Page 24 of No Greater Oblivion

I inhale a steady breath. “I’m not tired.”

“The doctor said⁠—”

I turn my head completely and he’s standing beside me, arms crossed over his chest, head dropped.

“Either say something useful or get out.”

“What do you want me to do about Frida?”

Frida Sandoval. I forgot about her. The dead cousin.

“I thought it’d be best to send Lettie and Abuelo over to her parents’ house—with escorts, of course. It should be handled delicately⁠—”

Images of Frida Sandoval’s charred face swirl around in my mind but are overshadowed by the memory of Dahlia trapped under a metal shelf. My mind is made up.

“Burn her.”

Diego physically jolts. His arms drop to his sides and he opens his mouth but no words come out. My brother isn’t often stunned silent and I can’t say I’m not grateful for the reprieve. His voice is starting to grate at my nerves.

“Do what you want with the ashes but get rid of them. It should be as if she never existed.”

An entire day has already passed. Sandro must be pacing the length of his office, awaiting news from his cousin, wondering where she is and why she hasn’t gotten in contact yet. He’ll wait a full seventy-two hours before allowing the panic to settle in, at which point, I expect a dozen men will be surveying my territory by Sunday at dawn, searching for any sign of her.

“Strip her of whatever she’s wearing—have a woman do it. Make sure she’s clothed when you bring her to Don Aldo.”

His voice hardens. “Alejandro.”

“After that, go to Don Carlos. He owes me a favor. Hire one of his girls, whichever one looks most like Frida, and have one of the men take her across the city. Somewhere new every day for a week and make sure she changes her clothes. The Sandovals should be able to track her as far as Zaragoza, and then let the trail go cold,” I instruct quietly. “Call Beni and ask him to send someone over from El Rey—someone expendable but trustworthy.”

Diego’s breaths come in short, labored pants. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think⁠—”

His voice rises and I slam my hands down on the armrest of my chair, ready to pounce on him, when I remember Dahlia is still sleeping. The voice that leaves my lips is unfamiliar even to me.

“Raise your voice again.”

It isn’t a request, an order, or even a question. It’s a threat he understands perfectly well.

With great effort my brother replies, “Doña Laura and Don Epifanio don’t deserve this. Frida was their only child and she was probably only doing whatever Sandro told her to do. It isn’t right to make them suffer.”

“I don’t care if they suffer. I don’t care about anyone’s suffering unless it’s hers.”

His gaze drifts to Dahlia on the bed.

“Do as I say and do it correctly.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw as his gaze travels back to me. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll do it myself.”

His back stiffens. And without another word, Diego leaves the room to do my bidding.

Sandro loved Frida.

Death is something a person eventually moves on from. Humans have developed processes to mourn and say goodbye. We bury bodies, host wakes, and erect tombs. There’s a place to deposit grief and pain and once alleviated of those emotions, the path forward becomes easier.

There is no mourning if there’s no one to mourn.

If Frida disappears without a trace, Sandro will never stop looking for her. Among his flaws, of which there are many, a lack of concern for his family isn’t one of them. He is as fiercely loyal and devoted to his as I am to mine. He will spend every day of the rest of his life trying to find someone who no longer exists. He’ll chase dead ends and torment himself with the unknown. None of it will make sense to him; how the news reported there being no casualties, why he can’t find any of the firefighters or first responders from the night of the incident, and what made Frida disappear into thin air when she had clear orders on what to do.