7. The Descent Into Madness
7
THE DESCENT INTO MADNESS
Alejandro
The Past
D rip.
The sink in the bathroom is leaking.
Drip
Drip
Drip
The dripping falls in tandem with the clock above the hospital bed.
Tick
Tick
Tick
Drip
Drip
Drip
Dahlia sleeps soundly and I track the steady rise and fall of her breathing, listening to the machines as they track her heartrate. Now all the sounds are mixing together in my head.
Drip. Tick. Beep.
Drip. Tick. Beep.
Drip. Tick. Beep ? —
A hand comes down on my shoulder, touching me gently.
“Do you want to get some sleep?” Diego whispers. “I’ll watch?—”
My head makes a sharp turn; only by an inch or so but the movement is enough to silence him. He pulls his hand away and I return to watching. Listening.
Drip. Tick. Beep.
Drip. Tick. Beep.
“Alejandro,” my brother tells me. “You haven’t moved from this chair in five hours.”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Something you should be doing.”
I inhale a steady breath. “I’m not tired.”
“The doctor said?—”
I turn my head completely and he’s standing beside me, arms crossed over his chest, head dropped.
“Either say something useful or get out.”
“What do you want me to do about Frida?”
Frida Sandoval. I forgot about her. The dead cousin.
“I thought it’d be best to send Lettie and Abuelo over to her parents’ house—with escorts, of course. It should be handled delicately?—”
Images of Frida Sandoval’s charred face swirl around in my mind but are overshadowed by the memory of Dahlia trapped under a metal shelf. My mind is made up.
“Burn her.”
Diego physically jolts. His arms drop to his sides and he opens his mouth but no words come out. My brother isn’t often stunned silent and I can’t say I’m not grateful for the reprieve. His voice is starting to grate at my nerves.
“Do what you want with the ashes but get rid of them. It should be as if she never existed.”
An entire day has already passed. Sandro must be pacing the length of his office, awaiting news from his cousin, wondering where she is and why she hasn’t gotten in contact yet. He’ll wait a full seventy-two hours before allowing the panic to settle in, at which point, I expect a dozen men will be surveying my territory by Sunday at dawn, searching for any sign of her.
“Strip her of whatever she’s wearing—have a woman do it. Make sure she’s clothed when you bring her to Don Aldo.”
His voice hardens. “Alejandro.”
“After that, go to Don Carlos. He owes me a favor. Hire one of his girls, whichever one looks most like Frida, and have one of the men take her across the city. Somewhere new every day for a week and make sure she changes her clothes. The Sandovals should be able to track her as far as Zaragoza, and then let the trail go cold,” I instruct quietly. “Call Beni and ask him to send someone over from El Rey—someone expendable but trustworthy.”
Diego’s breaths come in short, labored pants. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think?—”
His voice rises and I slam my hands down on the armrest of my chair, ready to pounce on him, when I remember Dahlia is still sleeping. The voice that leaves my lips is unfamiliar even to me.
“Raise your voice again.”
It isn’t a request, an order, or even a question. It’s a threat he understands perfectly well.
With great effort my brother replies, “Do?a Laura and Don Epifanio don’t deserve this. Frida was their only child and she was probably only doing whatever Sandro told her to do. It isn’t right to make them suffer.”
“I don’t care if they suffer. I don’t care about anyone’s suffering unless it’s hers.”
His gaze drifts to Dahlia on the bed.
“Do as I say and do it correctly.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw as his gaze travels back to me. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll do it myself.”
His back stiffens. And without another word, Diego leaves the room to do my bidding.
S andro loved Frida.
Death is something a person eventually moves on from. Humans have developed processes to mourn and say goodbye. We bury bodies, host wakes, and erect tombs. There’s a place to deposit grief and pain and once alleviated of those emotions, the path forward becomes easier.
There is no mourning if there’s no one to mourn.
If Frida disappears without a trace, Sandro will never stop looking for her. Among his flaws, of which there are many, a lack of concern for his family isn’t one of them. He is as fiercely loyal and devoted to his as I am to mine. He will spend every day of the rest of his life trying to find someone who no longer exists. He’ll chase dead ends and torment himself with the unknown. None of it will make sense to him; how the news reported there being no casualties, why he can’t find any of the firefighters or first responders from the night of the incident, and what made Frida disappear into thin air when she had clear orders on what to do.
Every morning when he wakes up he’ll wonder where she is, if she’s alive, and if she’s coming home. And every night before he goes to bed he’ll blame himself for having ordered her to start the fire and wonder if it’s all his fault.
It will be a slow, steady, and torturous descent into remorse-fueled madness.
And that’s just the beginning.
Because by the time I’m done with him and his family, not even their graves will remember their names.
“ I want you to tell me how it happened.” I say.
Dahlia looks up and sets down her bowl of half-eaten soup.
“What do you mean?”
“The fire. How did it start?”
She gives a light shrug, features coloring with confusion. “I don’t know…you tell me. Wasn’t it a gas leak?”
I consider my response with caution before replying. “We think so but it’s hard to tell with all the damage. The insurance company has been pestering us for more information. They just need someone to corroborate the story.”
“It’s been less than four days,” she says with a hint of indignation. “God, those vultures. Let me guess, they’re trying to get over on you guys?”
I nod. I lie. “Something like that.”
“It happened quickly. I went to close the back door when I thought I heard someone, which, obviously was Silvie,” she explains. “Then there was…I don’t know. Maybe there wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t what?”
“A clicking sound. Well, more like a single click. Like when you flip a light switch or drop a poker chip on the table. After that I don’t remember anything else…”
Her brows furrow and I can see the distress in her eyes as she struggles to conjure up details that don’t exist. The click she heard must’ve been the timer used on the gas line. I haven’t been to the lounge yet myself but from what Dimitrio tells me, the place is in shambles. The damage is such that it’ll be almost impossible to determine the exact cause but we know it started in the kitchens and Frida got in through the backdoor, which was left open by either happenstance or intentionally. Silvie will be dealt with later. Right now my focus is piecing together a coherent narrative.
“We don’t have to talk about it anymore. I’m sorry.” I graze her cheek with the back of my knuckles. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.” She takes my bandaged hand in both of hers and seemingly remembering my injury, tries to pull away but I don’t let her. I hold on as tight as I’m able to. “At least, not for the reasons you think I am. I can’t believe the lounge is gone…is it really that bad?”
“Dimitrio says it’s almost unrecognizable. Only the bare bones are left. It’s a miracle the fire didn’t claim the building next door.”
Her breath catches. “Oh my God, I feel terrible. I completely forgot about Dimitrio.”
“What about Dimitrio?”
“He was living in the apartment upstairs right? Where is he staying?”
“At present, in our house. I know I didn’t ask you first but?—”
“ Of course Dimitrio can stay. Hell, he can live there if he wants. He’s head of security. Come to think of it, he probably should.”
I study her a moment. “You’ll open the doors to your home to just about anyone, won’t you?”
“ Our home and yes. To anyone who needs it. Why not? The place is huge and we don’t need all that space. Besides, Dimitrio’s like family.”
If she only knew how true that statement was.
“How are your hands?”
“Fine. I can hardly feel them.”
She takes note of the medical grade gloves the doctor insist I wear. They’re hideous and look like batting gloves. I might’ve been able to talk my way out of them if I hadn’t been foolish enough to let the doctor examine me in Dahlia’s room. She’s being discharged this afternoon and my hope is that with her bedridden and unable to walk with a broken ankle, my inconsistency with these oversized monstrosities will go unnoticed. I’ll simply wear them in the morning before I leave and put them back on when I get home…
“Alex!”
I startle. “What?”
Dahlia presses her lips together. It’s so strange to see her this way. Stripped of her usual glamour and adornments, she’s almost unrecognizable. And it isn’t because she’s any less beautiful—in fact, Dahlia is striking. Her eyes are disarming, a shade of amber so deep and vibrant they could rival real, tangible flames. Her long hair is braided and hanging off one shoulder, skin bare of any makeup but still naturally flushed with color. As lovely as she is in any state, this doesn’t feel like her. I’m convinced it’s the hospital gown and harsh lighting. I can’t wait to take her home.
“Where are you?” she asks gently.
I’m not sure I understand her question. “I’m right here.”
“No. You’re not,” she replies. “You’re somewhere I can’t reach you anymore.”
I take her hand and press a kiss against the inside of her palm. She reaches for me and cups the side of my face. “I am wherever you tell me to be.”
Dahlia opens her mouth to respond but a knock on the door interrupts us. Diego steps into the doorway and wordlessly gestures outside, summoning me to the hall.
I rise from my seat and kiss her quickly. “I’ll be right back.”
Out in the hall, Dimitrio and Diego speak in hushed whispers. I close the door behind me and Dimitrio is the first one to look up.
“Well?” I ask.
“Two of Sandro’s men were caught surveilling the area after the fire,” Dimitrio says. “Paco and Rodrigo took them out to the docks.”
“Who?”
“Gerardo Beltrán and Tomás Suarez.”
Beltrán and Suarez don’t rank highly in the Sandoval operation but I know they’re two of Sandro’s most trusted falcons, the eyes and ears of any family operation.
“How long have we had them?”
“Less than twelve hours,” Dimitrio responds. “But we should let them go by tomorrow morning.”
I have no intention of setting Beltrán and Suarez free. The next time Sandro sees his falcons, it’s going to be with their wings clipped.
The hall doors swing open and Oscar and Pedro appear. Pedro is on his phone and when Oscar spots us he grabs his husband by the elbow and drags him along. Before either of them can get a word out, I tilt my head in the direction of Dahlia’s room.
“Take her home. The only three people allowed in the house are Dahlia, my sister, and Do?a Ana.”
Oscar shakes his head a bit. “But?—”
“If you make me repeat myself, I’m going to punch your husband in the face.”
His gaze darkens. “That’s not?—”
As soon as Pedro gets off his call and joins us, presumably to let us know what it was about, I clench my right hand in a fist and swing. The hit is hard and swift, my bandaged knuckles colliding with his nose at a remarkable speed. Pedro stumbles back a step but Oscar catches him and holds him steady. The moment is charged with tension and a hint of animosity; me toward Pedro for having been so unconscionably stupid, and Oscar currently deciding whether or not strangling me right here in the hospital hallway is worth it. Just when I think I’ll have to break my other hand to throw another punch, Pedro regains his balance and steps between us.
“Stop, stop!” He grabs his nose and winces as blood runs down his fingers. “I…I deserved that.”
My entire right arm sizzles with pain. The inside of my hand throbs so intensely it almost goes numb. I hiss and attempt to flex my fingers but it feels like every nerve ending is on fire.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” I seethe, desperate to take all the anger and energy inside me and redirect it somewhere else. “Letting her go in by herself…and then you just sat there on the fucking curb while the God damned building burned!”
My brother seizes my upper arm and yanks me back a step. He gives a pointed look in the opposite direction and I realize the door to Dahlia’s room didn’t fully close behind me. I take a moment to compose myself before exerting the last of my patience and self-control on giving my next orders. God knows if I don’t, I’m liable to lose my temper and commit murder in a hospital hallway.
“I’m only going to say this once. I don’t give a fuck if you’re married.” My gaze darts between Oscar and Pedro, sharp enough to kill. “You work for this family which means your lives belong to me. Don’t ever let her out of your sight again or your deaths will be mine too.”
Oscar bristles at the threat, fists clenching at his sides. Unlike Pedro who tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, he only has one true weakness and it’s the man standing beside him. I glare at him, almost daring him to raise a hand to me and instigate a fight because there’s nothing I’d love more than to put my fist through flesh. But Pedro expertly wedges his body between us, his stance and pleading gaze all but begging us both for a ceasefire.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Take her home,” I order then turn to my brother and Dimitrio. “Take me to the docks.”
Diego frowns. “But?—”
“ Now. ”
B eltrán and Suarez sit back-to-back in an empty shipping container.
Dimitrio enters first and with a subtle flick of his chin, he silently orders Paco and Rodrigo to step back. Paco heaves a heavy breath and drags his arm across his sweaty forehead while Rodrigo gives Suarez a final kick before stepping away.
“Where’s Mauricio?” I ask.
“Back at the house,” Dimitrio answers. “I told him to head over there. I don’t trust Oscar and Pedro alone right now.”
Good call seeing as how Pedro has been particularly useless as of late and Oscar will be too busy licking his husband’s wounds. Mauricio is young and in the early years of his family service which means he’s eager to prove himself. Since we lost Manuel a few weeks ago, I’ve been rethinking the structure of our security team and considered expanding. Since the fire, it’s become my top priority.
Beltrán is a short and stocky man whose nose has been broken beyond repair. It’s harsh and crooked, at odds with his otherwise soft features. He can’t be older than me by much, maybe five or six years, and his accomplice appears to be roughly the same age. They’re both Mediterranean in appearance with their dark hair and light brown eyes, skin a sandy complexion. Suarez has a set of thick, stern brows and a harsh, thin mouth from which he spits blood onto the metal floor.
“Will this be easy?” I ask them. “Or difficult?”
My right hand is still throbbing from the punch I gave Pedro but if provoked, I think I’m capable of a massacre.
Beltrán grinds his teeth and lifts his chin. His left eye is almost swollen shut and his lip is busted but he’s steady on his knees. Whatever Paco and Rodrigo have been doing to force answers out of them clearly hasn’t worked.
“I won’t kill you. I just want to know if Sandro had anything to do with it and then you can leave.”
I have more important things to do than to waste time and energy interrogating two lowly henchman, regardless of whether or not Sandro trusts them to be his eyes and ears. It isn’t worth the trouble to me.
“We’re not telling you shit,” Beltrán growls.
It’s like fucking Ibanez and Montenegro all over again.
Diego and I exchange a look, as if reading my thoughts. He can’t resist the urge to roll his eyes.
I walk over and look down at them, examining each of their faces. Beltrán’s ferocious loyalty clashing against Suarez’s somber yet primal urge to fight for survival. There’s always a weak link in the chain. Ibanez and Montenegro, Walsh and Collins. It’s why I tend to conduct these sessions in twos. One is always more likely to crack when faced with the fate of the other. A bullet through Beltrán’s temple and Suarez will cave like a house of cards.
“Make this painless for me.” I look down at Suarez and watch his throat work as he swallows. “You know what I’ll do to the two of you if I don’t get the answers I need.”
“He’s not saying anything and neither am I,” his partner hisses.
I tilt my head, eyes never leaving Suarez. “You’re the one with the daughter, right? Bianca .”
I enunciate each syllable and watch the color leave his face as I do.
He tries to get up. “You wouldn’t dare ?—”
I plant my foot against his chest and push him back to his knees. “Russo’s always roaming across my territory, looking for pretty girls to keep his business running. The younger, the better.”
“ Alejandro .” My brother’s voice comes from behind me, hollow and laced with shock.
Suarez bares his teeth and makes to get up again but Beltrán knocks into him with his shoulder. “Stop! He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.” He glances up at me, eyes pitch black. “He’s just mad because the redheaded puta he likes to stick his dick in got caught in the crossfire. We don’t have anything to say to you.”
The room falls deeply, darkly silent. The air grows so still it becomes impossible to inhale.
Dimitrio is standing off to a corner, the light from outside clashing against the shadows of the dimly lit shipping container. His eyes narrow as he cocks his head, eyeing me with both suspicion and anxious anticipation. Diego circles the men until he’s standing directly across from me on the other side of the cold, empty space. He looks ready to pounce but it’s difficult to guess who his target is—me or the men at my feet. I look around and spot a duffel bag abandoned at Paco’s feet.
I’m not sure what comes over me then but my whole world shifts on its axis. Where there was once fury and desperation bubbling under the surface of my crumbling self-restraint, now all I feel is numb. One by one, every emotion inside me fizzles out until I can’t feel anything, not even the burning in my injured hands.
Whatever ruled me before—conscience, preservation, morality—is gone. It all shuts down.
In three quick strides I’m in front of Paco. He flinches but remains silent when I bend down and scoop up the first thing I set eyes on; a crowbar. Spinning on the balls of my feet, I cross the short distance and with a single, powerful swing, send the hooked end of the crowbar crashing into Suarez’s temple.
It catches everyone off guard, including the man groaning at my feet. Beltrán’s eyes widen first with confusion then fear.
“What are you?—”
Turning a few inches to my left, I flip the crowbar in my grasp and send the blunt end crashing against the side of Beltrán’s face. The hit surprises him and he falls to his side, unable to get back up with his wrists and ankles tied.
Paco, Rodrigo, Dimitrio, and Diego all stand around the empty container, stiff as metal rods, faces unreadable. Diego flinches as if to reach out to me but when our eyes meet, something stops him from doing so.
Using the hooked end of the crowbar, I yank Suarez up by the neck until he’s kneeling again. I press the flat end of the metal against his forehead and look down at Beltrán who spits up another mouthful of blood.
“Was it Sandro who started the fire at the lounge? Answer quickly,” I say quietly. “Your friend’s life depends on it.”
Suarez trembles. “Please. I’m all my daughter has?—”
I push the crowbar into his flesh without breaking eye contact with Beltrán. “Well?”
Beltrán hesitates, so I change tactics. I hook the crowbar under his legs to make sure it catches at the duct tape around his ankles before I yank him toward me. Paco picks up on what I’m doing and without needing instruction, reaches into the duffle bag and tosses a knife in my direction. My hands are throbbing with a dull, hot pain that’s quickly subsiding as adrenaline rushes through my body. I cut the duct tape and before Beltrán can try to escape, I take hold of his ankle, bend his leg at the knee, and then ram my foot into the back of his calf, the sound of his high-pitched shrill rivaled only by the nasty crunch of bone breaking.
Suarez visibly trembles and snaps his head around. Beltrán flops around on the metal floor like a fish out of water and his cries of agony quickly descend into erratic sobs of pain when I do the same to his other leg. Jagged bone cuts through muscle, flesh, and skin, protruding from the fabric of his jeans. I pick up the discarded crowbar and hook the end around Suarez’s neck again, forcing him to look at Beltrán.
“I’m going to ask you a series of questions and you’re going to give me honest answers. Otherwise, your next cellmate will be Bianca. I’ll make you watch as I break every bone in her little body and then lock you in here with her corpse so you can watch her rot.” I bend down so we’re eye level. “Beltrán’s already dead but Bianca doesn’t have to be.”
Suarez exhibits impressive self-control. There’s fear in his eyes but his voice doesn’t tremble when he speaks. “Sandro’s had a tail on the girl for weeks. He’s been planning it since before your confrontation last month.”
Beltrán bellows on the ground. “Tomás!”
I spin around and lodge the knife in my left hand into the back of his neck. Giving it a firm twist, I hear bone crack and he collapses. Suarez winces and moves away.
I tug on the crowbar still around his neck. “What else?”
“I don’t know much else. Only that he intended for her to be at the lounge that night—he had one of the workers, a girl with colorful hair—on his payroll and she was supposed to leave the backdoor open for Frida. All I know is something went wrong. Frida called us in for help?—”
“Help with what?”
“I don’t know but I think it had something to do with the trap she set going off too early. We lost contact with her and the building caught fire…” Suarez trails off. “Is she dead?”
“Yes,” I say. “When you get to Hell, send her my regards.”
Suarez doesn’t have time to draw in a last breath before I’ve taken hold of his jaw and the back of his head. The crack of his neck is swift and easy, and his lifeless body collapses beside Beltrán’s.
No one says anything. They don’t even breathe in my direction.
I rise to my feet and ignore the pulsating pain in my hands. I gesture vaguely to the bodies behind me on the way out. “Clean it up.”
Dimitrio and Diego follow me out in silence. As we walk back to the car, my mind is whirring in a million different directions.
“Get my sister on the phone. Now.”
Diego unlocks the car while Dimitrio digs into his pocket and produces his phone. A few seconds later, he hands it to me and I lift it to my ear.
“What do you need?”
“What you used on Garcia last summer…do you have any more of that?”
A beat passes. “Who?”
“Sylvie.”
“Why?”
“She’s on Sandro’s payroll.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other line. My sister’s voice hardens, resolute and furious. “I’ll get it done.”
I hang up and hand the phone back to Dimitrio. Before I can step into the car, my brother stops me and grabs hold of the door.
“Reign it in,” he tells me, each word measured and concise. “If Dahlia sees you like this, it’s going to terrify her.”
I’ve yet to fully come back into my body. It’s like moving on autopilot without consciousness. I couldn’t snap out of it if I tried.
Still, I find myself able to nod, even though everything out of my brother’s mouth sounds like it’s coming from underwater. I move to get into the driver’s seat but he grabs my arm, stopping me.
“And another thing…”
I wait for him to speak.
“Don’t tell her.”
This catches my attention. “About Beltrán and Suarez? I wasn’t going to.”
“About the fire not being an accident. Because if she ever finds out…” His words hang heavy between us but he doesn’t have to finish the rest. I already know.
If Dahlia were to discover her near brush with death was not only intentional but a result of Sandro targeting her and I couldn’t keep her safe…
I don’t think she’d ever forgive me.