Page 112 of The Ripper

We both sipped it, then he hooked my arm around his and led me away when he saw my father trying to approach us.

“He doesn’t look happy,” he giggled like a teenager, and I laughed.

Sincerely, because I missed him more than anyone, but no more than I missed Grimm at that moment, and I wished the latter could have seen me.

Would you be proud of me, my love?

“Good thing I don’t give a shit about his happiness.”

My grandfather smiled as he took the empty glass out of my hand and sat them both on a bar cart next to us, leading me to the dance floor.

In true Sánchez fashion, the evening simply had to open with a dance.

A tango, no less.

“I have to warn you, I’m a bit rusty,” I told him as we stopped to take our stances.

“Somehow I doubt that.” He bowed his head as it was customary, and I gracefully mirrored his action while the band began to playPor Una Cabeza.

Dancing with my grandfather made me feel like a little girl learning the tango for the first time. He taught me everything I knew about dancing, because my grandmother had been a professional. He knew the steps like the back of his hand, and he took the lead beautifully as he guided me through it.

“Relax, Reina,” he whispered before a shadow appeared next to us.

“May I cut in?” my father asked, gracefully holding out his hand while his partner, the brunette from earlier, eyed me reluctantly, but I only gave her a quick glance.

“If you must,” I mumbled, taking his hand as my grandfather continued the dance with whoever that woman was.

“You look good,” he said stiffly, his eyes wandering over the stars.

“I have a great trainer,” I smiled innocently. “He makes me sweat so fu…”

“Reina,” he reprimanded. “That’s no language for a lady,” he twirled me around as he gripped my hand tighter, almost as if he was sure I would try to get away from him.

“You don’t get to use that name,” my eyes stabbed into his. “Not when you’re staining my mother’s memory with that tramp on your arm.” I dug my nails into the back of his hand. “You also don’t get to scold me for my language when you kidnapped me. The lady died, father, the Russian man made sure of it.”

The music stopped and I stepped away from him, mocking the reverence I was supposed to show at the end of the dance. It was supposed to be a gesture of respect, sometimes even love, directed at the partner, and I had no such feelings for the man in front of me.

“Mija[17],” he began, taking a step closer to me.

“I’m not your daughter,” I interrupted him. “Your daughter died with her mother on that field.”

I turned my back on him and walked away, taking another glass of champagne from a tray in passing, all the while fighting the urge to throw the knife at his head.

I walked around the table, looking for my assigned seat, and was surprised to see that it was at the head of the long table, directly opposite my father. Uncustomary for a woman to sit there in our family, but I was, after all, the guest of honor.

As I sat down, I made a show of rolling my head and running my fingers over the marks on my neck. I also turned the act of crossing my legs into a spectacle, making sure the knife was in plain sight for everyone to see, along with my bare leg.

He didn’t sit down, but picked up a glass from the table and clinked a fork to it. That woman was sitting to his right, where my mother was supposed to be sitting, which only added fuel to the fire.

“If everyone would join me in a toast,” he said loudly and confidently, and everyone stood up with their glasses in hand.

Everyone except me.

I just propped my elbows on the table and rested my chin on the backs of my hands, smiling innocently as I saw Julio struggling to stifle a laugh.

My father cleared his throat, trying to distract everyone from me.

“Thank you all for being here on this very important day for me,” he began. “We are here to welcome my daughter home, Reina.”

---