Page 80 of No Darker Temptation

I frown. “I thought you liked the Four Seasons.”

“The Mandarin Oriental is better. More food selection.” She flips restlessly through the catalogue before reaching for the hotel phone behind her. “Dahlia are you hungry!” she calls out before murmuring, “I’m absolutely famished…”

Dahlia returns with my phone and hands it to me. I check for new messages and see a few but none too urgent. Besides if we don’t leave now, we’ll be late.

“Yes, hello, I’m placing an order for the royal suite…why do I need to wait if this is the royal suite? Shouldn’t we have our own butler? Also, do you know if the towels are Egyptian cotton?”

Diego rolls his eyes. “I’ll wait outside.”

“It’s fine, I’m ready to go.” I kiss the top of Dahlia’s head. “Try not to let my sister terrorize the help.”

We leave the girls to their own devices and the hotel room door swings shut just as Dahlia says, “Lettie, that was mean!”

Twelve families sit around an oval table in a dimly lit room as Don Rubin Caceres seals the proverbial vault.

It’s the kind of room Dahlia would lose her heart over. Old, elaborate, and well-preserved. Velvet curtains are drawn over tall, Palladian windows and the twinkling chandelier above our heads reflects champagne colored light across the lacquered, cherry wood tabletop. The seats are tall with high backs and curved armrests, the cushions made of rich red fabric. I take my place at the front of the oddly shaped room at what could be considered the head of the table. Everyone notices and they should.

I’m not above petty displays of power. Especially since Sandro has decided to sit directly across from me.

Considering the beating he took a week ago, he’s in remarkably good shape. Last time I saw him he was a bloodied, fractured mess with a dislocated jaw and potential brain damage. Unfortunately for me, his visible injuries are minimal; the swelling on the left side of his face has gone done, under his eye is black and blue, and most of the cuts and scratches on his face from when I sent him through the glass partition have healed and scabbed over. He’s walking with a limp and whatever other injuries he may have are concealed by his clothes—probably bruising, and judging by the brace on his left wrist, it must be sprained.

The wave of smug satisfaction rolling through me is short lived when a sharp pain in my chest reminds me that I forgot to take my painkillers. Breathing hurts like a bitch right now but I’ll be damned if Sandro sees me taking a Vicodin in his presence.

Once representatives for all twelve families are accounted for, Don Enrique, who is seated at the center of the table, rises from his seat. He’s older than what my father would’ve been if he was still alive by roughly seven or ten years, somewhere in his early sixties but still in incredible shape. Average height with very lightly tanned skinned and golden-brown hair that’s turning gray, Don Enrique is the known peacemaker amongst us twelve. He’s well-respected and admired because he treats his allies well and most importantly, knows how to mind his own business, which is why everyone is so on edge.

If he’s called a meeting, everyone should be concerned.

“I’m sure everyone’s wondering why I’ve gathered the apostles here today. And in Madrid no less.” He gestures at the change in scenery. “I wanted us to be in a place that was completely neutral so as to inspire confidence in one another. More than that, I knew working within the politics of another city would force everyone to behave.”

A collective murmur of agreement runs through the room before Don Enrique continues.

“It concerns me profoundly that two of the men at this table, whose fathers I knew and considered friends, are at the cusp of another war.” He turns to me. “Don Alejandro.” Then Sandro. “Don Sandro.”

Neither of us meet gazes across the table.

“The two of you came into power at a very young age. Everyone at this table understood we had a responsibility to guide you in your ascendance to ensure peace in our city. We have been allies and mentors to the best of our ability, without endangering the function of our own families,” he amends smoothly, to the approval of everyone else. “Though, all of our efforts in the last decade seem to have been futile. Because you are still fighting the same battle that cost your fathers their lives and almost cost our city its entire underground system.

“No one knows why, God rest their souls, Don Lisandro and Don Gregorio were feuding. It was over a matter kept between themselves.” He shrugs a bit, a sign of resignation. “None of that matters. The two of you were too young to understand what the feud between your fathers cost our city. By the time you each finally became aware of it, it had already taken their lives. It’s why I’ve sent for you to see if any mediation can be done.

“What can we do?” he pleads, with such sincerity I almost think he means it. “How do we stop this from escalating any further?”

Sandro doesn’t speak and if he doesn’t then neither will I. I’m perfectly content with keeping this between us; twelve families be damned. I’ll kill him and take the whole city down with me if I have to. He’s never getting within an inch of Dahlia again.

“I have also lost a father to this feud.”

Beto Garcia’s voice echoes across the room. All heads turn to him.

“It isn’t just your families who suffer the consequences. It’s ours as well.”

My eyes narrow and before I can spew anything sharp I have to remember that he’s barely nineteen yet. “Your father was feeding information to the SVA. If the Servicio de Vigilancia Aduanera ever found a way in, the entire operation would fall apart.”

Beto Junior’s father, Roberto Garcia, paid for his betrayal last summer when one of Lettie’s poisons wiped him out for good. It was the night I met Dahlia.

Beto’s cheeks redden. “He wanted out of this lifestyle. He was doing it to give me and my sister a better life.”

“Then he should’ve found another way to do it,” I reply. “Don’t take it so personally, Beto. If there’s a piece of wisdom I can impart as you grow into your role as Don, it’s this. Business is never personal.”

His jaw tightens. “How can the murder of my father not be personal?”