Page 30 of No Greater Oblivion

“That isn’t our problem,” he replies, without malice or impatience, merely a matter-of-factness that cuts through all the pageantry. “Your families have been at each other’s throats for nearly twenty years. I don’t see how that concerns any of us.”

“Because Sandro won’t be satisfied until he has control of the entire city. It’s been his plan all along. I know I’m not the only one who had enough common sense to figure that out.”

“Insulting our intelligence isn’t an effective way of garnering support,” Don Enrique remarks.

Don Rubin chuckles heartily as he smokes his cigar. “Some men get so easily offended.”

“My point is he won’t stop at the docks. He’ll keep going until he dismantles all the families around him, either by force or through extermination. Either way, it’ll be a very long, very bloody, and very public war. None of us can risk the attention a conflict like that would garner. Need I remind everyone of what happened the last time the Sandovals came for my family.”

The room falls silent. After my father’s assassination, the war that followed was swift but brutal. So many dead bodies littered the street that it made national news. Not even the Betancourts, whose family owns most of the news stations in the region, were able to keep it under wraps. Once the SVA got involved, eleven families agreed that the only way to end the war was to follow Biblical tradition: an eye for an eye.

My father was murdered in spring and Gregorio was dead by fall.

Luis Alberto speaks on his father’s behalf. “We still don’t understand. What do you want from us?”

“Your loyalty and discretion. I am going to take his house down, brick by brick, until there’s nothing left. But I can’t do that if I’m bound to the honor code,” I explain. “Once the Sandoval empire is completely dismantled, I’ll leave it to you; you can have whatever you want in exchange for your support. With what I have planned, Sandro’s bound to go running to the other apostles and claim foul play. When that happens⁠—”

“You want us to take your side,” Don Javier finishes. “A split vote is a null one. He can’t force an inquiry without the majority in his favor.”

The rules of the twelve families are simple. We operate autonomously and individual conflicts are often handled independently. It’s why so many families have intermarried over the years, to prevent bloodshed and consolidate businesses and assets. However, there are occasions in which all twelve are called to a vote.

To maintain balance and peace in the city, we have a code of honor. Families, partners, and civilians are untouchable, and it’s forbidden to orchestrate the murder of another apostle, a rule instilled by my grandfather during the drug epidemic of the eighties and nineties. Too many families were dipping their toes into the trade, killing each other off, and leaving precarious succession issues. Not to mention the influence of foreigners in the city threatening to dismantle the entire twelve family structure. Only the O’Neils, Maslovs, and Belovs came out of those decades mostly unscathed. Others like the Turkish, Greeks, and Italians were kicked out but have been trying to get back in ever since. Barcelona is simply too important of a city, especially with its ports and access to the rest of the Mediterranean.

When my father was murdered, my uncle and aunts completely bypassed the other families and plunged into a full-scale war. Though admittedly, I hardly remember much of it. I was too busy trying to keep the four of us afloat—Mom, Diego, Lettie, and me.

Sometimes I can’t believe how young I was. Ten years came and went in the blink of an eye.

“What exactly do you have planned for him?” Don Mauricio asks.

“Nothing you need to know.”

His eyes narrow a bit as he takes me in.

Don Rubin speaks next. “Essentially, our role is to turn a blind eye. And in the event the Sandovals call for a vote and petition for an inquiry into your family, we vote against it.” He motions with the hand holding his cigar. “Clearing the way for you to eliminate an entire family.”

“And allowing the rest of you to become richer for it.”

“The Narvaez family stands to inherit the Sandoval empire if Sandro and his next of kin fall.”

I shake my head. “I have no interest in it. We’ll take back the territory we lost and that’s it. I don’t want to go any further west of La Rambla.”

The men at the table exchange glances in silence. I’m perfectly capable of handling Sandro on my own but it’ll be much easier knowing I have five other families behind me if things go south. I’ve spent the last two weeks planning, without rest, Sandro’s eventual fall from grace. It’s a plan that demands execution with meticulousness, precision, and above all, patience.

Patience of which I am running dangerously low on.

To my surprise, Don Alfonso is the first to nod. A deep breath leaves his thinning lips, something like resignation and exhaustion mingling together when he speaks. “I cannot say I’m surprised. It never sat well with me the way Don Gregorio came after your father. Nor did I approve of him passing his grudge down to his son. That is not the way to do business.” He waves a finger. “It should never, ever be personal.”

Don Rubin lifts his brows in agreement before finishing his drink. “We’ve had our issues in the past but you’ve always known how to make amends. For my part, you have my support.”

I bow my head in thanks before turning my attention to the other three men in the room.

Don Enrique is on the fence, hesitant to choose a side. Don Javier surprises me for the second time today by speaking first.

“All right.” It’s a clipped response, but all I need.

Don Mauricio says, “And we can have what we want when it’s all said and done?”

I can tell he’s skeptical by the way he twists his ring around his middle finger. Of all the men at this table, he’s had the most conflict with the Sandovals, even more so than Don Rubin. Their territories share too many straddling borders which has resulted in a power struggle for the last five years.