Page 14 of Damián

Oh mierda…

Ok, we’re doing this… I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Now relax, Damián, and please, please sound normal.

I take out my phone, scroll until I find the number, and click ‘call’. I close my eyes and take another deep breath, but this one I’m only able to let go after hearing her voice.

“Bueno?”

“Hi, Mom.”

CHAPTER 3

DAMIÁN

The West estate in the Hamptons is freaking insane. The two-acre lawn facing the ocean has been transformed into a scene straight out of a fairytale.

Hundreds of elites in couture burlesque gowns mingle under a canopy of floating lanterns that drift against the night sky like low-hanging stars. Everywhere I go, it smells of flowers and roasted meat… Are they even serving meat?

Oh man, I hope they are.

I’m starving.

Everywhere I look, there is excess.

Massive floral arrangements of white orchids and blood-red roses spill over the fountains. Fire breathers spin torches in the center of the garden, the flames reflecting off the crystal glasses in everyone’s hands. Even the waiters are part of the show; dressed in gold-threaded vests and satin masks, they move through the crowd offering beautiful cocktails.

How guests see all this opulence and don’t immediately think, ‘Holy fuck, a drug dealer!’ is beyond me.

“Testing comms inside the perimeter,” Alexios’s voice comes through the comms. “Anyone past the second gate, say ‘martini.’”

“Martini,” I whisper, barely moving my lips.

“Check,” Alexios confirms. “Anyone past the pool area, say ‘tequila.’”

“Tequila,” says Tae, in a low murmur.

“Great,” Alexios responds. “Comms are stable inside the premises, but I have no visual on most of the grounds. You’ll have to be extra careful.”

“So we’re blind?” Logan’s voice cuts in.

“Mostly. I’ve hacked the DJ’s laptop webcam… it has a crappy wide-angle view, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“That’s good enough,” says Logan. “Is everyone in position? Phones on hand? Tattoos covered?”

A waiter in a gold mask walks past me, balancing a silver platter. I smile, taking a cocktail from his tray, and I glance at my left hand; the skin is completely bare.

“Mine is buried under three layers of waterproof makeup,” I say, taking a sip. “I feel like a Ken doll.”

With a drink in hand, I turn around and see a server with a red satin mask and a golden tray full of small slices of bread topped with thin cuts of marbled meat and some soy-looking sauce.

“Wagyu Beef Carpaccio Crostini?” he offers, moving the tray closer to me.

“Don’t mind if I do.” I take one of the snacks, shove it in my mouth, and—Holy fuck… this is delicious.

Oh, Dios mío… Wow!

Why do sociopaths always have the best chefs?