Page 107 of No Merciful Corruption

He concedes easily and waves over a server to clear my plate. As she’s about to put a clean one down, I cover the spot on the table with my hand and she pulls away.

Clanking glass catches everyone’s attention and we turn our heads to Edith who raises a knife to her champagne flute. Simón stands as well and the lively conversation dies down to a whisper.

“We would like to thank the esteemed families at this table for joining us this evening.” Edith begins. “When my husband and I arrived in Barcelona two years ago, we expected a struggle to fight our way to the top. Instead, we encountered allies.”

Another wave of nausea hits me. My stomach twists and curdles at the sight of the food on the table and I look around, wondering why no one else is as sick as I am. Am I paranoid or is there something wrong with me?

I’ve completely tuned out this conversation for too long because by the time I look up again, half the men at the table are stoic-faced and the other half look like Alejandro; simmering fury behind a façade of polite civility. Regina is the only woman at this table who refuses to feign cordiality and puts her disdain on full display with narrowed, sharpened eyes and a deathly grip on the stem of her wine glass.

“We hope to unite our family with the twelve,” Simón gestures, speaking with a confidence I can’t help but respect in the face of such opposition. “To preserve peace within the city as well as protect our financial interests…which as of late, are so deeply intertwined.”

He must mean their drug business. Judging by the mix of stunned, horrified, and uncomfortable reactions of the women, it’s clear many of them either live in the dark with regard to their husband’s lifestyles or make the decision to stay far away from it.

I can’t focus on the rest of this toast. The Ortizes raise their glass to prosperity or war or both while everyone else awkwardly sips on their drinks. My stomach rolls and rolls, every breath pungent and rancid as it fills my lungs. I feel like my head is splitting and when I look down, the mushrooms on Javier Sevilla’s plate start to look like black smudges.

Within the blink of an eye the table setting changes and a bowl of sorbet is in front of me. I look over and Simón Ortiz takes a bite full as he entertains the person to his left. If everyone else is fine except me…

“Condesa Laura.”

Heads turn and Edith’s brows press together in concern.

“Are you all right?”

“Excuse me,” Condesa Laura taps the corners of her mouth with a napkin before resting a hand over her stomach. “I just…I was feeling a little nauseas.”

“Are you allergic to anything?” Edith asks.

“No…” she gets up from her chair. “Where’s the restroom?”

Regina picks up a fork and moves the food on Condesa Laura’s plate around. Their end of the table hasn’t been cleared yet. “Not all of these mushrooms were cooked through properly.”

Simón gets up from his seat. “I’ll speak with the chef immediately.”

After a brief uptick in which a dozen voices all overlap to express their concern, the table descends into easy conversation once again. The strange, splitting feeling in my skull subsides as does the twisting in my stomach. I let the lemon sorbet dissolve on my tongue and after fifteen minutes or so, it’s as though I was never sick to begin with. Condesa Laura returns with a glass of water and Edith at her side. She takes her seat and time passes with ease. By the end of the night, she’s smiling and laughing, her previous illness forgotten.

Clearly, I wasn’t the only one. Maybe the mushrooms on my plate really were undercooked.

How strange…

* * *

Edith gives out gift bags at the door.

Can’t say she isn’t a gracious host.

Alejandro, Regina, and I commune in the hall as the rest of the guests leave. I stopped at the restroom first to take an Advil I usually keep in my purse and touch up my makeup. Seeing as how I’m perfectly fine now, it must’ve been a momentary stomachache brought on by a microdose of undercooked mushroom. It doesn’t feel worth mentioning especially since for a very brief moment in time, I found myself suspecting Simón Ortiz of…well. I don’t know. What I do know is that if I tell Alejandro, he’ll act before thinking.

Alejandro and Regina are so deep in conversation it takes them a second to notice I’m here. Alejandro only spares me a brief glance as he rests a hand on my hip.

“Come over to the house tomorrow,” he says. “Bring whomever else wants to come.”

“Alex,” I caution. “Not the house.”

Regina is more than welcome to come whenever she pleases but if this is the kind of meeting I suspect it is, I don’t want any of the men who were present at dinner this evening to be discussing business under the same roof where my niece sleeps. Alejandro realizes as much but before he can get a word in, Regina interrupts.

“It’s all right. We’ll meet at mine instead. I’ll call later tonight to settle on a time.” She leans down and we kiss cheeks to say goodbye. She does the same with Alejandro and turns on the balls of her feet to leave.

Edith extends a gift bag to her and Regina accepts it then bids farewell to Simón. She doesn’t kiss his cheek and gives him a firm handshake without lingering. No one could ever accuse Regina of being too familiar—her aversion to touching and being touched reminds me of Lettie. She never lets anyone close enough to stab her in the back. Literally and figuratively.