Chapter 5
“Nothing like some good ol’ debauchery,” she said.
I boarded the boat and sat in the corner, moping at the thought of being forced to watch my drunk friends going at it with hookers on a Tuesday morning.
I poured a glass of vodka on the rocks, connected my phone to the sound system, and put a playlist on shuffle.
At least I could distract myself with good music.
“C’mon, let’s hurry up and set sail,” I said.
“Aw, do you think I just forgot about you?” she said. “Never, my darling.”
Minutes later, the missing piece arrived: a muscular, dark-haired man with green eyes and nipple piercings named Sebástian.
It was the best party ever. Things got wild in no time.
I’d never seen a weed burger or cannabis mojito before, but Cora had ordered these and other delicious THC-infused treats.
That day truly represented the start of a new chapter in our lives.
We were on top of the world, and the money was rolling in.
Piglet was burning through cash like there was no tomorrow, showering Cora with designer bags, shoes, and perfumes.
He also spent a small fortune on video games and takeout.
I tried to tell him to tone it down, but I wasn’t exactly low profile myself: I splurged on nights out at gay clubs, guzzling their most expensive booze and the best drugs money could buy.
It was during this time that I tried cocaine and ecstasy for the first time and had a taste of the wonderful world of obsession, of craving a hit of something that would help me forget all about the things we’d done to get here and what we were continuing to do to maintain our perfect little life.
Business was booming. I was starting to earn Umberto’s trust, and he didn’t always come to the dinners.
He claimed to have business meetings and appointments, but it always felt like he was hiding something more serious.
He and Cecília had had a falling-out, and she’d made a point of letting me know she no longer represented him.
Still, she continued to faithfully attend our dinners at least once a month, enjoying every morsel.
By now you might be wondering if I ever tried the seagull.
As I’m sure you can imagine, I got more curious with every dinner, with every eureka moment from the diners, every moment of gushing adulation Hugo received.
I watched the meat being served, soaked in sauce, garnished with herbs and tomatoes.
It always smelled so tantalizing, so inviting.
Of course I wanted to try it. But then I’d remember the bodies that supplied these events, their lifeless faces, and I’d lose my appetite completely.
Late one night at the end of November, I finally bit the bullet.
I was in the villa’s living room after having cleared the table with Cora’s help.
There were two bottles with some leftover wine, and she suggested we finish them before going home—she’d had a fight with Piglet and was in no hurry to get back. I accepted.
We chatted for hours—talked about sex, family, love, and food. Cora got up to go to the bathroom and sat back down a few minutes later, crossing her legs. She set a leftover plate of seagull rib eye steak with fresh mushroom sauce on the little table next to me.
“I found it in the kitchen,” she said. “Have a taste.”
I looked at the plate. The delicious smell of rosemary and fat filled my nostrils, and I felt my mouth flood with saliva.
“I’ll pass.”
“Go on, Dante. It’s just us,” Cora insisted. “You really ought to know what you’re selling … Do it!”
Trying not to give it too much thought for once, I cut a piece and put it in my mouth.
I chewed slowly, releasing all the juices, as my taste buds captured every nuance.
An unfamiliar stupor quickly washed over my entire mouth, from my cheeks to my palate, and my whole body relaxed with pleasure, begging for more.
It was, without a doubt, the most delicious steak I’d ever eaten.
I took another bite. And another one. I only stopped, putting down my knife and fork, when I remembered where I’d tasted that flavor before: It was identical to the pork tenderloin I couldn’t get out of my head, the one served at Umberto’s house. No … It can’t be …
Cora tried to calm me down, but it was no use. I called an Uber and went home on my own, lost in thought but still intoxicated by the taste. Hugo probably knew we weren’t eating pork that day at Umberto’s. He should have told me. He had no right to hide it from me.
I stepped into our apartment, more enraged than ever, and was suddenly hit with déjà vu: There were my friends, sprawled out on the sofa, staring up at the old man in a suit and bow tie, standing in the middle of the room.
I advanced toward Umberto, ready for a fight, but stopped short when he turned to face me.
His shoulders were hunched, he had a forlorn look in his eyes, and even his bow tie—navy and red stripes—was wrinkled.
I’d never seen him look so vulnerable before.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“This,” he said, handing me his phone, open to an Instagram post. “There’s been a leak, Dante.”