appearance of the Season. I didn’t need to be ‘introduced.’

I get it, though. I understand the real reason, the one that lies beneath all of the others. I know why they hold me as tightly to
them as I hold Clem to me, now. I know why every person whose eyes trail me knows everything about me, down to my shoe
size.

“Reset,” I whisper, teeth gritted.

I arrive at the floor-to-ceiling window on the far side of the room, away from the bulk of the crowd. Even so, a waiter lingers
at a safe distance.

Probably one of Evie’s men.

I give a little shake of my head and shuffle Clem in my arms, gesturing toward the cars far beneath us. “Look at them, Clem.
Like little fiery ants, they are. So different from home.”

Clem obligingly peers out the window for a second and then turns back to butt my face.

Of course, he would stay fixed on me. He can sense every nuance of my emotions. He knows when I’m close—

“Hello.”

A female voice interrupts my musings, startling me into setting Clem down, where he sits at my feet. A woman stands a few feet
away, holding two glasses of amber liquid. Guards hover several feet behind her.

“Hello,” I reply.

As intimidating as the guards appear, the woman herself is just the opposite. Elegantly dressed in a black dress that hugs her
lithe body, she somehow manages to look warm and friendly. The dress features gold accents at the neckline, echoed in pretty
gold ornaments that hold her hair in an elaborate updo.

She’s sophisticated and perfectly poised. Perfectly New York.

“Your dress is amazing, and your cat is clearly a god in disguise,” she says. “Drink?” She extends one of the flutes to me.

I wave it away with a smile. “I don’t drink, but thanks.”

“Oh…” Her eyes twinkle. “It’s actually apple juice.”

“Oh,” I repeat and reach for the drink. “In that case. I’m Rowan.”

“Vivi Valachi.”

“And this is Clementine. Clem is a little god, aren’t you, Clem?” Reaching down, I stroke a finger around his ear. “So smart
and shockingly handsome…”

Valachi.

The name means something, aside from the very cool alliteration, but I don’t want to pause to puzzle it out. There have been too
many names in the past several months.

For the time being, we can simply be two women in a luxurious ballroom in the sky, sipping apple juice and talking to a cat.

“May I pet him?”

I hesitate. “Tonight is not good for pets, sorry. Clem is on duty, so it would be confusing for him.”

“On duty?” Vivi draws back the hand she had extended and eyes the cat with interest. He blinks up at her lazily.

“He’s my emotional support animal.”

“Oh! That’s…well, I love that. I heard about—” Vivi cuts herself off, laying a hand on my wrist and squeezing. “I’m sorry. I
shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s okay. It’s what everyone is thinking.” I drain the rest of the apple juice and motion to the waiter, placing my glass on his
tray when he reaches us. Clem, scenting one of the salami appetizers on the waiter’s tray, rises and swishes his tail expectantly
until I nod. “Just a small piece, please.”

“I’ll have to get to pet him when we meet again, somewhere he’s not on duty.” Vivi shifts the subject away from the danger
zone effortlessly.

“We’ll see each other again, then?”

Vivi tilts her head. “I don’t see why not. You seem like someone I’d like to know.” She eyes my dress, a vintage midi-length
gown in blood-red velvet. “And maybe get fashion advice from.”

I brush at the vee neckline of the dress, which is now amply decorated in ginger fur, and grin. “It’s called just add cat hair. I
just wasn’t sure if our families liked each other, or…engaged in the occasional collie shangie.”

Collie shangie. It was a new word I’d learned this week, a Scottish term meaning quarrels or fights—taken, of course, from
collies that got in fights all the time in the close quarters between cottages.

Vivi is looking at me with a perplexed expression. “Collie…?”

“Shangie. It just means arguments. I haven’t learned all the family dynamics yet. I don’t know who likes each other and who
wants to slit whose throat. It’s all very annoying.”

“Oh.” Vivi waves a hand, dismissing the notion. “You’ll find that sort of thing changes with the tides. One week, they’re
fighting, and the next, they’re married. Nothing is written in stone except the strength of the Five Families. That isn’t likely to
change.” She takes a small sip of her apple juice, her gaze traversing the room and touching briefly on several people before it
makes its way back to me.

“And the Five are?”

“The Valachis, of course.” Her lips tilt in a smile that is as sly as it is sweet. “Then there are the Scarpettas, the Marzanos, the
Papparados, and…the Romanovs.”

I lift my chin. “So, the O’Rourkes are not among the Five.” This would explain Evie’s lingering irritation over Luca Marzano’s
snub in jilting her for the Scarpetta daughter. It cost her the chance to rise.

“Well…they’re very closely linked, given their ties to the Papparados.”

“That’s right.” I forget sometimes that Evie is a Papparado as well as an O’Hanlon.

Although technically, the O’Hanlons are no longer absorbed in a bloody battle for supremacy. That ended with my brother and
Evie being the undisputed winners.

At what cost, though?

Beside me, Clem knocks his head against my knee, a gentle reminder.

“Reset.”

Vivi looks at me with something like shared sorrow in her gaze. “I’m going to give you my phone number, Rowan. I think… I
think we could be good for each other.”

I hand her my phone and lift my gaze to the people who surround us—indisputably some of the most dangerous people in the
city—and then look back at Vivi.

I guess we all have the potential to be dangerous for each other.

Perhaps this sweet, dangerous woman will be a genuine friend.

 Chapter 3

Enzo

I FLEX MY DAMAGED hand. The wound I inflicted on myself on New Year’s had healed, but I had reopened it a few times
after leaving the party. I hadn’t wanted to leave, not after seeing Rowan, but it wasn’t the right time to engineer a meeting. I
didn't want her to notice my damaged hand or think I was weak.

You are weak. My father’s voice continues to taunt me.

I know if I drink, I can douse the pain and the bastard’s words that keep echoing inside me. I think I’m hearing him because of a
combination of things: my father’s death, the promise of Rowan, and most of all, seeing Carina with Luca Marzano. That’s a
blessing and a curse. My sister’s presence reminds me I’m not completely alone, but seeing her happy and with Luca makes me
feel more alone than I ever have.

The entry to Bastoni e Pietre is clear. No security watches the doors to the restaurant. The most dangerous men in the world
come here to talk; it’s what this place was designed for. The lack of security reinforces that rule. If anyone attacked another
family member on this soil, they would be faced with the Commission.

It’s a rule that was broken one time only, with disastrous results. An entire gang was wiped from existence.

I remind myself of those consequences now as I step into the freshly refurbished restaurant. The scent of wood varnish is a
strong undercurrent, apart from coffee and food. The door closes gently behind me as I walk toward the bar. It was nearly a
year ago that the 17s and Il Veleno decided to openly challenge the might of the Italian mafia. So, fucking stupid of them to
target the one place that was forbidden.

Ivan is sitting at the polished bar, nursing an almost empty glass of whiskey. He’s the only person present. The overhead lights
reflect in the polished wood, their image slightly distorted. Meeting him here does ease some of my apprehension. I don’t trust
him. I don’t trust anyone. At least here, I know it won’t get messy.We don’t always see eye to eye, and I think his temper just
might match mine, but it’s not a theory I’m willing to test.

Not yet, that is.

It got messy for Geno D’Aquino, who sent his men a year ago. Geno D’Aquino is no longer breathing, and neither are the men
who took the hit on my sister.

Ivan glances at me from across his shoulder. The mirrors that line the back of the bar would have given away my presence. He
picks up the glass in front of him and empties it before nodding. I don’t slow down but continue past him toward a door at the
back of the room. I have no intention of having this conversation out in the open.

Ivan slides off the stool and falls into step beside me as we pass all the empty tables. The booths in the back have a few
occupants who huddle close and stop speaking as Ivan and I pass. Briskly, we pass through a doorway with a white and red
sign hanging from it bearing the words “Staff Only” in bold black lettering.
The corridor isn’t wide enough to accommodate both of us, and Ivan falls behind me. It’s recently got a fresh lick of paint,
apparent from the strong scent. Other than that, the corridor looks exactly the same as it always has, with its army green carpet
bearing recent vacuum marks and white paneling taking up the bottom of the wall, running the full length of the space. To our
left is a door with a gold plaque on it. The word “Office” gives nothing away of the truth that lies behind the door.

This room doesn’t lead into an office but a speakeasy.

I enter first, and the atmosphere back here is different. You can almost taste the secrecy. The bar has one bartender who’s
staring up at a TV. Some football game has caught his attention, yet I know he is aware of our arrival. He will come to us when
we call. The booths are empty apart from one toward the back. I walk toward the occupant but pause, and Ivan does the same.

The man hasn’t noticed us yet; his head is bent as he rips up a paper coaster. His leg jiggles with nerves.

Clearly, Ivan got here first.

“You didn’t need to do this; I had my people on it.” I hate that he got there before me. I hate that he got the upper hand. And like
everything in life, there is a cost, and this, I’m sure, will cost me dearly.

Ivan juts out his chin, not in anger but to drive home his next words. “So did I; my people got there first.”

I glance back at the man in question. He was associated with the group that took a hit on my sister. I grip my right hand and
press my thumb into my wound, covered with a small white bandage. “I can’t do anything here, so why did you even bring him
here?” I ask, keeping the growl that wants to explode forth at bay. I thought maybe he would give me a location and information
about the man. I didn’t think for one second he would present him to me, and here of all places. It’s like having a gun with no
bullets.

Ivan exhales before cracking his neck. The black turtle neck he wears doesn’t cover all his tats. Most are hidden, but some still
peek out. “My people don’t know where your people play, and I wasn’t going to use one of my playgrounds.”

The man continues to shred the coaster, oblivious to our arrival.

“Huh. You don’t trust me?” I ask and remove my thumb from the wound. Fresh blood blossoms, turning the white fabric pink in
the center. Shit. I push my hand into my pants pocket, an action that catches Ivan’s attention.

Ivan grins and opens his hand in an almost peaceful gesture. “Do you trust me?”

I won’t even give that question the dignity of an answer. He fucking knows I don’t.

“Then, why did you do this?” I take a different route.

I am curious why he has brought this man to me, and I watch his features intently for his response. His dark eyes stay focused;
there is no shift or tightening of his expression as he answers, “It is a gift for the new Don of the Scarpetta Family. May your
reign be fierce.”

A fierce reign doesn’t imply a long reign.

I crush my wounded hand against my thigh; the burn instant, and I don’t stop until dampness has me easing back on the pressure.
Ivan doesn’t blink as I stare at him. I’m not sure what my face displays. I hope it’s not my questions or my distrust. We have
been casual ‘friends’ since childhood. But that never really blossomed beyond a transfer of information to each other. We
certainly never gifted each other anything, and yet here Ivan is, handing me a gift that I don’t believe for one second won’t cost
me something in the future.

“And what a gift it is,” I say, staring at the man.

My father is on a roll and won’t shut the fuck up.

He thinks you are weak. And he’d be right; he did find the man first.

I move toward the man, unable to stand still and listen to my father for one more second. The closer I get, the weaker the man
appears; when he sees me, his face pales. I lean in, remove my damaged hand from my pocket, and place it on the table. His
gaze darts to the blood-soaked bandage before he whimpers. He shifts in the seat, his long brown trench coat flapping open
with his quick movement.

My lip curls. He thinks he can escape me.

I straighten and turn to Ivan. “This can’t be the guy.”

Ivan’s dark eyes almost dance with amusement as he takes in my bleeding hand, and he raises a brow. When I don’t fill in the
blanks, his face falls, and he once again looks like a man who’s ready to kill at any second. “No, this is him. He is sitting on a
towel because he pissed himself,” he says.

I glance back at the man, and he shakes his head, the motion frantic. “I am loyal to the Scarpetta family. I swear. Please.”

So fucking weak. I don’t look away from the man as I ask Ivan the next question. “What’s his name?”

“Elmo Salzano.” Ivan spouts an odd laugh, and I can’t prevent mine at the mention of the man's name.

“Elmo.” I repeat his name.

Elmo shows a glimmer of a spine as his green eyes flash with anger at my and Ivan’s mockery of his name. “It’s an Italian
name! It means ‘God’s helmet.’”

I lean in and knock on his thick skull. “You will need God’s helmet to save you today, you stupid motherfucker.”

I take a step back before I, too, break the code here and kill this man where he sits in his own piss. “What was your
relationship with Geno D’Aquino?

“He is not Il Veleno. Please. He was not with us.”

“Yes, but you are Il Veleno, and Il Veleno worked with the 17s, Geno’s group,” I say.

Ivan slips into the opposite side of the booth and leans back, looking very comfortable. I remain standing.

“Geno was fucking crazy, man. We all agreed with how the Commission handled him.” Elmo seems to relax; maybe it’s
because Ivan is sitting now, looking for all the world like he’s about to share a drink with a friend. Maybe that’s Ivan’s
intention. Maybe he’s right. People talk when they aren’t half terrified, but I don’t have that kind of restraint in me right now.

I grin and lean against the table again. “Firstly, don’t address me as ‘man’ unless you want me to remove the part that makes
you one. And for you, I use that term loosely.” I glance down at his wet pants and don't hide my disgust. “Secondly, a gunman
from Il Veleno tried to kill my sister. “

“We were lied to.” Elmo shakes his head vehemently.

“Who ordered that hit?” All I want is direct answers here.

“Geno misled us,” Elmo says.

“But you led Il Veleno. Did you order that hit?”

“Please… I don’t want to fight the Scarpettas. We have listened. We won’t go against you again.” Elmo flinches. I’m not sure at
what, but the fear on his face drains him of every last drop of color and life.

I straighten my spine. The bandage that covers my hand is now soaked in blood. I slowly start to unwind the bandage as I
speak. “No, you won’t. This place. This is your sanctuary. As long as you are within these walls, I cannot touch you.” I slowly
drop the bandage onto the table and examine the wound that I have reopened. I tighten my hand into a fist, and a slow but steady
dribbling of blood plops onto the table. I lean in and smile through my pain. It is nothing. Insignificant. A nuisance.

“Let’s see how long you last in here.” I open my hand and press my wound to his face, smearing blood across his cheek as I
draw his shaking body toward me. The smell of piss nearly overrides my need to hurt him. “I will make you one promise. It’s
going to be slow.” I release him and walk away. Ivan slides out of the booth and follows me.

We leave the speakeasy and make our way to the main dining room. Once we do, Ivan goes to the bar and returns with a white
napkin. I take it and wrap it around my wound. He waits a beat like I’m going to tell him what happened to me. I roll my eyes.
“I caught it in a door.”

His snort is quick before he grows serious. “If you need my men to watch the restaurant for Elmo’s departure, just say the
word.”

“I will have two of my own guys watch the place and take care of him.”

“A drink?” Ivan asks.

I don’t want to, but I also don’t want to decline. I nod my head, and we climb up on the stools. The bartender slides two
glasses of brandy toward us, surprising me. Maybe Ivan ordered while I was lost in thought. I'm trying to talk myself out of
going back there and taking the man’s life. I’m weighing up the pros and cons. I’d die, but it would be worth it.

“Any progress on your other plans?” Ivan asks after I’ve taken a sip of the brandy. I swirl it around my mouth to savor the burn
before I swallow.

I know what he is referring to. Rowan. She has been on my mind. Ever since I saw the image of her, and again two weeks ago
when I saw her in person, I haven’t stopped thinking about the pretty redhead.

“Not yet,” I reply. “That little bird is still in her cage,” I mumble. Cassidy and Evie are keeping her very close, making it
nearly impossible to get close to her. I have men following her every movement; most of which are shadowed by her brother
Cassidy.

Ivan raises his glass and clicks it against mine; his dark eyes lighter than usual, like he’s happy.

I finish my drink and place the glass on the bar counter. “She is not the only little bird in this city. I've been told another will be
leaving her cage very soon.”

I speak of Vivi Valachi, of course. She was promised to Ivan Romanov when they were children. So much has taken place with
the deaths of Don Valachi and Damon and Lulu Papparado there's no telling what the status of that arrangement is, anymore, but
I know Ivan retains an interest in everything that goes on behind Valachi doors. I get the sense that Angel has his finger in a
dozen different pies at the moment, scrambling to try to repair a very shaky position within the Five—whether it's through
marriage or some other means.

Ivan's gaze sharpens, as I expected. “How do you know this?”

I grin. I know something he doesn’t know, and I want to savor this moment. “Angel isn't as clever as he thinks he is."
 Chapter 4

Rowan

CELL PHONE… check.

Notebook…check.

Laptop…check.

Pilot precise extra fine tip ink pen…check. Although, maybe an extra wouldn’t go amiss. I toss a second pen beside the first.

Water bottle…check.

I lay each item out carefully beside the vintage leather messenger bag on my bed before I’m satisfied I haven’t forgotten
anything and then begin placing each inside the bag, saving the water bottle for last.

That’s it. I’m ready. Or as ready as I’ll ever be, anyway. Nerves vie with excitement for a position in my stomach, and I
smooth my hands over my middle, calming myself. Picking up the bag, I sling it across my body and give myself a critical look
in the mirror.

The blouse and high-waisted trousers I’m wearing aren’t precisely fashionable, but they’re me in every sense of the word—
classic and feminine and reminiscent of old Hollywood. I like the soft doe-brown of the pants and the way the drape of the
creamy blouse accentuates my curves.

I give a small nod. I may not look like every other girl on campus, but I’ll do.

Clem pushes his head into my hand, claiming my attention.

“I’m sorry, bubba. The disability office hasn’t gotten back to me with your permit to be on campus.”

Hopefully, it will be coming soon. I can’t imagine spending my days without Clem.

Leaving my room, I sniff as the scent of something tantalizing weaves down the hallway. It leads me to the kitchen, where I find
Meredith on the other side of the wide, marble-topped kitchen island, laying several plump, juicy sausages on a serving plate.
She glances up with a smile as I set my messenger bag down on the table.

“Good morning, Row. How’d you sleep, dear?”

Meredith was the O’Hanlon’s elderly caretaker in Ireland—or rather, wife to the caretaker, John. She was the sole survivor of
an attack that left every loyal O’Hanlon dead and would have killed Evie if John hadn’t saved her life.

She came over to the States with Evie and Cassidy, happy to live out her remaining years with them here instead of dwelling
with memories in Ireland.

“Good—”

Before I can finish replying, Evie sweeps in and pulls me into an impromptu waltz, spinning me around and then releasing me
as she half-dances around the counter to fill a mug with coffee.

“Morning, lil’ sis.”

“Morning. Someone’s in a good mood.”

“Yes, well, your brother will do that to a girl.”

“Ew.” I smile, but part of me can’t help but be wary of Evie. She’s a dangerous woman beneath her smiles and hugs. Is her
sisterly veneer genuine, or is she just a cat playing with its food?

Clem meows as if sensing the direction my thoughts have taken.

Sorry, bub. You’re not like that.

“Do you know where Cassidy is?”

Evie nods at the terrace doors behind me. “He’s out there.”

Beyond the glass doors, the sky is the pale arctic blue of January, washed out and devoid of warmth. Evie’s—our—home is a
penthouse, so the terrace is high above the streets of Manhattan and doubly cold. I look at Evie with wide eyes. “It’s freezing
out there.”

She shrugs. “He doesn’t seem to mind the cold.”

Just then, Pup bounces around from the other side of the kitchen island, snuffling and pushing his nose against Clementine. Clem
turns with a sniff and bounds onto the back of the sofa, where he lowers himself to a sit and begins cleaning his paw. There’s
no aggression between the two animals, but Clem is clearly too professional to waste time on a young dog.

“Be nice,” I tell the cat and grab my coat.

Cassidy has his back to the inside of the penthouse as he sits in a chair with a cup of coffee in his hand. He isn’t wearing a coat
or even a lightweight jacket over his long-sleeved thermal. I open and close the door quickly as I join him to keep Clem from
following.

As much as I love him, the terrace is too cold for his paws.

The cup in Cassidy’s hands is no longer steaming, and the liquid is still at the brim. He doesn't notice I’ve joined him.

“Cassidy?”

He turns at the sound of his name, straightening immediately. “Row. Morning, kid.” Whatever thoughts or feelings he may have
been processing disappear immediately behind a veil of brotherly affection.

He doesn’t talk about things the way he used to. Not business, not our family. I saw it in his eyes, though—that deep well of
pain he couldn’t shutter quite quickly enough. “Ready for your first day?”
“I am. Got my bag all kitted out.” I gesture with my thumb to the messenger bag sitting on the table just inside. Cassidy bought it
for me as a gift for getting accepted to Columbia.

“Good, good.” His gaze is warm. “I’m glad you’re going to have this experience, you know. It’ll be good for you, being around
kids your own age. Doing normal things.”

I duck my head. “I know.”

“Things back home… They were far from normal. You saw things you shouldn’t have. Knew things you had no business
knowing. It wasn’t—” he trails off awkwardly.

“Cass, it’s okay.” The entire conversation is awkward. We always had Derek and Mark around as buffers between us, comedic
relief to lighten things up when one of us grew too intense.

We need that now.

We need them.

My eyes fill with tears, and my fist clenches in my lap.

“Rowan—”

“I’m fine.” I’m not fine, but I desperately need him to stop speaking. I’ll cry until I puke if he doesn’t. I smile at him brightly.
“I’m good.”

RESET.

The door slides open, and Evie pokes her head out. “Come inside and eat. Now. No lollygagging. Christ, you’ll freeze to death
out here.”

Rising, we make our way inside to sit down and eat at that big table like the family we are.

Reset.

***

Columbia University is located in the Morningside Heights neighborhood of Manhattan, on the other side of Central Park from
where we live. It’s not that far as the crow flies, but it’s the farthest I’ve ever been from my new home unaccompanied.

Well, sort of unaccompanied.

The armored SUV I’m riding in has three bodyguards sitting in the backseats, but I’m doing my best to ignore their presence.

There’s nowhere to park around the university, thankfully, so they drop me off streetside across from Barnard. The three
bodyguards emerge from the vehicle behind me and follow me at a staggered distance. I take five steps before turning around in
irritation.

“You guys are going to have to pick spots and just stay. You cannot come in there with me.”

“We’re supposed to keep you in our sights at all times, Miss Rowan,” one says implacably.

“No one is going to be in my classes. You’d be better off watching the streets for any suspicious activity. When I’m finished,
I’ll come right back out through this same gate.” They look unmoved. “Honestly, guys. Cassidy wanted me to have a normal
college experience. Having you lurking over my shoulders and drawing attention to me is anything but normal.”

“Fine,” the one who appears to be in charge grumbles. “If anything worries you, you press that button on your phone.” He’s
referring to his programmed “panic button,” which is really just his phone number set to a single digit in my cell phone.

“I will. Promise.” With a sigh of relief, I turn and head toward the main gates of the campus.

As soon as I’m out of sight of the gates, I pull an apron from my bag and begin to jog across the red bricks of the entry, crossing
over the ornate “B” in the sidewalk with only a brief glance.

I’m late.

A little thrill courses down my spine at the thought of the secret I’m keeping from Cassidy and Evie and my bodyguards and
anyone else who thinks they know anything about me. Classes for my major don’t start for another few days, as the university
intentionally staggers the start dates for different departments so the dorms aren’t overwhelmed by students moving in.

I’ve taken advantage of this, spending my time while Cassidy’s men wait patiently outside the gates, not in student orientation
and the like—I did all of that online—but rather in training for a job at a coffee cart located in Barnard’s inner courtyard.

Today is my first day on the job.

Several yards ahead, I see the manager waiting for me, cash box in hand. He points to the watch on his wrist. “Almost late,” he
says.

“Almost,” I breathe, settling the apron over my head and taking the cash box. “I’ll be early next time, promise.”

He grumbles but lets it slide, opening the door of the cart and ushering me in. “Turn the cash box into the office on the first
floor at the end of your shift, and call if you have any problems, hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

A line is already forming. Taking a deep breath, I turn and greet my first customer.

The day flies by. I spend it serving students who are arriving on campus to confirm schedules, buy books, and get familiar with
the campus, as well as a few who actually have classes already. My first few orders are rushed and messy, but soon, I get the
hang of swirling the syrups into the coffee and topping it off with chocolate, caramel, and whipped cream. By the end of the
day, I almost feel like I know what I’m doing, and my little jar of tips has a few dollars in it.

The last hour of my shift is devoid of customers—which being late in the day, I honestly didn’t expect many, if any at all. Still, I
keep the cart open as directed until the sun sets and darkness creeps over the courtyard.

Then and only then do I begin to put items away and lock up the cart. Cash box tucked beneath my arm and my messenger bag
slung crossways over my body, I head toward the main building.

The courtyard, filled with students throughout the day, is mostly empty of people now. A few stragglers linger on benches here
and there, and as I walk, one of them tosses a cigarette to the brick pavement and rises, heading toward the same building as I
am.

I avert my gaze and speed up. I’m sure it’s completely innocent. Just a man making his way into one of the most popular
buildings on campus at the same time as I am.
Or maybe it isn’t. I can feel his gaze on me, assessing. Calculating. In my peripheral, I see his step stutter as he matches his gait
to my shorter one.

I fumble for my phone, tucked very safely away in my bag.

I’m a few yards from the door when his hands grab at me—no. Not me. The cash box. He tries to yank it away, shoving at me at
the same time.

“No! Somebody, help!” The sound of my cry echoes in the courtyard, the buildings sending it back to me. Surely, somebody
will hear. “Stop!”

“Give me the fucking box!”

I hold on to it against all reason, my fingernails digging into the metal as I clutch it to my chest with one hand and try to fight
him off with the other. There’s only a couple hundred dollars in this little box, but it’s my job.

I feel a fingernail rip.

“Stupid bitch.” His hand curls around my throat, lifting me several inches into the air, and instinctively, I drop the box to grab
at his wrist with both hands. At the same time, another set of hands appear, yanking my attacker away from me. I fall to the
ground in a heap, my hands fluttering to my throat as I watch my savior grapple with the would-be thief. He punches him
viciously in the face, sending him staggering backward a few feet, and as a few people emerge from a building, the robber rips
away from my rescuer altogether and flees toward the street.

He turns to look at me then, and my breath catches in my throat at the ferocity I see blazing in his eyes. One word springs to
mind and forms on my lips.

Hero.
 Chapter 5

Enzo

PLAYING THE GOOD GUY isn’t exactly in my nature. But, for Rowan, I will make an exception. She’s wearing a look of
complete shock as she continues to stare up at me. Drawn by her early screams, security has reached us, and questions spill
from their lips. Rowan blinks several times and frowns.

I turn to the men who should have been here the entire time and not just arriving after the incident. She could have been hurt.
Well, that’s not completely true since I staged the entire robbery, but these men don’t know that.

I hold up a hand. “Don’t fire a million questions at her; she’s clearly shaken. Give her a moment.” I turn to Rowan and reach
out, just touching her elbow, to help steady her. The sweater covering her pale colored blouse doesn't stop the warmth of her
skin from sinking into my touch.

“Thank…you.” She stammers through the two words and frowns again.

I smile at her.“You are very welcome.”

Her hand wraps around my forearm; my fingers still rest on her elbow. I’m waiting for her to sob and turn hysterical, but she
seems to stand taller. Her shoulders relax, and she takes a small but steady inhalation. “Thank you.” Her words are strong this
time.

Her blue eyes clear from her earlier shock. I’m not sure what shocked her more, me rescuing her or being robbed in the first
place. But right now there is a certain calm on her pretty face.

The red curls that fall down her back and across her shoulders look soft and silky, and I’m tempted to reach out and take a
strand between my forefinger and thumb. I’m all too aware of her security still standing behind us, though. I ignore them as I
ask my next previously rehearsed question. I had no idea what to say to a damsel in distress, but according to the internet, it’s
to ask her if she needs anything.

“What do you need?”

Her gaze darts to the men behind us, and the clear blue of her eyes clouds over in a fascinating way. It’s clear that the men are
making her uncomfortable.

“I need… I need some space.”

I finally release Rowan’s elbow, surprised when she doesn’t take her hand off my forearm as I turn to O’Rourke’s men. I want
to read them their rights on how incompetent they are. Words form on my lips, and the men shift their stance. I’m sure my
features convey the fact that I’m pissed, and I smooth my expression, remembering at the last second that I’m nobody to these
fools. I’m not Enzo Scarpetta; I’m just a bystander who happened to be in the right place at the right time.

“You guys can leave; the lady just needs some space.” I relax my jaw, conscious that my words are coming out through gritted
teeth.

They eye me consideringly before deciding, for whatever reason, to leave us alone.

Jesus. Strike fucking two. If she was mine right now, these men would be on their fucking knees begging for their lives.

I play the part of Ordinary Guy and ignore their incompetence, turning back to Rowan as they walk away. My fingers find her
arm again. The pale skin of her face is flawless, like porcelain. I could stare at her all day.

Instead, I glance around the courtyard and lead her to a bench that she slips into easily. Only then does she release me. I return
to the cash box and gather its contents off the ground as she watches.

It had taken me a week to track her down. Evie and Cassidy had been very careful. I understand why—with the death of
Cassidy's brothers, he wasn’t letting Rowan out of his sight, and he wasn’t at fault for me finding her. It was the woman living
with them.

Some old Irish woman that they brought from across the sea. She wanted to do her own shopping, it seems, and she wasn’t as
careful as her employers.

Loose change from the cash box has spilled all over the courtyard. I would never typically bother with something like this, but
figuring I should put on a good show, I work on collecting every coin. After a moment, I hear the click of heels, and she settles
beside me.

Her fingers are long and delicate as she gathers up the bills before stuffing them in the red cash box. Her gaze bounces across
the pavement as she tries to locate every coin. “This was my first day, and look at the mess I made. I’m going to get fired.” She
drops a handful of coins into the box and runs a hand through her long, red, curly hair.

Her Irish accent thickens as she gets more upset. Her fingers snag on the curls, and she withdraws her hand, her cheeks
pinkening. “How could this happen? And on campus?” Her calm is dissolving as quickly as a pill in water.

I reach out and wrap my fingers gently around her wrists. She freezes, and wild blue eyes rise to meet mine. I want to ask her
why the fuck she is working, why does she want to go against the grain. I want to drag her to feet and march her back to my
home, back to my bed. With that thought I rise, pulling her to her feet and directing her back to the bench.

I kneel down in front of her. “These things just happen,” I say.

“On campus? On my first day at work?” She looks ready to cry, a tear actually welling up and sliding down the pale perfection
of her cheek before she swipes it angrily away.

The depraved part of me had pictured her tears before I arrived. They were something that went hand in hand with the idea of
revenge. Maybe they would come with the realization that she was completely at my mercy. Maybe they would stream down
her face when my cock was in her mouth—I hadn’t gotten that far yet. I just knew I relished the idea of them.

Right now, though, faced with the reality of them, I just want her to stop. I have no fucking idea what to do with a weeping
woman.

That’s because you’re a fucking idiot. My father makes a grand reappearance in my mind, and I shove the door closed on him.
I have no time for him right now.

“Miss?” I look up to see a security guard—one who actually belongs on campus—hovering. “We received a report of an
attempted mugging. Would you like to come with us and file an official statement?”

Panic flashes across Rowan’s lovely features, and I know exactly what’s going through her mind, as I’ve been spying on her for
days. Her brother has no idea she has a job, and if she files a report, word will get back to him immediately. He’ll be upset that
the authorities were involved, and she’ll lose what limited freedom she has, and for what? Nothing much happened.

My little bird is in quandary.

Her lips part, and I place a hand over hers, stopping her before she can speak. “Everything is okay,” I say. “We stopped the guy
before anything happened, and all’s well that ends well. I don’t think a report is necessary, unless, of course, you do?” I look at
Rowan, eyebrows arched innocently.

She shakes her head. “No! I agree. Everything is fine, officer. Thank you so much.”

The young security guard puffs up his chest at being called officer and steps away.

“Robberies happen all the time.” My words fail to break through her panic that’s rising hard and fast; she clutches the edge of
the bench beneath her as she battles it back with each breath.

Fuck me.

I need to get the hell out of here.

“It’s okay, R—little bird.” I almost say her name and stop myself. Not that I think she would notice at this moment. She's too
distraught.

Don’t worry, she will see through this charade eventually. All you have is a small window of time, and my son, you are
running out of road. My father’s voice continues to pound any confidence I had in handling this situation into the ground.

Rowan takes another long breath; her blue eyes swim with tears she is clearly fighting to keep at bay. Her tears… I’m not
prepared for them. She needs to stop crying.

“I need my cat,” she says and nods several times as if to confirm that what she says is true.

I glance around. I don’t think she would have taken the creature to work. I don’t see it. “Your cat?” I echo the words, like I
don’t know anything about the creature. I’ll get him for her, anything other than watching her cry.

“He’s at home,” she says on trembling lips.

Home?

“Do you want me to take you home?” I ask.

She nods, and I rise almost immediately and take out my phone. I was hoping for this moment. I know exactly how this will
play out. I hit the dial button and wait a beat until I speak. “I’m going to miss my meeting with my friend,” I say and glance
back at Rowan. She’s staring up at me like I’m about to fix everything. Smart girl. I am.

“Oh…I…it’s okay. I can get myself home—” she begins.

“No, everything is fine.” I face the main doors. “Bring me my car.” I end the call and think how lucky I was that Rowan didn’t
follow her brother's rules. If he knew she had a job, he would end it in seconds. I smile internally, knowing her little secret.

“The car will be here in a moment,” I say.

Rowan has a calmer look on her face; her hands no longer grip the side of the seat. While I was on the phone, she gathered the
red cash box and hugged it to her belly. She rises, holding it tightly.

“I need to return the box before I leave.”

“Where do you turn it in?” I ask.

“The office on the first floor.”

I hold out my hand for the cash box. “I’ll carry it for you.”

Rowan’s cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink, and she hands me the box. We walk side by side through the halls of the
university. I’m almost hoping she asks me a question about how I know each turn to take to get to the first floor, but she doesn’t.
I know every room and corridor of this university, thanks to Google. Everything is online and too easy to access. But, my cover
story is that I attended this university, so we shall have something in common to share.

“Are you okay?” I ask Rowan. She has wrapped her arms around her waist; she looks tiny beside me. I could crush her with my
bare hands.

She gives me the first glimpse of a smile. “Thanks to you, I am.”

I allow a smile to grace my lips that causes her cheeks to deepen in color. “It was my pleasure.”

Her tongue flicks out as she licks her lips before dipping her head. I can’t see her face as a mass of red curls fall forward. We
reach the office on the first floor and I push the cash box through the small window.

“What’s your cat’s name?” I ask as we make our way back out through the building.

Rowan tucks her curls behind her ear, but they are wild and untamed; they bounce free no matter how many times she tries to
tame them. It’s amusing. “Clementine.” She smiles, and it fires freedom and love into her eyes.

“I once had a fish,” I say.

She wiggles her nose. “A fish?”

“Yes, a fish.”

She giggles softly and gives me a sidelong glance. “Did this fish have a name?” She sounds like she doesn’t believe me but
wants to.

I’m lying through my teeth, and it’s actually enjoyable. “Rian.” I quickly say. This wasn’t part of my script, so I’m going off the
cuff.

We reach the main door. Dusk has faded into full dark outside, and Rowan hesitates. “My car is outside,” I say.

She ducks her head again but marches outside with me. On the other side of the courtyard, opposite the one Rowan arrived
from, my car waits outside of the gate. As we walk across the road, Rowan’s phone rings from deep inside her beige wide-
legged trousers. She scoops it out and gives me an apologetic look. “Go ahead.” I offer like a perfect gentleman.

She stares at the phone. “It’s my ride home,” she informs me.

I have an immediate sense of disappointment. “Would you prefer to go with them?” I ask. We have reached my car, and my hand
rests on the door to the back.
“No, I’ll go with you,” she answers, ignoring the ringing phone.

I pull the door open, and she slides in. I don’t go around the other side but slide in beside her. She still has her phone in her
hands. She types out a quick message I can’t see, but afterward she hits a button to silence it and puts it in her lap. Interesting.

The car hasn’t moved, and Rowan puts on her seatbelt. Realizing we’re just sitting, she looks at me with confusion.

“I need your address?” I say. I already know it, but she can’t know that.

She rattles off her address and falls into silence as my driver enters the location into his GPS and pulls away from the curb.

Rowan diverts her attention from the world outside her window and me, probably making sure the car is going in the right
direction. Inwardly, I scold her for taking a ride from a complete stranger. She’s lucky it’s me and that my intent isn’t ill-willed.
Well, it is, a bit, but today at least, I’ll make sure she gets home safely.

“Thank you again. For helping me.”

“You are welcome.” I offer another smile.

Her cheeks heat, but she continues to speak. “I’m sorry you missed your meeting with your friend.”

I should feel some level of guilt for lying, but none comes.

“Nothing to worry about,” I reassure her.

She bites her lip before glancing back out the window. I allow the silence to grow. She is still clutching her phone that sits on
her lap.

The car slows as we near her apartment block. When the car comes to a complete stop, she turns to me.

“This is me.” She gives a nervous smile, glances out the window, and when she looks back, she wears a look of worry.

“Would you like me to walk you up?” I ask.

She immediately answers. “No!” She clears her throat. “No, thank you. For helping me.” I nod, and she stares at me for a
moment. Her eyelids flutter closed until they rest on her cheeks before she looks at me again. Her blue eyes are soft and
vulnerable.

“What happened tonight…with the robbery.” She pauses and frowns. “I needed to see your kind of goodness after that. Doing
something kind for a stranger without asking anything in return. You have no idea what this means to me.”

I’m tempted to reach out and touch her, but I keep my hands loose and relaxed in my lap. “I would hope anyone would have
done the same,” I say.

She smiles sadly. “I don’t think so.”

I look away and meet my driver's gaze in the rearview mirror. He nods and gets out.

I offer a final smile to Rowan. “Take care,” I say as her door opens.

A breeze fills the back of the car, and she unbuckles her belt and gathers her phone. “Thanks, again.”
She exits the car and walks to the front of the apartment that’s guarded. One of the guards ducks his head to see into the back,
but my driver swiftly closes the door, cutting me off from prying eyes. I watch until Rowan disappears into the building.

No good will enter her life if you do. That fucking ghost.

The sad truth is, he’s right.

 Chapter 6

Rowan

I FEEL LIKE A child. A small, insignificant child.

The chair from the dining room table is hard-backed and stiff, making me sit up straight. Evie and Cassidy pace in front of me,
and I can’t tell who is the angrier.

Fragments of the vase from the dining table litter the floor next to the wall, the wall that it met when Cassidy flung it. Winter
roses scatter the glass remnants, broken amid the water Meredith is dying to mop up.

She’s hovering in the kitchen on the other side of the island, a dustpan in hand to collect the glass with, her mouth pinched. I
give her a tiny smile from the corner of my mouth, rolling my lips inward as I do. Meredith isn’t comfortable enough yet to tell
Cassidy what to do.

Unlucky for me.

From his place on my lap, Clementine pushes his head into my chest, and I absentmindedly stroke his back. Pup is nowhere to
be seen, conspicuously absent ever since Cassidy’s voice rose. He’s probably under their bed.

“What the hell were you thinking, coming home on your own?” he roars now.

“You’re not in Limerick anymore, Rowan,” Evie adds. “You know this. The city is bigger and more dangerous than you could
ever imagine.”

Cassidy runs a hand through his hair, already standing straight up. “Jaysus, when I think what could’ve happened—”

Brouhaha. As in “they sure were making a big brouhaha over nothing.”

The word tumbles around my mind as I stare at Evie and Cassidy without really seeing them, murmuring “mmhmm” at the
appropriate times.

“We’re already taking every possible precaution for your safety. For you to just blatantly ignore them—”

“Are you even listening?” Evie cuts Cassidy off suddenly, narrowing her gaze upon me.

I sigh. Time to join the conversation. “I just think you’re overreacting. I met an eighteen-year-old who flew all the way here
from Okayama City, Japan. It was the first time he had ever been out of his country, and his parents didn’t accompany him.”

My brother stops and stares, cocking his head at an incredulous angle. “Is that who you were with? This kid?”

I sigh again, more heavily this time. He doesn’t get it. “No, I told you. I stayed after class to have coffee with some of the new
students, and one of them gave me a ride home.”

I hate lying to Cassidy more than anything, but I don’t have a choice. If he knew I had gotten jumped on my first day of school,
he’d put me right back in my gilded cage.

And it was nothing.

Just a random robbery that happens all the time. I was carrying a cash box—there’s no way it was anything else. But Evie and
Cassidy would immediately jump to the worst possible conclusion and swear that it was a conspiracy—some mafia thing—and
determine that it was too dangerous to risk allowing me to attend school on campus.

I’m not giving them that opportunity. I will go to school like every other girl my age.

“Let me see your class schedule.” Cassidy holds out his hand and snaps his fingers, the gesture imperious.

Pressing my lips together, I reach for my bag.

I planned for this. During my training for the coffee-cart, I talked to a lot of other students. One was a pre-med student who
lamented long and loud about how terrible his class schedule was. I swapped my class times for his, an easy fix with one of the
word processors in the library.

He was a full-time student taking extra classes to graduate a semester early.

Cassidy had paid for me to be full-time, but I had downgraded to part-time during the orientation period.

The doctored schedule will give the illusion that I’m busier with classes than I actually am.

I hand it to him and watch as he looks it over.

“You’re taking too many classes.”

“No. I’m not.”

“I think you should start out a little slower.”

I feel the flush creeping up, a visible precursor that my temper is about to break loose. Evie steps forward, placing a hand on
Cassidy’s arm.

“Now, hold on a second. Rowan is perfectly capable of managing a full class schedule, and one doesn’t necessarily inform the
other, you know.”

He looks at her irritably. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means her class schedule doesn’t have anything to do with when or how she got home. She just needs to be more careful—”
Evie turns the full weight of her stare upon me. “Don’t you, Rowan?” I nod. “I won’t hear of her being given less of a challenge
just because she’s female. Challenge is good.”

Cassidy opens his mouth, and Evie holds up a palm to silence him. “We can make arrangements for her transportation, and
Rowan will abide by them, but you’re not going to hold her back.”

A pang of affection for my sister-in-law strikes me in the region of my heart, followed by one of guilt. I look down at
Clementine to hide it, then stand and gather my things. “Thank you, Evie,” I mumble. Clementine in tow, I go to my room.
Frustrated, I drop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. I hate this feeling. I try to be honest, but God… I’d be locked in this
sleek Manhattan tower until I turned forty if I didn’t do something.

My phone buzzes, and I pick it up to see a message from Vivi Valachi.

Vivi: How was the first day?

Me: Crazy.

Vivi: Crazy good or crazy bad?

Rowan: I don’t know. (Laughing emoji.)

Sitting up, I tug my shirt over my head, and then discard my bra. I have to stand to shimmy out of my trousers and find a satiny
nightgown but quickly turn off all the lights except the small one beside the bed and climb beneath the covers. Vivi and I
continue texting as I sink into the pillows and allow myself to relax for the first time all day.

Rowan: I met a man.

Vivi: Oh, yeah? Tell me more.

Rowan: There’s not much to tell. He was just…different.

I don’t know why I lie. I just know I want to hug the knowledge of my rescuer to myself a little longer, instead of offering it up
to be dissected and analyzed. I feel the need to protect the memory, cherish it—as though telling anyone would make it
disappear.

And I also don’t want to tell Vivi I was mugged, anymore than I wanted to tell Cassidy or Evie.

Vivi: Different good or different bad?

Rowan: Definitely different good.

Movement on the terrace outside my window catches my eye, and I lift myself up on my knees to peek through a sliver in my
curtains. It’s Evie and Cassidy.

They argue, Cassidy pacing and gesturing in his anger while Evie stands cold and stiff with her arms crossed over her chest.

Fire and gasoline.

I pull the curtains closed.

Rowan: I’ll talk to you later.

I settle back into bed, this time with the book of poetry I keep on the nightstand. Tennyson. I flip through until I find the page
I’ve read so many times the edges are crinkled and worn.

The Lady of Shalott.

I’ve been drawn to it, especially since moving to New York. The story of Elaine of Astolat, forced to live a life of isolation,
either by some curse or imprisonment, is one that always made my heart beat a bit faster.
With indignation and sadness, of course.

Her knight in shining armor—her Lancelot—arrived too late to save her. I hate that part of the poem. It’s the same in Malory’s
version. Why is there never a happy ending?

I close the book, my thumb holding my spot. My Lancelot arrived in time today, though. He was there exactly when I needed
him, rescuing me from a criminal.

I never learned his name!

The realization strikes me suddenly like a physical pain. How will I find him again?

I snort. As if I’d ever have the courage to go looking for him.

Damn. Reopening the book, I try to read. My fingers trace the letters, my eyes read them…but my brain obscures their meaning,
refusing to comprehend anything save one line.

I am half sick of shadows.

It’s like I’m looking into a mirror, seeing a reflection of the world around me rather than being a participant in it.

I toss the book to the bed beside me. Like Elaine, I’m tired of shadows. I want to be part of this world around me.

His face was the realest thing there was today. His eyes, a warm amber shade, are seared into my memory. His lips were full
and soft, making me curious how they would feel against my own.

It’s not the only thing I wondered about.

My fingers travel over my stomach, lifting my gown until I feel skin. I can still remember how strong his hand had been when
he wrapped it around my elbow and led me gently to sit down.

I wanted more. I wanted both of his hands on me; wanted to feel them on my waist, on my hips, on every part of me…

I’ve never craved someone’s touch before, but it’s a need I can’t deny now.

My hand slips lower, into my panties and further, stroking lightly against the sensitive flesh above my labia.

I close my eyes and imagine it’s his hand. His finger.

My brow crinkling slightly, I pause. What if he hadn’t taken me directly home earlier? What if…I draw my bottom lip between
my teeth, my imagination wilding out.

What if I had sat beside him in the back seat of that SUV with its blacked-out windows—just like Cassidy and Evie’s, now that
I think about it. He must be somebody important. What if I had sat beside him, though, and…maybe I had been wearing a skirt,
instead of a pair of trousers. And I’d had the courage to inch the hem upward just a little bit…to indicate my interest.

“Thank you for saving me,” I could have said.

Beside me in the back seat, I would have felt his body change. Tighten with awareness. Understanding. “It was my pleasure.
But you could thank me properly,” he might reply, placing his hand on my thigh beside him. His fingers would torment the edge
of my skirt, whispering the fabric against my skin as they eased it upwards in excruciating increments.
I can feel it.

“Oh-okay…” I would whisper, my thighs sliding open, both in the back seat and in the here and now, in my bed.

“What have we here?” he might say when my skirt is high enough to reveal the tops of my thigh-high stockings. I’ve always had
a weakness for pretty things, and lingerie no one ever sees is no exception. I imagine his finger tracing the elastic before it
resumes its journey and then abruptly stopping. “Are you sure you want to thank me, sweetheart?” he asks. I nod mutely, the
only witnesses my imaginary hero and the darkness of my bedroom. A wicked smile breaks over his face and warmth blossoms
between my legs. “Lift that skirt and show me that pretty cunt.”

In my fantasy, I slowly lift my skirt, revealing myself to him. I’m conveniently bare, no pesky panties to bother with. It’s my
fantasy, after all. My nightgown creeps up around my waist in tandem with the action, and as my hero’s gaze burns into my
core, the fingers on my thigh flex, then slide gently inward.

He spreads me further open, then dips a lazy orbit around my folds, spreading the moisture gathered there before bringing it up
and circling my clit with the pad of his middle finger. My head falls back, and I gasp.

His finger, thick and hard, slides a little further into my channel. He plunges it in and out several times until my hips are rocking
helplessly against him, then settles me against the heel of his hand and thrusts his finger deep. He hooks it in such a way that it
curls against the top of my walls and begins a steady, demanding rhythm that refuses to let me retreat or hold back in any way.

Then he adds another.

“Hold on…” he murmurs.

Wishing it was real, I grip his imaginary wrist, pushing his imaginary fingers into me hard, and ride his imaginary hand until I
come, shaking and sweating and smothering a shout with my pillow.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
gifts, and have received in return these priceless treasures.” Then
they showed the glass beads, a specimen too often approaching the
value of the gifts received by the strong from the weak. Montezuma
sat mute, scarcely heeding the messages sent him by Grijalva,
concerned most of all that vassals should not witness his dismay.
Here again was his phantasy before him, like the shade of dead
Hector before Æneas, warning him against hopeless resistance to
the preordained fall of Troy.
Bidding the men retire and keep secret what they had seen,
Montezuma hastily summoned his privy council,[146] King Cacama of
Tezcuco, his brother Cuitlahuatzin, lord of Itzapalapan, and laid
before them the mystery. After sage consultations, attended by
divinings and comparisons of signs, prophecies, and traditions, not
unlike the means by which we of to-day likewise ascertain the
unknowable, it was concluded that this commander was none other
than the fair-hued god himself, who had returned to resume the
throne, as he had said. Therefore resistance would be in vain; and
the only proper course was to tender worthy reception and conciliate
with gifts. The chiefs were sent back with orders for the governors of
the coast districts[147] to report any arrival or strange occurrence.
Following them was an embassy of five persons bearing rich
presents, with instructions to bid the god welcome in the name of the
emperor and of his court; yet they were to watch him closely. But the
embassy was too late. Grijalva had gone.[148]

FOOTNOTES
[138] When Francisco Cortés entered the town, shortly after the fall of Mexico, he
was met by a body of Indians with their hair tonsured like priests, and with crosses
in their hands, headed by the chief in flowing white gown and scapulary. This, they
explained, had been the practice of the shipwrecked crew, who had held up the
cross as a recourse from all danger. Frejes, Hist. Conq., 63-4. This authority
places implicit reliance in the story, and regards the strangers as a missionary
party driven from the East Indies or China. Jalisco, Mem. Hist., 30-2.

[139] See Native Races, iii. and v., 25-6, for the myths relating to Quetzalcoatl,
and to their interpretation, in which occur the characters of the Messiah and the
apostle Saint Thomas, with whom some pious chroniclers have identified him. The
Saint Thomas idea is advocated in Florencia, Hist. Prov. Comp. de Jesus, 234.

[140] The natives of Española are said to have received an oracle shortly before
Columbus’ arrival, announcing the coming of bearded men, with sharp, bright
swords. Villagvtierre, Hist. Conq. Itza., 33. The Yucatec records abound in
predictions to the same effect, more or less clear. The most widely quoted is that
of Chilam Balam, high-priest of Mani, and reputed a great prophet, who foretold
that, ere many years, there would come from the direction of the rising sun a
bearded white people, bearing aloft the cross which he displayed to his listeners.
Their gods would flee before the new-comers, and leave them to rule the land; but
no harm would fall on the peaceful who admitted the only true God. The priest had
a cotton mantle woven, to be deposited in the temple at Mani, as a specimen of
the tribute required by the new rulers, and he it was who erected the stone
crosses found by the Spaniards, declaring them to be the true tree of the world.
Cogolludo, Hist. Yucathan, 99-101, gives the prophecy at length, which is not quite
so clear as the version which he afterward quotes from Herrera. The latter calls
the priest Chilam Cambal, and says: ‘Esta fue la causa que preguntauan a
Francisco Hernandez de Cordoua, y a los suyos, si yuan de donde nacia el Sol.’
Dec. ii. lib. iii. cap. i. Alaman enters into a profound argument on the above, and
interprets Chilam Cambal to be the Chinese for Saint Thomas. In seeking to give a
date he mistakes the meaning of a Yucatec age and places the prophecy back at
the beginning of the Christian era. The opening lines of the prophecy read, ‘at the
end of the thirteenth age,’ which should be interpreted ‘at the end of two hundred
and sixty years.’ The name is also given as Chilam Balan and Chilan Balam, the
latter part savoring of the Canaanite divinity. Remesal, Hist. Chyapa, 245-6;
Gonzalez Dávila, Teatro Ecles., i. 203-4. A priest of Itzalan, named Patzin Yaxun
Chan, is recorded as having urged his people to worship the true god, whose word
would soon come to them; and the high-priest of the same place, Na Hau Pech,
prophesied that within four ages—a Yucatec age equals twenty of our years—
news would be brought of the supreme God, by men who must be received as
guests and masters. Ah Ku Kil Chel, also a priest, spoke with sorrow of ills to
come upon the people from the north and from the east. In the age following the
date of his prediction no priest would be found to explain the will of their idols.
Another temple guardian announced that in the last age idolatry would cease, and
the world would be purified by fire. Happy he who repented! Cogolludo, Hist.
Yucathan, 97-101. Several prophecies therein quoted literally are reproduced in
Villagvtierre, Hist. Conq. Itza., 34-5, which also refers to Itzan predictions.
Among the Mexicans, says Mendieta, predictions were current some four
generations before the conquest of the coming of bearded men dressed in
raiments of different color, and with caskets on their heads. Then the idols would
perish, leaving but one supreme God; war would cease, roads would be opened,
intercourse established, and the husband would cherish but one wife. Hist. Ecles.,
180; Torquemada, i. 235-6. This smacks of an elaboration of the Quetzalcoatl
promise. Nezahualcoyotl, the wise Tezcucan monarch, who died in 1472, left
poems in which chroniclers have discovered vague allusions to a coming race.
The reader may, perhaps, be equally fortunate if he examine the specimens of his
poems given in Native Races, ii. 494-7. His son Nezahualpilli, equally celebrated
as a just king and a philosopher, versed in the occult arts, revealed to Montezuma
that, according to his astrologic investigations, their towns would within a few
years be destroyed and their vassals decimated. This, he added, would soon be
verified by celestial signs and other phenomena. Duran, Hist. Ind., MS., ii. 254-7.
The precursor of these harbingers of evil appears to have been the famine of
1505, which compelled many a parent to sell his children for the means to obtain
food, while others lined the road-side with their famished bodies. The cessation of
smoke from the volcano Popocatepetl, for twenty days, was a feature seized upon
by the diviners as a sign of relief; and true enough, in the following year, the
suffering people were cheered with an abundant harvest. Soon again their fears
were roused by an eclipse and an earthquake, in the very inaugural year of the
new cycle, 1507, and by the drowning of 1800 soldiers during the Miztec
campaign. Almost every succeeding year confirmed their apprehensions by one or
more signs or occurrences of an ominous nature. One of the most alarming was
the appearance, in broad day, of a comet with three heads, which darted across
the sky, eastward, with such speed that the tails seemed to scatter sparks.
‘Salieron cometas del cielo de tres en tres ... parecian ... echando de sí brasas de
fuego ... y llevaban grandes y largas colas.’ Mendieta, Hist. Ecles., 179. ‘Cayó una
cometa, parecian tres estrellas.’ Sahagun, Hist. Conq., i. 4; Native Races, v. 466.
After this, in 1507 or 1510, a pyramidal light, which scattered sparks on all sides,
rose at midnight from the eastern horizon till its apex reached the zenith, where it
faded at dawn. This continued for forty days, or for a year, according to some
accounts. ‘Diez años antes que viniesen los españoles ... duró por espacio de un
año cada noche.’ Sahagun, Hist. Conq., i. 3. ‘Ocho años antes de la venida de los
españoles, ... y esto se vió cuatro años.’ Id., Hist. Gen., ii. 271. It occurred in 1509,
and lasted over forty days. Codex Tell. Rem., in Kingsborough’s Mex. Antiq., v.
154; vi. 144. The interpreter of the Codex enters into a lengthy argument to prove
it a volcanic eruption, one of his points being that the original picture-writing places
the light as appearing behind, or from, the mountains east of the city. In 1510,
Ixtlilxochitl, Hist. Chich., 278, or year five, toxtli. Codex Chimalpopoca, MS.;
Camargo, Hist. Tlax., 139. Torquemada, who had no other authority for the
preceding comet than Herrera, considered that by the comet was meant this light,
i. 234. Humboldt suggests that the fiery pyramid may have been a zodiacal light.
Astrologers announced that it portended wars, famine, pestilence, mortality among
the lords, every imaginable ill, in fact, and causing one general cry of fear and
lament. Montezuma himself was so troubled that he applied for advice to
Nezahualpilli, although they had not been on speaking terms for some time. This
royal astrologer showed his apprehensions by ordering all campaigns then upon
his hands to be suspended, and announced to his confrère that the disasters in
store would be brought upon the empire by a strange race. Montezuma expressed
his disbelief, and proposed a game of tlachtli to decide the interpretation. As if
resigned to the fate predicted for himself, and desirous of showing how little he
appreciated wealth and power, Nezahualpilli is said to have staked on the result
his kingdom against three turkey-cocks. The wager was not so hazardous,
however, as it seemed, for the king of Tezcuco was a good player. After allowing
Montezuma to win the first two points, and raising high his hopes, he stopped his
exultation by scoring the rest for himself. Still doubtful, Montezuma called on an
astrologer famous for his many true announcements, only to receive confirmation
of Nezahualpilli’s utterance, whereupon the irate monarch caused the house to be
pulled down over the diviner, who perished in the ruins. Ixtlilxochitl, Hist. Chich.,
278-9; Veytia, Hist. Ant. Méj., iii. 345-7. Clavigero, who connects the game with a
comet, is quite earnest in asserting his belief in traditions and presages of the
coming of Spaniards, as attested by native paintings and by witnesses of high
standing. ‘Se il Demonio pronosticava le future calamità per ingannar que’
miserabili Popoli, il pietosissimo Dio le annunziava per disporre i loro spiriti al
Vangelo.’ Storia Mess., i. 288-9. According to Duran, the summoning of
Nezahualpilli was due to a comet with an enormous tail, which burst upon the view
of a temple-watcher as it rose in the east and settled above the city. Montezuma,
who had been roused to witness the phenomenon, called on his sorcerers for an
explanation, and on finding that they had seen nothing, had them punished for
their sloth. The wise Tezcucan then came and presaged dire calamities, which
would also afflict himself. He was resigned, and would retire to await death. This
was to be the last interview between the two kings. Hist. Ind., MS., ii. 274-85.
Torquemada compares the comet to that which, according to Josephus, lib. vii.
cap. xii., presaged the entry of Titus into Judea. When Nezahualpilli returned to his
palace, a hare ran into the halls, pursued by eager domestics, but he bade them to
leave it, saying that even so would a strange people enter into Anáhuac without
resistance. Torquemada, i. 211-12, 214. Bernal Diaz speaks of a round sign in the
eastern sky, of a reddish green, to which was attached a streak extending
eastward. The consequent predictions of war and pestilence he finds fulfilled in the
campaign of Cortés, and in the smallpox epidemic introduced by Narvaez. Hist.
Verdad. (Paris ed. 1837), iv. 460-1. Among the accounts of celestial signs which
may be based on the preceding is one by Camargo, describing a brightness
observed in the east by the Tlascaltecs, three hours before dawn, accompanied by
a whirlwind of dust from the summit of Mount Matlalcueje. Remesal refers
probably to the same whirlwind under the guise of a white cloud, like a pillar, which
often appeared in the east before sunrise, and afterward descended upon the
cross erected in Tlascala by the Spaniards. The natives accepted this as an
intimation that the new-comers were heaven’s chosen people, and received the
cross. Hist. Chyapa, 304; Camargo, Hist. Tlax., 140. Gomara appears to connect
this eastern light with a thick smoke and with the fiery pyramid, which were
followed by a battle in the sky between bodies of armed men, attended with great
slaughter. Some of the courtiers surrounding Montezuma while he observed this
phenomenon, pointed out that the arms and dress of the victorious faction
resembled those in the chest which had been washed up on the coast. He
declared his conviction, however, that they must be relics of his divine ancestors,
not of mortal beings who fell on a battle-field, as these forms appeared to do. He
proposed, as a test, that they should break the divine sword. This they tried, but in
vain, and remained mute with wonder at its flexibility and strength. Hist. Mex., 214;
Herrera, dec. iii. lib. ii. cap. ix. Mendieta places this sign in 1511. Hist. Ecles., 179.
The last celestial sign, as described by Mendieta, is a large, brilliant comet, which
appeared the very year of the Spaniards’ arrival, and remained immovable in the
air for several days. Hist. Ecles., 180. Before Nezahualpilli returned to his capital,
after interpreting the fiery signs, he was feasted by Montezuma, and the two
monarchs thereupon retired to the diviners’ chamber to search into the legends of
their forefathers for further light upon the omens. From this circumstance grew the
story that the twain had made a journey to the ancient home of their race.
Nezahualpilli, being a conjurer, took Montezuma through the air to the Seven
Caves, where they conversed with the brethren of their ancestors. On learning that
the first named was a descendant of the great Chichimecatl Xolotl, he was offered
the government of this region, but declined, promising, however, to return at a later
date. Torquemada, i. 212-13. Duran applies to the reign of Montezuma I. a similar
story, which is more appropriate to the present subject. Eager to acquaint his
ancestors with the glorious achievements of their progeny, and to learn something
of the old home, this monarch sent a force of sixty sorcerers on a mission to
Chicomoztoc, with numerous presents for Coatlicue, the mother of the divine
Huitzilopochtli. Transforming themselves into animals, they reached the sacred
region occupied by some Aztecs whom the god had left behind when he set out on
his career of conquest. These venerable settlers were not a little surprised to
behold in the effeminate and ephemeral specimens before them the descendants
of that doughty leader and of his companions. On reaching the abode of the divine
mother, the sorcerers found an old woman sorrowing over her lost son. The news
of his glorious fate roused her interest, and she was induced to reveal several
prophecies by her son, among them one concerning the coming of a strange
people to wrest the land from the Mexicans. The messengers were dismissed with
presents of food and clothing, and returned to their master with twenty of their
number missing. Hist. Ind., MS., i. 467-86. Additional facts may be found in Native
Races, v. 422-4, etc. Another visit to the spirit world is attributed to Papantzin,
sister of Montezuma II., who, shortly after his accession, had married the lord of
Tlatelulco. He soon died, and after ruling for a few years she, in 1509, followed
him to the grave. She was buried with great pomp in her garden, in a vault closed
by a flag-stone. The next morning she was discovered sitting on the steps of the
bath adjoining the vault. Her niece, a child of five or six years, was the first to
notice her. Too young to understand what would frighten older heads, she
fearlessly approached the resurrected woman, and was told to call Papantzin’s
mayordoma. This old dame, on receiving the summons, thought it a child’s prank,
and would not stir, but at last she yielded, and on seeing the form of her late
mistress, swooned with fear. Others proved more courageous, and carried her into
the house. Papantzin now enjoined silence, and wished to call Montezuma, but no
one daring to appear before the cruel and superstitious monarch, Nezahualpilli
was summoned, and he brought the brother with him to her dwelling, together with
several attendants. To them she related that, on being released from her earthly
bonds, she had entered a boundless plain, upon a road which soon divided into
several branches. On one side was a fiercely running stream, which she
attempted to cross, but was motioned back by a youth of fine stature, dressed in a
loose robe of dazzling whiteness. His face, bright as a star, was of fair complexion,
the eyes grey, and the forehead marked with a cross. Taking her by the hand, he
led her up the valley past heaps of dead men’s bones, from many of which rose
the sound of lament. She also observed a number of black persons, with horns
and deer legs, building a house. As the sun rose, large vessels could be seen
ascending the river, bearing white and bearded men in strange attire, with shining
head-gear, and standard borne aloft. They were children of the sun. The youth, in
pointing them out, said that God did not yet wish her to pass the river, which could
never be recrossed, but to wait and bear testimony to the faith coming with these
men, who were destined to wage great wars with her people and become their
masters. The lamenting bones were her forefathers—‘who had not received the
faith,’ is the uncharitable term used by Torquemada—suffering for their evil deeds,
and the house building was to hold the bones of those slain in battle by the fair-
faced crews. She must return to earth, await these men, and guide her people to
baptism. On being restored to her senses from the death or trance, whatever her
listeners chose to term it, she removed the stone from the vault and returned to
her chamber. Many of those present sneered at the story as originating in the
brain of a sick woman, but Montezuma was more deeply moved than he cared to
show. He never again saw his sister, who lived a retired life till the arrival of the
Spaniards. She then came forward, the first woman in Tlatelulco to receive
baptism, and under the name of María Papantzin rendered good aid in the
missionary cause. This account, says Torquemada, has been taken from old
native paintings, translated and sent to Spain, and was regarded as strictly true
among the natives, Papantzin being well known in the town. ‘Esta Señora era del
numero de los Predestinados,’ i. 238-9. Ixtlilxochitl, strangely enough, does not
refer to the resurrection. According to him, the mother of Ixtlilxochitl, king of
Tezcuco, was the first woman baptized, and this under compulsion from her
husband. She received the name of María. After her came Papantzin, now wife of
this king, who was named Beatriz. Cortés stood godfather to both. Sahagun refers
briefly to the resurrection of a woman of Tenochtitlan, who issued, four days after
her death, from the garden vault where she had been deposited. Appearing before
Montezuma, she announced that with him would cease the Mexican empire, for
other people were coming to rule and settle. This woman lived twenty-one years
after this, and bore another child. Hist. Gen., ii. 270-1. At this rate she must have
been alive when Sahagun arrived in the country; yet he fails to speak of her as a
princess. Boturini applies the story to a sister of King Caltzontzin, of Michoacan,
who died at the time the Spaniards were besieging Mexico, and rose within four
days to warn her brother not to listen to the Mexican overtures for an alliance
against the white invaders. The new-comers, she said, were destined by heaven
to rule the land, and a testimony hereof would appear on the principal feast-day in
the form of a youth, who, rising in the eastern sky, with a light in one hand and a
sword in the other, would glide over the city and disappear in the west. This sign
appearing, the king did as she bade him, rejected the Mexican advances, and
received the Spaniards in peace. Catálogo, 27-8. Clavigero censures Boturini’s
work, in this connection, as full of fables, and this after solemnly observing that the
Papantzin incident ‘fu pubblico, e strepitoso, acaduto in presenza di due Re, e
della Nobiltà Messicana. Trovossi altresi rappresentato in alcune dipinture di
quelle Nazioni, e se ne mandò alla Corte di Spagna un attestato giuridico.’ Storia
Mess., i. 289-92. He places the baptism of Papantzin in 1524. Veytia, Hist. Ant.
Méj., iii. 348-52; Vetancvrt, Teatro Mex., pt. iii. 125-6. Torquemada gives the story
of what occurred in the spirit land in her own words; so does Clavigero, though he
differs slightly. See also his English translation by Cullen. As if in confirmation of
her story, ominous signs became more numerous than ever. The big lake of
Mexico began to boil and foam without apparent cause, the water rising high
within the city and creating great damage. The date generally accepted for this
occurrence is 1509, but Mendieta, Hist. Ecles., 178, says 1499. The lake, like the
sky, was connected with more than one mysterious occurrence. A troop of
Huatuscan conjurers arrived shortly after this in the imperial city to exhibit tricks, in
one of which they cut off their hands and feet, disclosing bleeding stumps, and
then replaced the members. In order to test whether this was an illusion or not, the
emperor ordered the severed members to be thrown into boiling water before they
were returned to the performers. This unwarranted curiosity stirred the magicians
to the very core, and before retiring they predicted that the lake would be tinged
with blood, and that their avengers would soon appear in a strange people, the
conquerors of the empire. Not long after, Montezuma noticed streaks of blood in
the lake, mingled with a number of human heads and limbs. He called others to
witness the sight, but none save himself could see it. Sending to the injured
conjurers for an explanation, they replied that the vision denoted great and bloody
battles to be waged in the city by the strange people. Herrera, dec. iii. lib. ii. cap.
ix. About the same time some fishermen caught a grey bird, like a crane, with a
round comb or diadem, resembling a mirror. On being brought before Montezuma,
he was startled by seeing reflected in this mirror the heavenly bodies, although
none appeared in the sky, for it was yet daylight. The next moment the stars had
vanished, and in their place were seen beings, half man and half deer, who moved
about in battle array. Diviners were called to give their explanation, but when they
came the bird had disappeared. Torquemada appears to date this as early as
1505, i. 235. Camargo, Hist. Tlasc., 139-40. Another great bird is referred to, with
a human head, which soared above the lake uttering the prediction that speedily
would come the new rulers of the empire. Other monsters were found in the shape
of double-bodied and double-headed men, which dissolved in the air shortly after
being brought to the sorcerers’, or black hall, of Montezuma. A horrible animal was
caught near Tecualoia. Torquemada, i. 214. During all the years of these signs
could be heard, at frequent intervals, a female voice lamenting, ‘Oh, my children,
all is lost to us! My children, whither will you be taken?’ Id., 214, 233. A similar
voice was heard before the fall of Jerusalem. Josephus, lib. vii. cap. xii.; Mendieta,
Hist. Ecles., 180; Veytia, Hist. Ant. Méj., iii. 358; Sahagun, Hist. Gen., i. 5. In 1510
the imperial city was startled, one clear, quiet night, by a fire, which, bursting from
the heart of the timbers in the temple of Huitzilopochtli, burned all the fiercer under
the efforts made to quench it. A precursor of this had been the fall of a stone
column close to the temple, coming no one knew whence. ‘El chapitel de un Cú de
Vitzilopuchtli, que se llamaba Tlacoteca, se encendió.’ Sahagun, Hist. Conq., i. 3-
4. Shortly after, the temple of the fire god Xiuhtecutli, at Zocomolco, was stricken
by lightning and burned. This occurred without the usual accompaniment of
thunder, and with but a sprinkle of rain; many regarded it as done by a sunbeam,
and consequently as particularly ominous. ‘Los Indios decian ... el Sol ha
quemado este Templo; porque ni hemos visto Relampago, ni hemos oido Trueno.’
Torquemada, i. 214, 234. Believing, or pretending to believe, the city attacked by
enemies, the Tlatelulcans rushed to arms, for which excess of zeal they were
punished by a suspension of all their townsmen who held positions at court. Native
Races, v. 461-67.

[141] Torquemada assumes that the 12,210 victims comprised also those offered
at the consecration of two new temples, Tlamatzinco and Quauhxicalli. See Native
Races, v. 471. Tezozomoc relates that the laborers, after striving in vain to move
the stone from its original site, heard it utter, in a muffled voice, ‘Your efforts are in
vain; I enter not into Mexico.’ The incident finds a parallel in the vain effort of
Tarquin to remove certain statues of the gods, to make room for Jupiter’s temple,
and in the firm adherence of Apollo’s head to the ground, shortly before the death
of the Roman ruler. But recovering from their alarm, they tried again, and now the
stone moved almost of its own accord. Another halt is made, a second oracle
delivered, and finally the stone reaches the bridge, where it disappears into the
water. Amid the invocation of priests, divers descend in search, only to come back
with the report that no vestige of it is to be found; but there is a fathomless pit
extending toward Chalco. While diviners are cudgelling their brains for clues, in
comes a messenger to announce that the stone, like the Penates of Æneas, had
returned to its original site, arrayed in all the sacrificial ornaments. Observing in
this occurrence the divine will, Montezuma let the stone remain, and recognizing
at the same time a menace to himself, perhaps of speedy death, he ordered his
statue to be at once sculptured by the side of his predecessors, on the rocky face
of Chapultepec Hill. Tezozomoc describes the statue. Hist. Mex., ii. 204-7. Duran,
Hist. Ind., MS., ii. 313-27. Clavigero, Storia Mess., i. 292-3. Among the troubles
which after this fell upon the doomed people are mentioned: An earthquake in
1513. Codex Tell. Rem., in Kingsborough’s Mex. Antiq., v. 154. A locust plague.
‘Vieronse gran cantidad de mariposas, y langostas, que passauan de buelo hàzia
el Occidente.’ Herrera, dec. iii. lib. ii. cap. ix. A deluge in Tuzapan, and a fall of
snow which overwhelmed the army en route for Amatlan. While crossing the
mountains, rocks and trees came tumbling down upon them, killing a large
number, while others froze to death. Ixtlilxochitl places this in 1514. Others say
1510. During the Soconusco campaign, see Native Races, v. 472, the ground
opened near Mexico, and threw up water and fish. The Indians interpreted this to
signify a victory, but the lord of Culhuacan intimated, with a shake of the head, that
one force expelled another, whereat Montezuma’s delight somewhat abated.
‘Quando prendio Cortes a entrambos, se accordò (Montezuma) muy bien de
aquellas palabras.’ Herrera, ubi sup.

[142] Meanwhile it came to pass that an eagle swooped down upon a peasant at
work in a field not far from Mexico, and seizing him by the hair in full view of his
neighbors, bore him out of sight. Landed high upon a mountain, the man found
himself led by invisible hands through a dark cave into a hall of dazzling splendor,
where Montezuma lay as if asleep. Less favored than Ganymede, he was
permitted to see no other form, but voices around explained to him that this was a
representation of the emperor intoxicated with pride and blinded by vanity.
Tezozomoc writes that the eagle assumed the form of a lord and spoke; but a
superior being can hardly be supposed to have assumed the office of carrying a
low peasant. A lighted pipe with a rose was placed in his hand, with orders to burn
a mark upon the monarch’s leg, and then proceed to court and relate to him what
had occurred, pointing out the blister in testimony. The gods were annoyed at his
conduct and rule, which had evoked the ills soon to overthrow him. Let him amend
and use well the short term still allotted to him. The next moment the peasant
found himself borne through the air by the eagle, which enjoined upon him to obey
the command received. The man did so, and Montezuma, recalling a dream to the
same effect, looked and found a wound, which now began to burn painfully.
Throwing the man into prison as an evil sorcerer, he sought his doctors for relief.
‘Lo que vio el labrador, pudo ser que aconteciesse en vision imaginatiua porque ...
no es increyble que Dios por medio de vn Angel bueno ordenasse ... que aquel
auiso se diesse.’ Herrera, dec. iii. lib. ii. cap. ix. Montezuma now resolved to seek
a refuge where none of the threatened evils might reach him. The place selected
was Cicalco, ‘house of the rabbit,’ painted by the myths as an abode of delight,
abounding in every product, sown with flowers, and flowing with crystal waters, a
place where death never entered. As a preliminary step four human victims were
flayed and their spirits sent to Huemac, the ruler of that region, to prepare the way
for the living messengers. These consisted of sorcerers, accompanied by dwarfs
and hunchbacks to carry the flayed skins as presents. Two hunchbacks were sent
with the skins of ten flayed men, says Duran. Entering the cave leading to Cicalco,
they were guided by its guardian into the bowels of the earth, and presented
themselves before the Aztec Pluto. With humble reverence they proffered the
skins with the prayer of Montezuma for admission into that abode of delight and
into his service. Unwilling to make an exception to the rule for admission through
death’s portals, Huemac sent the messengers back with presents, giving the
evasive reply that their master should confide to him his sorrows and await relief.
On receiving this report Montezuma angrily ordered the men to be cast into prison,
and sent other messengers with fresh skins, repeating his request for admission,
yet conforming in so far as to ask for an explanation of the many signs abroad.
Huemac, again avoiding a direct answer, told them that Cicalco was quite a
different place from what they supposed it to be. He and his comrades stayed not
of their own accord, but were kept there by a superior power, steeped in abject toil
and misery. This unsatisfactory report entailed upon the messengers the same
punishment as before. Two Acolhuan chiefs were now entrusted with fresh skins
and the request that Huemac should at least explain the signs which threatened
the emperor, if he still refused him admission. Among these signs is mentioned a
white cloud rising at midnight toward the sky. Propitiated by the higher rank or
qualities of these messengers, or by the earnest perseverance of their master,
Huemac explained that the sufferings and menaces were the result of his pride
and cruelty. Let him amend, and as a preliminary task begin a fast of eighty days.
This accomplished, Huemac would meet him at Tlachtonco, on the summit of
Chapultepec. Montezuma was so delighted with this answer that he rewarded the
chiefs most liberally, and made the necessary arrangements for the government of
the empire during his seclusion. Going at the appointed time to Tlachtonco, a
brilliant stone ordered him to make certain preparations and return in four days,
when he would be conducted to Cicalco. This he did, after enjoining secrecy upon
all who had assisted in the matter. Arrayed in a human skin adorned with precious
stones, gold, and feathers, he seated himself upon a feathered throne, surrounded
by his richly dressed dwarf and hunchback pages, and in this guise awaited
Huemac. Soon a light in the distance, brilliant as the sun, announced the approach
of the mysterious being, and hope leaped high in Montezuma’s breast. It stopped,
however, and the emperor was devoured by anxiety. Suddenly a human voice
recalled him from his absorption. It was that of the guardian of Tzoncoztli temple,
who related that Huemac, interdicted by supreme command from approaching the
emperor, had commissioned him to recall his master to duty. His presence is
needed in Mexico to direct public affairs and to infuse respect among the hostile
nations, who would rise the moment his disappearance became known. What will
his subjects think? He must obey the divine command, and remember that he is
emperor of the world. Montezuma yielded reluctantly and reëntered his palace,
taking to his side the faithful Tzoncoztli guardian, and charging all to keep the
secret. Tezozomoc, Hist. Mex., ii. 213-27; and in Kingsborough’s Mex. Ant., v. 469,
et seq.; Duran, Hist. Ind., MS., ii. 328-45.

[143] Codex Chimalpopoca, in Brasseur de Bourbourg, Hist. Nat. Civ., iv. 35-6.

[144] ‘Besaron todos las proas de las naos en señal de adoracion, pensaron que
era el Dios Quetzalcoatl que volvia.’ Sahagun, Hist. Conq., i. 5.

[145] According to Tezozomoc, an Indian, with ears, thumbs, and big toes cut off,
arrived from Mictlancuauhtla with the report that he had seen a round mountain on
the sea moving to and fro without approaching the shore. The informant was
placed under guard, and a chief with an attendant sent to Pinotl to verify the
statement, and to chide him for neglect to report. They soon returned to say that
from a tree they had seen two such mountains or towers, from one of which a
canoe had set out on a fishing trip. The men on board had white faces and hands,
long, thick beard, long hair, raiments of varied and brilliant colors, and round head-
covering. The mutilated Indian being now called to answer further questions, his
prison cell was found vacant. Hist. Mex., ii. 232-4; Duran, Hist. Ind., MS., ii. 359-
77.

[146] Torquemada, i. 379, names ten members, while Veytia, Hist. Ant. Méj., iii.
378, says there were twelve.

[147] Particularly at Nauhtla, Toztla, Mictla, and Quauhtla. Torquemada, i. 379;

Sahagun, Hist. Conq., i. 6, calls the districts Cuextecatl, Naulitlantoztlan, and
Mictlanquactla. Brasseur de Bourbourg, Hist. Nat. Civ., iv. 49, writes more correctly
Nauthtlan, Tochtlan, and Mictlan-Quauhtla.

[148] Torquemada, i. 379-80, expresses his disapproval of Gomara and Herrera

for following only Spanish versions, and ignoring the Indian records acquired by
himself and others, including Sahagun. The latter assumes that Montezuma has
been apprised of Grijalva’s departure before the embassy leaves, and this body is
therefore not sent till Cortés arrives. Hist. Conq., i. 7. This is not unlikely, for
council had to be first held and the future course determined, and messengers
were always on the way between the subject provinces and the capital, ready to
convey news. But most writers, followed by the Native Races, take the view
presented in the text. Herrera, dec. ii. lib. iii. cap. ix., who is very brief on Grijalva’s
visit, says, when it was learned that the Spaniards wanted gold, the governors on
the coast were ordered to barter with it, and to find out what further object they
had in coming. Ixtlilxochitl states that merchants from the coast fair brought the
first news of Grijalva to Mexico. Veytia, Hist. Ant. Méj., iii. 377-8, is brief on the
subject. Tezozomoc describes the necklace, bracelet, and other jewelry prepared
as presents by four of the leading goldsmiths and lapidaries. With these the chief
who had been to the coast to observe the floating towers is ordered to seek the
white men. Pinotl must prepare food for them, and if they eat, they are surely
Quetzalcoatl and his suite. ‘But if they prefer human flesh,’ says Duran, in his
version, ‘and wish to eat you, let them do so; I promise to look to the future of your
children and relatives.’ Hist. Ind., MS., ii. 366-7. ‘If you are convinced that it is
Quetzalcoatl,’ continued Montezuma, ‘adorn his person with these jewels made for
the purpose, and say that I beg him humbly to come and take possession of the
throne which I hold for him.’ Tezozomoc, Hist. Mex., ii. 236-9. This author
confounds Grijalva and Cortés, but allows the jewels and message to reach the
latter. According to Duran, Montezuma tells the chief to ask the god for permission
to finish his rule; after his death he is welcome to the throne. ‘Que me dege morir,
y que despues de yo muerto venga muy de norabuena, y tome su Reyno pues es
suyo y lo dejó en guarda á mis antepasados,’ ut supra. Acosta, Hist. Ind., 508-14
refers briefly to this subject, and to the various omens and visions, some of which
he regards as dreams imparted by angels. Meanwhile fresh messengers arrive to
report that the white captain had spread the wings of his floating mountains and
faded away in the east. They bring later drawings and gifts, including beads,
shirts, a hat, some biscuits and wine. The monarch crunches the biscuits and
admits them to be good, but the wine, with its penetrating sweetness, lulling the
senses and calling up happy visions, this delights him, and specimens of both are
deposited upon the altar of Quetzalcoatl at Tula. Finally, on seeing the glass
necklace, he declares the giver to be indeed the Acatl Ynacuitl, the travelling god
of the reed; and deeming himself unworthy of so brilliant an adornment, he
consecrates it to the gods. The best painters are called to give a superior
representation of the strange visitors from the rude drawings brought by the
messengers, and from their description, while the old and wise men are asked for
recollections and ideas which may throw light upon the subject. After much search
a tradition is raked up, wherein a race is to come from the east mounted on
serpents or masted mountains, and with them a white, bearded people, astride of
big deers and eagles, who will land at Tzonapan, and obtain possession of all the
land. They are also described as a one-legged people, with the face in the middle
of the body, of white complexion and with long beard. In confirmation thereof is
produced an old painting, which agrees with those depicting the late arrivals.
Convinced of the identity, Montezuma orders the governors of the coast provinces
to maintain a close watch for the return of the strangers, so that he may receive
speedy notice. Tezozomoc, Hist. Mex., ii. 241-50; Duran, Hist. Ind., MS., ii. 359-
92.
This chapter presents but a faint picture of the state of affairs within the
Mexican empire at the time of the arrival of Cortés. As I said at the outset, all this I
have given in my Native Races, and can not of course repeat it here. Further
authorities on omens and on the state of the Aztec empire, most of them, however,
of no value, are Carbajal Espinosa, Hist. Mex., ii. 5-12; Beltrami, Mexique, ii. 137-9
and 142-3; Zamacois, Hist. Méj., iii. 130-2; Vetancvrt, Teatro Mex., pt. iii. 124-6;
Bos, Leben der See-Helden, 4-5; Hazart, Kirchen-Geschichte, ii. 505-8; Touron,
Hist. Gen. Am., iii. 127-34; Viagero Univ., xxvi. 192-237; Larenaudière, Mex. et
Guat., 73-5; Lafond, Voy., i. 105-7; Eggleston’s Montezuma, 11-17; Sammlung
aller Reisebesch., xiii. 289-91; Russell’s Hist. Am., i. 76-9; Laharpe, Abrégé, ix.
268-73; Du Perrier, Gen. Hist. Voy., 332-6; Burke’s Europ. Set., i. 71; Smollett’s
Voy., i. 214-19; Chevalier, Mexique, 7-22; Mexique Études, 9-10; Robertson’s Hist.
Am., ii. 17-18; Bussierre, L’Emp. Mex., 119-30; Manzi, Conq. di Mess. 14-19;
Roure, Conquête du Mex., 211-20.
 CHAPTER VIII.
THE COMBATANTS SALUTE.

April-May, 1519.

The Embassy from the Shore—The New Interpreter—Marina—Her

Appearance and Quality—Her Romantic History—She Cleaves to the
Spaniards and to Cortés—And Becomes One of the most Important
Characters of the Conquest—The Spaniards Land and Form an
Encampment—The Governor Comes with Presents—The Spaniards
Astonish the Natives—Who Report all to Montezuma—Cortés Sends
the Monarch Presents—Council Called in Mexico—Montezuma
Determines not to Receive the Strangers—Reciprocates in Presents a
Hundredfold—Cortés Persists—Montezuma Declines more Firmly—
Olmedo Attempts Conversion—Teuhtlile, Offended, Withdraws his
People from the Camp of the Spaniards.

Under San Juan de Ulua the fleet of Cortés rests at anchor, lying
lazily there, its fiery purpose clothed in peaceful white, like a snow-
capped volcano basking in the sunlight. The ships had been watched
from afar by expectant eyes; and now from the wondering multitude
that lines the Chalchiuhcuecan[149] shore come two large canoes,
whose occupants step to the deck of the flag-ship and reverentially
ask for the Tlatoani. Their language is new to Aguilar; none of the
company can understand it. What is to be done? Modestly speaks
one of the female slaves, “These are Mexicans, sent by Cuitlalpitoc,
[150] cacique of the nearest town, to welcome the white chief and
offer their devotion. They would likewise know whence he comes,
and why.”
Instantly all eyes are on the speaker, who under their continued
gaze draws back, abashed at her own temerity, while the warm
blood mantles beneath its clear olive confine, and the breath comes
inconstant between parted lips. Cortés regards her as she stands
there unconscious of the important service she has rendered him; for
possessed she the power of Thetis, to assume any form she
pleased, the fair interpreter could not at this juncture have appeared
before the chief in any other aspect half so fascinating. Who is she?
The one baptized Marina, at Tabasco; and who, being the greatest
lady there, was given to Puertocarrero, the greatest gentleman
present. Why had she been given to Puertocarrero? Why had not the
chief chamberer himself taken her? Cortés had weightier matters on
his mind. He was playing for empire, and would not now stop to
divide the petty winnings with his men. By and by right royally will he
reward the unsanctified within him for its abstinence. As for this girl,
he seems now for the first time to see her.[151] Had Marina, the
slave, been born in other lands, under different auspices, to what
exalted sphere might not her personal loveliness and beauty of
character have entitled her!
They say she was fair for an Indian; very beautiful she certainly
is, and of that order of loveliness that captivates the understanding
no less than the passions. The old as well as the young are ravished
with her beauty, even as with Helen were the elders of Troy. She is
about eighteen, and in form and features perfect; her long hair falling
over smooth, round shoulders, and from large lustrous eyes radiating
a tender melancholy that overspreads the face and tones to harmony
whatever falls beneath its influence. Sweet and frank in her
disposition, she is nevertheless resolute enough upon occasion; yet
in her ordinary mood there is a rare grace and femininity, in which
she is as liquid and pellucid as a passage in Herodotus. There is no
shame in her blush, nothing bordering on conscious inferiority in her
bearing; nothing that these or any other beings may do unto her can
lessen her self-respect. She scarcely knows she is a slave, the
plaything of passion; she finds the world made so, men the stronger
and wickeder, and she has but to acquiesce.[152]
Cortés is deeply interested. As if from heaven some bright being
had been sent to his assistance, so comes to him Marina now. What
is her history? Strangely romantic. She is the daughter of a cacique,
born at Painala, eight leagues from Goazacoalco. While yet a child
her father died; and upon a son, the fruit of a second marriage, the
mother centred all her affections. To secure to him the succession
and inheritance which rightly belonged to the daughter, Marina was
given as a slave to some travelling merchants of Xicalanco, while a
slave girl who had just died was passed off for Marina and buried
with the usual stately ceremonies.[153] Arrived at Tabasco, Marina
was sold to the cacique, and by him transferred to the Spaniards.
With a mind elastic and quick to learn, to her native Mexican tongue
she added at Tabasco a knowledge of the Maya, becoming afterward
proficient in Spanish. And now no longer slave, save to the passion
love, she is to queen it for a while as consort of the conqueror,
becoming in the conquest second only in power and importance to
Cortés himself, whom with her whole soul she loves, and to whom
alone she clings after the departure presently of Puertocarrero for
Spain. Accompanying the invaders as interpreter and adviser, she
shares their hardships and rejoices in their successes. For is not the
daring commander lord of her heart and person? Moreover, what
claim upon her has a nation which drives her into solitude beyond its
border, and for no crime? Therefore, if her newly found friends
sicken, she nurses them; if they despair, she comforts them.
Nevertheless she cannot forget her people, but freely exerts her
influence in their behalf, saving many a life and many a town from
destruction. Toward the end both races vie in showing her their
admiration, gratitude, and respect; and although to the Indian the
invaders become more and more objects of execration, yet he never
mentions with aught but loving reverence the name Malintzin, or
Malinche, as in his tongue is called Marina.[154]
To the embassy of Cuitlalpitoc Cortés makes friendly answer. He
will explain his purposes to the cacique in person. Meanwhile the
messengers are regaled with food; presents are given them, and
gold is shown as something Spaniards delight in. Then they return to
the shore, which appears not very inviting, with its broad reach of
sand and sandy hillocks whirled up by the northers. Likewise
vegetation hereabout is stunted, larger trees appearing only in the
distance. The place had been recommended by Grijalva, however,
as possessing good anchorage, and the people as being rich and
hospitable.[155]
Early on Good Friday Cortés landed, planted guns upon the
hillock, and began the construction of a fortified camp, consisting of
houses, huts, and sheds, high in the centre of which was placed a
large cross. Informed of this, the cacique sent men to carry timber,
plaster the walls, and put up awnings. Food was also provided, and
feather-work and gold were presented Cortés, with the information
that the governor would visit him presently. Meanwhile the natives
flocked in to trade, so that on Saturday the place presented the
appearance of a fair, rather than the encampment of an invading
army.
On Easter Sunday, while preparations were made for mass,
Cuitlalpitoc arrived with his chief, Teuhtlile, governor of the province,
whose residence was at Cuetlachtlan, eight leagues away.[156]
Attending them was a large retinue of nobles, and slaves[157]
bearing presents. Cortés, with an escort, advanced to receive them,
and after interchange of courtesies led the way to the altar, draped in
native cotton fabrics, where Father Olmedo celebrated mass,[158]
aided by Father Juan Diaz, Aguilar, and a trained choir. The service
over, Cortés invited the chiefs to dinner, and there informed them
that he was a captain of the greatest monarch the sun smiled on,
Charles V. of Spain, who, hearing of Montezuma’s fame, had sent
him presents and a message, which must be delivered in person
immediately.[159] How easy the way to him who knows it! Had Cortés
but spoken the simple word, “I am Quetzalcoatl, come to resume my
rule,” he might possibly at one time have ridden midst hosannas to
the capital, and seated himself without resistance on Montezuma’s
throne.
But the minion of an earthly monarch is quite a different being
from the fair god in the eyes of the Aztec officers, who answer
somewhat haughtily, “Be it known to you that our master is the
inferior of none; and for the present let these gifts suffice.” Saying
which the signal is given; the slaves advance and deliver their
burdens, consisting in part of food, cotton fabrics more than ten
bales, brilliant feather-work, and a cacaxtli, or basket, filled with
wrought gold set with rare stones and pearls. Cortés expressed
thanks, and gave for Montezuma in return a carved and inlaid arm-
chair, some engraved marcasite laid in musk-scented cotton, a bright
red cap, a gold medal stamped with the figures of St George and the
dragon, twisted strings of beads, and other articles; and would the
emperor deign to wear the cap and occupy the chair when it became
his pleasure to receive him? To the chiefs were also given some
trifles. Teuhtlile promised to deliver to Montezuma the gifts and the
message. Then pointing to the gilt helmet of a soldier, which
resembled in form the head-dress of the idol Quetzalcoatl, he
expressed a desire to show it to Montezuma. “Take it,” said Cortés,
“and bring it back filled with gold-dust, that we may show our
emperor what kind of metal you have.”[160]
Observing the native painters transcribing to amatl-paper the
several novelties, and wishing to impress them further, Cortés
mounted a horse, and ordered the troops to fall into line and the
cannons to be charged. The infantry first passed in review to the
sound of music with arms and banners displayed. Then came the
cavalry with the best riders, led by Alvarado, dashing past in varied
and swift evolutions. The graceful movements of the great animals,
their rearing and prancing, and above all their speed; the flashing
swords, the glittering armor, all seemed to these simple people like a
scene from the supernatural. Their admiration was changed to terror,
however, when the guns belched flames and smoke, and sent midst
many thunderings the stone balls scudding along the beach or
crashing among the trees. All, even their own fears, were faithfully
depicted by the painters. On leaving, Teuhtlile gave orders to supply
the Spaniards with every necessary, for which purpose two thousand
of his people were detailed to attend them, particularly to bring wood,
water, and food. For their accommodation another cluster of huts
was erected, so that within these few days two towns arose on the
sands of Chalchiuhcuecan. Cuitlalpitoc, who remained for a time to
superintend the service, received from his guests the name of
Ovandillo.[161]
Montezuma was quickly in possession of all these facts; and
when he saw the gifts, and read the picture writings, and learned
how a woman, beautiful as the sun, talked to his people in their own
language; more particularly when he compared the helmet with that
worn by Huitzilopochtli, and was told that the terrible strangers
insisted on an interview, apprehension filled his soul.[162]
Cuitlahuatzin, his brother, and Cacama of Tezcuco, were summoned
to aid in telling him what to do. The council was divided. There was
the popular belief regarding Quetzalcoatl with its attendant
prognostics; on the other hand these strangers did not behave like
gods. They had human appetites, overthrew the idols, claimed
allegiance to another power, and had proved themselves vulnerable
at Potonchan. Yet could beings wholly terrestrial so live without
women, mount gigantic deer, and tame the lightning? Cacama
thought they should have a hearing. The national honor demanded
it; beside, refusal implied fear. Cuitlahuatzin saw in the visitation only
evil to the commonwealth, and urged expulsion. The gods should
decide; and very foolish gods they would have been to vote
admission to their destroyers. And now behold the fatal folly of
Montezuma! Instead of vigorous action toward the end determined
on, he adopted a middle course. He would decline the interview, yet
not rudely drive the strangers hence, lest, peradventure, they might
be gods and successfully oppose him. He would send them liberal
gifts, and beseech them to depart, thus exposing at once his
weakness and his wealth.[163]
A diplomate of the first nobility was accordingly despatched to
the sea-shore. With him went Teuhtlile, returning after only a week’s
absence.[164] Numerous natives were in attendance, among them
over a hundred slaves. Bowing low before Cortés, who had on this
occasion put on greater pomp than usual, the envoy touched the
earth with his hand, carrying it to his lips, and then he swung the
copal censer.[165] Together with Teuhtlile he thereupon seated
himself beside Cortés; and it was remarked how much alike they
looked, the Spanish commander and the Aztec envoy, who, perhaps,
had been selected for this reason, with the aid of the portraits made
by the native painters, and as a mark of honor to the white captain.
The soldiers not inappropriately called him the Mexican Cortés.[166]
The slaves were then directed to lay down the presents; among
which were thirty bales of cotton fabrics, from gauzy curtains to
heavy robes, white, colored, plain, and figured,[167] interwoven with
feathers or embroidered with gold and silver thread; feathers and
plumes of all colors, embroidered sandals, and marcasite mirrors. All
these, however, were trifles beside the gold, the beautiful glittering
gold which was now disclosed, and likewise the silver. First there