Page 37 of Revenge

Which changes nothing with regard to my plan to make contact with my father tonight.

Antonio

A strange thing has happened.

I simply like to be in the presence of my wife. Yes, she’s easy on the eyes, but it’s more than that. I like to hear her voice, even when it’s tight and defensive. I like to watch her expressions. I like seeing that while she tries to hide her feelings, she’s attracted to me. Enjoys my attention.

If I let her win a few rounds, she just might drop her defenses again. We might have a chance of an actual marriage. It’s not what I wanted–not what I expected–at least not consciously. But this woman has been at the center of my revenge plan from the beginning. She was the trigger. The girl I was told I wasn’t good enough for and didn’t deserve.

The one who became a symbol of everything I had to be angry for. Except she was a shimmering, shiny symbol. Something I had to attain, capture, and keep.

The sensual, enigmatic beauty of the ball.

The prize.

My prize. What I actually deserved, that evening of her ball and now.

No, maybe not now. Because I haven’t earned her affection yet. I fought unfairly, and I won.

Now it may be time to actually court my wife. To find out what makes her tick. How to make her smile, laugh, sing.

And–ah God–her voice! Like an angel’s.

After hearing her sing last night, I feel I’ve glimpsed the real Dahlia. The vulnerable, talented artist who was never allowed to express her gifts.

It made me want to wring her parents’ necks.

And now I’m determined to make sure she gets to do everything she dreamed of doing.

Which is why I choose a festive open-air restaurant with a lively band singing contemporary English pop music instead of the more expensive fine dining Dahlia would be accustomed to.

American tourists sit under palapas, sucking down fruity cocktails.

I watch as curiosity overtakes Dahlia’s tension. She watches the band and the happy, drunken tourists around us as our waiter takes our drink order.

She sucks down a banana daiquiri, and I order her another. Her mood lightens considerably. While we eat a simple but delicious fish dinner, she rolls her shoulders a little then nods her head to the music, smiling at the band.

“They’re good, no?” I ask.

“So good.”

“Do you sing this kind of music? Or only opera?”

“I love this kind of music. I sing everything. If I could’ve done anything, I would’ve been a Broadway musical star.”

My heart.

She has the talent for it, too. What a shame her parents didn’t support her dreams.

When she excuses herself to the restroom after dinner, I send one of my men to keep an eye on her, and I speak to the lead singer.

People are up dancing now, some sloppy drunk, others with more class. I take Dahlia’s hand when she returns and lead her to the dance floor. Her heart beats quickly at her throat.

She’s excited. To dance with me?

It occurs to me this girl has probably lived her life in a deficit of fun. Of letting loose. Letting go. We dance a few songs, and I order her another drink but keep her on the dance floor. We dance until her face is flushed and her eyes are bright.

Then I lead her up onto the stage and tell the lead singer she’s going to perform with them.