Page 50 of No Sweeter Poison

“Boundaries,” I murmur, but am not exactly sure who needs the reminding. Me or him.

He expels a deep breath. “Yeah…boundaries.”

He walks out the door and I let him, wondering whether or not it was a mistake not asking him to stay.

THE PATRIARCH

Alejandro

S alazar Narvaez was eighteen years old when he founded the Narvaez crime family.

Born to second-generation Spanish coffee farmers living in Colombia and one of seven children, two of his four older brothers were dead, one was disabled, and the youngest brother, along with his only sister, were barely old enough to light a stove by themselves. Which meant that Salazar, the middle child, became the unlikely patriarch of his family when his parents and eldest brother were murdered.

He brought his family back to Spain where his first-cousin, Gaspar Sandoval, promised to find him work and housed his only sister and two remaining brothers. At thirteen, he was working odd jobs like repairing cars, running mail for the local post-office, and stocking shelves at grocery stores. It was at the grocery store where, while working a 4am shift unloading trucks of produce, he discovered crates of weapons stored in the back. When the police came around a few hours later asking questions about an Italian man named Lorenzo Vellucci, whom he knew to be the owner of the grocery store, Salazar denied any knowledge of suspicious activity.

In fact, Salazar was complementary towards his employer, informing the police that he was orphaned with younger siblings under his care, and that the benevolent Don Lorenzo often gave him work. The police left and Salazar finished unloading the truck as he usually did, leaving the crates—weapons and all—in the basement as he always did.

A few days later when he returned to work another 4am shift unloading, he encountered the same problem: weapons stored in the back and police officers coming around to ask questions. At the end of the week when it came time to collect his wages, he was brought up to Don Lorenzo’s office. Salazar was told to sit in a big leather seat and waited for three hours. When Don Lorenzo finally arrived he asked Salazar a single question: what do you want in exchange for your loyalty?

Don Lorenzo had expected money, gifts, even revenge. He’d done his research on Salazar Narvaez and knew his parents and eldest brother had been murdered in Colombia. Salazar asked for none of those things.

Instead, he asked for steady work to support his family. Don Lorenzo granted his request.

Five years later, Vellucci went to New York City and left behind his right-hand man, Salazar Narvaez. Equipped with the knowledge, skills, and ambition to not only survive but the cunning to amass power and influence, he had one goal in mind. And that was to do something more than survive, living on scraps and making ends meet.

He was determined to live.

He instilled that near animalistic drive in each of his children and then his children passed it on to their children.

And then they were more animal than human

A buelo sits at the head of the table, hands folded over the handle of his walking stick, crystalline blue gaze studying each of his grandchildren with all the predatory instinct of a lion hunting gazelle.

To our credit, we each hold our own. Lettie sits to his left, stance almost identical to Abuelo’s, save the walking stick. Abuelo pretends to be equally as strict with all of us but Lettie is the apple of his eye. I’m almost certain she could put a bullet through his chest and he’d follow death without a word of protest.

As for Diego, he sits to Abuelo’s right, brows furrowed, expression stoic. I abstain from sitting and instead, stand at the left side of Abuelo, right between him and Lettie. We stare at the screen in front of us and watch as fire consumes Hacienda Vidal Narvaez in Mexico. When it’s done, Dimitrio, our head of security, turns the laptop around and mutes the volume.

“Señora Vidal has asked us to intervene,” Dimitrio says. “Apparently, the Vidals and Merinos are feuding over—”

“Tia Leticia should’ve thought of that before marrying off her daughter to Roman San Rios,” comes Diego’s sharp reply. His head snaps around to Lettie. “And don’t defend her.”

“Who? Me? Why on earth would I side with a woman who decided to marry off her daughter to a murderous sociopath?” Lettie replies sardonically. “It’s not like the women in this family have independence or the agency to choose their own husbands.”

Our aunt, with whom Lettie shares a name, is one of our father’s two sisters. She lives in Mexico where she runs the family tequila company and has two daughters, Belinda and Anastasia, the former of whom is the family headache. Lately, we’ve been having issues with the Merinos, new to the area and trying to assert dominance. The plan was to smooth things over with a potential marriage but somewhere in the interim, Belinda got married off to Roman San Rios instead of the Merino heir. While I disagree with the arrangement on principle, I’m not yet patriarch of this family. Since Abuela’s death and in lieu of the presence of my own mother, Tia Leticia has become our de facto matriarch which means I don't have much say here.

Abuelo examines his grandchildren, gauging their reaction to the news. He settles on me last, my silence like something of an alarm bell to him.

“Alejandro?” he says.

Should we intervene? Probably. It reflects poorly on the family to allow an attack of this magnitude to go unanswered for. However, if we step in every time an aunt or an uncle or a cousin gets themselves into deep water, we won’t have any footmen left. Not to mention it would encourage a lack of independence amongst the various branches of our family.

“Send cousin Osvaldo to negotiate with the Merinos on our behalf,” I say. “In the meantime—”

The door to the office swings open.

“Okay, I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Dahlia says. “And I really want us to—”

She rushes into the room, heading straight toward my desk, expecting to see me seated there. Except I’m not so she turns, almost trips over the rug, and comes to an abrupt halt when she sees us seated by the table near the fireplace. Like a deer caught in headlights, she stares, wide-eyed, until I lift a brow at her and she seems to remember herself.