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Without meaning to, I’d stumbled onto something I shouldn’t have seen. “You’re not going to shoot me, are you, Peter?” I asked softly.
“Not if you do what you’re told. You really only have two options. It looks like you’ll be working for me from now on. Unless you’d prefer the alternative, more dead option.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Not bloody likely.”
“Sit the hell do—”
I launched one of the bottles of whiskey straight at him. It spun and Peter instinctively fired. Glass shattered and the liquor splattered on the walls, soaking into the rug. The rich smell made my head spin. Peter was reloading his weapon, loudly yelling, but my revolver was already in my hand, thumb brushing against the initials that weren’t mine.
Point, aim, shoot.
The force of the bullet snapped his head backward. Blood dripped from the hole between his brows, flanking his open mouth. He had been calling for the others, and there was no chance of my leaving alive. What was one more dead body?
I’d seen dozens.
I left without looking at the mess, the sounds of shouting from the ground floor in my wake.
CAPÍTULO TREINTA Y DOS
Everywhere I looked, something shimmered. Golden curtains that shone brightly in candlelight, paper flags with long ribbons that fluttered from the cool breeze wafting in from the open windows. The hotel was dressed in its holiday finest in preparation of the New Year. My uncle led us through the entrance to the decorated dining hall, where a waiter led us to our seats at a silver-clothed table. Persian carpets adorned the tiled floor, while the table displayed the finest china and cutlery and enormous bouquets of flowers. Elvira inspected everything with a well-trained eye, and it was only the slight widening of her gaze that betrayed her favorable impression.
We were joined by several other couples, the ladies in resplendent evening silk and satin gowns that glittered in the soft lighting, while the men wore fine pressed suits and tailored jackets, their formal dress dark and elegant.
My uncle showed up in a plain gray suit, stone-faced and thin-lipped. He hadn’t bothered to comb his hair. If I weren’t half-afraid of him, I would say the look suited him. He stood out in a sea of overly starched men, their hair slicked back from too much pomade. The stagnant air filled with a blend of expensive perfume and champagne and sweet blooms.
“That is a House of Worth gown,” Elvira whispered as one lady sat across from me. “I would bet all of my money on it.”
“You don’t gamble, and you certainly don’t have money,” I whispered back.
“I’ve sent word to your mother,” Tío Ricardo cut in, pouring acid on our conversation. “You’re welcome.”
Elvira colored slightly and managed a lowgracias. She recovered quickly and changed the subject. “Señor Marqués, tell me all about your time in Philae.”
I kicked my cousin underneath the table while my uncle looked coldly furious.
“Oh dear, what have I done now?” Elvira asked, wincing. “Are questions forbidden?”
“Don’t bring up my uncle’s work—” I hissed.
“You’ve been in Philae all this time?” one of the men asked from down the table. His accent was French. “But there’s nothing there. It’s an old holy site that’s been thoroughly excavated by now, surely.”
My uncle shrugged. “Everywhere else was taken.”
The man nodded sagely, completely buying Tío Ricardo’s nonchalance. “It’s a pity my countrymen don’t regard you more highly, I think.”
“I’ve managed well under Monsieur Maspero,” my uncle replied faintly. Then he turned toward me and said, “How do you find the menu, Inez?”
I glanced down and read a few lines, translating the French in my mind, my mouth watering. To start, a mushroom and onion soup, followed by a fresh salad featuring a medley of roasted vegetables. I particularly looked forward to the main dish, roasted lamb with a mint jelly sauce, accompanied by buttered asparagus and whipped, creamy potatoes.
“It looks wonderful,” I said, knowing full well he’d only asked the question in order to turn the subject of conversation away from him. When the waiter came by, my uncle ordered wine for the three of us, and then proceeded to have a conversation with the gentleman on his right.
That was the last he spoke to either of us for the rest of the meal.
I didn’t blame him for his anger, his frustration that I had believed so little in him. To think him capable of murder. I was disappointed in myself for having been taken in by my mother’s lies.
If I couldn’t forgive myself, then I certainly understood why my uncle couldn’t forgive me.
But I regretted that he still wanted to send me back to Argentina, taking away my chance to make things right. A part of me knew that I’d carry that regret with me for the rest of my life.
