Page 32 of No Greater Oblivion

“Falcón will fall in line. His ambition has always gotten the better of him but with Sunyer in the middle, it’ll force him to think more carefully. He’ll choose whatever side his son is on and Don Enrique will follow suit. He’s the real target anyway.”

“How did you know Sunyer was Falcón’s son?”

“Dad told me years ago, around the same time he told me about Dimitrio.”

Practically infamous for his impartiality, everyone knows Don Enrique is the last to pick sides, and that’s if he does. With him in my back pocket, I can turn any family with ease, down to the Lopezes and De la Vegas.

Sandro won’t know what hit him.

Dahlia

The current drought in Barcelona is one of the worst in living memory.

It’s all anyone’s been talking about lately.

Across the street, a man in a white uniform is hosing down the sidewalk where twenty minutes earlier, a pair of American children drew flowers and butterflies with street chalk. I could tell they were American because when a waiter came to take their order, the parents spoke very loudly and very slowly, which in and of itself isn’t such an egregious offense but the waiter looked like he had murder on his mind.

The American couple ordered tapas and chicken paella which they shared under a green umbrella while the children were forced to entertain themselves. After they left, a manager came over, pointed at the chalk drawings, and now they’re being washed away.

So much wasted water in a drought. How ironic that in a city where murals and graffiti are plastered on every corner, some stuck up manager is inconvenienced by the innocent musings of two thoroughly neglected children.

From the living room, I have a perfect view of incoming traffic. We live in a quiet part of the neighborhood but every once in a while when a car passes, I make up a game in my head. I memorize the license plate and when the next one passes, I memorize that plate number too. I keep going until I forget one in the chain and have to start over. Thus far, this is my longest streak: six in a row which is quite impressive.

A car approaches and I run through all six previous license plate numbers. I haven’t forgotten one yet so I continue with the game, adding a seventh license plate to my streak.

Two, three, nine, seven. K-B⁠—

Wait.

I sit up and lean toward the window. The sun has begun to set and so it takes more work to examine the last two letters on the plate, though even without them, I recognize the black sedan as it approaches the house. It’s Alejandro’s car.

I almost leap off the sofa when I remember I’m not wearing my boot. If he sees me without it, he’ll put me back on bed rest with Doña Ana as my jailer. One would think I lost a limb rather than broke my ankle. As insufferable as the constant surveillance has been, I remind myself that it comes from a place of love and concern and the irritation subsides a little. Another two weeks in this house without any movement and I think I’ll go stir crazy.

Alejandro marches down the hall like a man on a mission, completely flying past the swooped archway in the gallery that leads to the living room. Not five seconds pass before the soles of his shoes screech against the hardwood floors and he backtracks several steps.

“What are you doing out here?” He strides into the living room. “Who carried you over here?”

I point to the boot I conveniently strapped back on. “I waddled.”

He makes a face before bending down to kiss me. “Have you eaten yet?”

I shake my head. “I was waiting for you.”

“I’m stepping out again, I just needed to grab something from my office⁠—”

I reach out and grab his wrists. Turning his palms over, I lift the edge of one of the gloves to look inside. “You’re not going anywhere until these bandages have been changed.”

He inhales deeply and fists his hands as he pulls away. “They don’t hurt.”

“I didn’t ask if they hurt.”

I get up from the couch and before I apply any weight to my right foot, he lifts me off my feet and carries me back to our room.

He sets me down on the edge of the bed and in anticipation of his escape, I hook a finger through his belt loop and yank him back. I lift a brow at him and tilt my head in the direction of the bathroom. Resigned, he sighs and walks to the bathroom without protest. When he returns, it’s with a roll of gauze, scissors, hand towel, and ointment tucked under one arm, and a small bowl balanced on his left forearm. Before the bowl can topple over, I take it and set it on the floor. I then take the scissors, gauze, hand towel, and ointment and put them on the bed beside me.

Alejandro drags the ottoman over and because of its height, he’s able to sit in front of me so we’re eye level.

He extends his hands and we both hold our breath.