Catalina couldn't breathe.
Don Esteban Torres stood twenty feet away, surrounded by hooded figures holding torches. The firelight carved shadows into his face, making him look half-dead already. But his eyes were sharp, alive and calculating.
"This isn't possible," Lucien said beside her. His voice was raw. "I killed you."
Esteban smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "You killed a sick old man in his study. A convenient body. A useful deception." He tilted his head. "Did you really think I'd let my own son end me so easily?"
Lucien's hand tightened on his gun, but he didn't raise it. Not yet.
Catalina's mind raced. If Esteban was alive, then everything—the funeral, the power transfer, Lucien taking over, all of it had been theater. A game she didn't know she was playing.
Miguel stepped
