23
Crossing swords
Aleksa
á lvaro San Juan was standing in front of me, with a small suitcase in hand, his caramel eyes scanning me after I had shaken his hand and introduced myself as R's trusted man.
He had arrived an hour ago, brought to the house by one of Massimo's men, who mentioned that until Andrey returned, he would take his place to familiarize himself with the surroundings as quickly as possible.
At least he seemed much more open than the Russian, clearly showing his Spanish roots and easy-going nature. The first thing he asked, after settling into his room, was for me to take him on a tour of Cheng's establishments.
I was tired of being cooped up. My ribs were bothering me, but not enough to refuse a reconnaissance round. Besides, I urgently needed a drink. What happened to R and Dante had me on edge? We didn’t even know if the latter would survive the night, so my mood was quite somber. Dante was my friend, damn it! And now he was fighting for his life, connected to a machine that kept him breathing.
He didn’t deserve this. After all he had done to build a future, to end up burned alive by that bastard journalist.
San Juan was not unaware of what had happened. Massimo’s man who had picked him up at the airport had filled him in. He was empathetic to my pain and listened to all the outbursts I let out at the bar.
He barely paid attention to the topless Chinese girls walking around. He accompanied me, beer after beer. In total, it was three. And I thanked him for letting me vent all the hatred and pain I felt. Surely, if it had been Andrey, he would have sent me to the corner to think.
Supposedly, guys like me were used to death, pain, and losing coworkers. But Dante was much more than that, both to R and to me.
"Shall we go to another club? Or do you prefer we leave it for tomorrow? Maybe today isn’t the best day for this."
"No, sorry, I’m fine. I apologize for the burden I’ve been. I'm not usually like this."
“We all get affected when a comrade we care about gets hurt. It’s clear you’re very close.”
"Yeah," I muttered, asking for the bill. I paid for the drinks, and we stepped outside.
On the way to the car, San Juan tried to distract me by asking questions about the Chinese. I gave him detailed information while the night breeze tousled my hair.
We were twenty meters from the vehicle when I received one of the worst calls of my life. Dante had died.
It felt like a lightning bolt struck and split me in two. Even though I had considered the possibility, you always hold on to hope, telling yourself he’s young, strong, healthy, and that a miracle could happen. You cling to any shred of hope, no matter how small.
I let out a scream that was swallowed by the night, dropped my phone to the ground, and punched the bark of the tree in front of me. Dante was gone, snatched away by the pain inflicted by a madman who had taken his life.
I didn’t see the group of women who had just crossed paths with us and were looking at me in horror. San Juan picked up the phone from the ground, pocketed it, gave me a few moments, and then stopped my assault on the tree, turning me around and pulling me into a consoling hug.
It didn’t matter that we had only known each other for an hour and a half; that was a gesture of humanity.
No words were needed; he immediately understood what had happened.
Drowned in his embrace, I thought of Andrey and how much I wished it were him, instead of a man from Don Giuliano, holding me.
I pulled away, overwhelmed, wiping away tears that I was ashamed to shed.
San Juan gave me some privacy and handed me a handkerchief, which I used.
He asked for the car keys and said he would drive, just tell him the name of the hospital.
I imagine he set the GPS, but I wasn’t sure. As soon as I sat down, I rolled down the window and searched for Dante’s favorite station, blasting it at full volume. If he could see me from somewhere, I hoped he understood my small tribute.
San Juan remained silent, respecting my grief. I spent the drive reminiscing about moments I had shared with Dante. Some were funny, others dangerous, and some were heartfelt.
A great person had gone, and R must be as devastated as I was.
When I arrived at the hospital, Koroleva was in the room with him. Her eyes were red, and her gaze lost as it met mine. She was shattered.
It was a fucking nightmare; that very morning, Dante was alive, and now... now he was gone forever. I went to the bed, overwhelmed, and all I could say was that I would find the one who had brought us to this situation.
Our hands clasped in a solemn grip. He wanted the same thing I did: justice for Dante and to unmask the person behind the resale of Mentium.
"I’ll find the person, I promise," I swore, locking eyes with him.
Romeo grabbed the board to jot down something while his wife fixed her gaze on the newcomer who remained on the sidelines.
"And you are?" she asked.
"álvaro San Juan, Mrs. Koroleva."
Don Giuliano's man stepped forward to shake her hand.
"Have we met before? Your face looks familiar."
Romeo and I diverted our attention from the board to the dark-haired man.
"I haven’t had the pleasure. I know who you are because Don Giuliano has shown me photos of the people I need to protect." She smiled slightly.
"Then, it must be that some of your features remind me of someone. I’m very good with faces; I’m sure I’ll remember the name sooner or later."
"Some say I look like Javier Rey, the Spanish actor. Maybe it’s that; there was a series with him on TV recently."
"That could be."
She stopped examining him. It was true he did resemble Javier.
Romeo had asked me to handle Dante's burial.
When you're in the mafia, death is no stranger. You often talk about it. Both of us knew what our friend wanted for his funeral. None of his family would attend because they were all dead.
Dante's parents died five years ago when a drug addict attacked them before they could set up their fruit stall.
That lowlife grabbed his mother from behind and slashed her throat with a knife. His father tried to confront him, and she ended up with her jugular severed. When he tried to help his wife, the addict stabbed him repeatedly. Fifty euros of change was what separated them from life.
Fortunately, a camera recorded it, and as soon as Segarra leaked the face of the bastard, Dante went after him and exacted his own revenge.
We left the hospital well into the early hours. I didn’t feel like going home, just drinking. San Juan didn’t mind accompanying me. We ended up in a dive bar that Dante would have loved, the kind with rock music and bikers. After the round of beers, we had one of tequilas. I remember licking salt off my new friend's hand. Don Giuliano's man didn’t punch me or anything like that. He smiled with bright eyes, squeezed the lemon between his lips, and filled his mouth with tequila before pouring it into mine in a tangle of tongues seeking solace.
The next day, when my bedroom door was thrown open without warning, that reproachful look made me blink several times and focus on the point where it was centered. A naked San Juan, in my bed.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" was the first thing that came out.
It had to be a fucking nightmare. Andrey couldn’t be standing there like a damn ice block. So handsome, so sexy, so fucking untimely.
"Koroleva told me to catch the first flight, that you needed me. I see she was mistaken." His sharp words were thrown like a damn grenade. San Juan turned and stretched. I diverted my gaze from Andrey to him, who put his hands behind his head with a fully erect cock.
Fuck his shameless attitude! That guy had no qualms about being caught.
"Enjoy your morning; it seems you’re up for another round. Don’t worry about me; I’ll find another place to stay. In this house, there’s a lack of space and an excess of people."
After that scathing remark, he closed the door and left.
I got up, shouting his name, but the door didn’t open.