Page 108 of No Merciful Corruption

Alejandro and I say our goodbyes and Edith hands me the last bag on the hall table beside her. They’re small, no bigger than a perfume bottle or a candle, and light.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself this evening.” Edith says.

“You and your husband are excellent hosts.” I answer diplomatically.

“Yes, I noticed he was giving you in depth explanations on each course as they were brought out.” Her smile never wavers. “He was a food critic in another life. I’m sure our husbands have that in common.”

“The seafood was especially excellent. Did you put the menu together yourself?”

She waves a flippant hand, like any well-mannered woman evading a complement. “That was all Simón. I can’t stand seafood. I’m much better at the execution of things. Décor, invitations, schedules.”

My cheeks hurt from the effort to maintain my polite expression. “Well, thank you for inviting us this evening. It was very generous of you.”

“Thank you for coming. We hope you enjoy your gift.”

“I’m sure I will.” I say and head for the door.

“Black dahlias are such a neglected flower.”

I stop in my tracks.

“In fact, I think they’re one of the loveliest.” Edith smiles brightly. “Que tenga una buena noche, Señora Narvaez.”

Something about the way she speaks sounds different. Is it her accent? The way she says my name?

“Dahlia,” Alejandro’s hand rests on my shoulder. “Come on, the car’s here.”

I let him guide me out of the house and onto the front yard where the valet hands Alejandro the keys to our car. He opens the passenger side door and my head whips around, searching for other women who may have opened their gift bags. I see a carnation, a peony, and two roses.

The door closes and I keep my gaze glued to the window. Watching and waiting, my heart racing with each passing second.

All of their flowers are white.

THE LAST DON OF BARCELONA

Alejandro

Regina rubs her forehead and drains the rum from her glass.

She sits across from me at a lacquered, oval table in one of the meeting rooms in her home. Don Rubin Caceres is going back and forth with Don Luis Alberto about the events of last evening’s dinner while Don Javier Sevilla sits quietly in his seat. Forever an observer and never a participant.

I can’t believe how long I’ve known Regina. Sixteen years and she still hasn’t grown out of that idiosyncratic habit. Rubbing one’s forehead in and of itself isn’t odd but it’s the way Regina does it that’s always been a dead giveaway of her emotions. Two, sometimes three fingers rubbing horizontally across her hairline in a hard, scrubbing motion as if trying to erase signs of distress on her face or memories from her mind. She did it all the time at seventeen and she does it now at thirty-three. I doubt she’ll ever stop.

“I spoke to my family’s contact in Peru last night. Apparently Simón Ortiz was in business with my father years ago. I assume once they found out we were moving away from narcotics, they thought my family’s territory would be ripe for the picking.” Regina says.

“It’s clear they’re after more than just territory to peddle narcotics.” I say. “They want to be here permanently.”

“Here, as in?” Don Rubin sets down his coffee.

“Barcelona. Where else?”

Regina shakes her head. “It’s more than that. Simón’s speech last night was a threat. A political coup d’état disguised as a friendly meal. He wants into the fold of this coalition for some greater purpose. I just haven’t figured out what that is yet.”

Don Javier speaks for the first time since our meeting began. “I have it on good authority the Ortizes will petition for a vote.”

“A vote?” Don Luis Alberto echoes. “A vote for what?”

“To be inducted as the thirteenth family and Simón as a thirteenth Apostle.”