Chapter 10 El Dios de Barro
Ernesto
Across the polished meeting table is Alistair Finch, a man whose tailored pinstriped suit and silver hair scream old European money, studying the bottle of Rey del Sol’s limited-edition Extra Anejo Tequila directly from our agave farms in Jalisco, Mexico.
Finch swirls the amber liquid in the glass; his every move is a silent negotiation before we even begin. This man is the key to a continent, the gatekeeper to London, Paris, and Berlin.
My team sits at my flank, a silent army of lawyers and marketing executives.
Their faces are masks of professional poise, but I can feel their collective breath held tight.
This deal will cement Sol Industries' place on the global stage, transforming my father’s legacy into an empire that transcends the dirt roads of Sinaloa.
It’s a clean power grab, a different kind of kingdom, but a kingdom nonetheless.
“The peat smoke is right on the nose…quite unexpected, Mr. Damos,” Finch says, his British accent clipping the words with precision. He brings the glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink, just inhales. “A bold choice for an agave spirit.”
“Our maestro tequilero studied in Scotland for quite some time,” I reply, my voice even and confident. “He believes that the terroir can be a great influence on the taste of our culture. We do not just grow agave, we cultivate a narrative with it.”
Finch’s green eyes meet mine. He’s testing me, looking for the cartel thug he’s undoubtedly heard whispers about. He won’t find him here. In this room, all I am is the CEO of Sol. El Rey only exists in the shadows of Sinaloa.
My phone, face down on the table beside my files, vibrates. A single, sharp buzz, but I ignore it. Most likely a market update or an email I can read later.
Finch sets the glass down, “A narrative. Yes, but Europe is saturated with narratives. We have centuries of them. French champagne, Italian Wines, and Scottish whiskey. Your… story as you have put it, will need to be more… compelling.”
“Our story is our authenticity,” I say, leaning forward just enough to command the attention of everyone around me. “It’s the story of a family, of land passed down through generations. Rey Del Sol is not a product. It’s an inheritance.”
My phone buzzes again. Then again, several times more. A string of insistent pulses against the cool stone. My jaw tightens with irritation. No one interrupts me, no one. Everyone knows that rule.
I slide my hand over the phone, stilling the vibrations with my palm, my focus never leaving Finch. No one around us notices, as their attention is on the market projection charts my team has laid before them.
“Your growth in the American market is quite impressive,” he concedes, tapping a finger on a graph that displays our sales trajectory. “Aggressive, even. But Europe is a different type of beast. Brand loyalty is paramount. How do you propose to unseat those legacy brands?”
Before I can answer him, my phone screen lights up, the name VERONICA flashing across it.
I silence it with a press of my thumb, the call immediately sent to voicemail.
This is not an emergency; otherwise, she would have called my private line.
A flicker of irritation licks at the edges of my control.
Once again, the phone lights up with my sister's name, and again I silence it—more forceful this time. Finch’s eyes flick down to my phone, then back to my face.
“It’s simple, we don’t unseat them,” I answer, my voice a low counterpoint to the anger building under my skin. “We coexist. We’re not offering an alternative. We’re offering a new experience.”
“A new experience,” he repeats, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He’s enjoying this, seeing if the unbreakable Ernesto Damos can be rattled.
The screen of my phone lights up for the twentieth time. I can feel the eyes of my team and everyone else on me, their professional calm strained. This is a disruption I can no longer afford. The image of control we have in this company is everything.
I hold Finch’s gaze, not letting my expression show any type of emotion. “Excuse me for one moment,” I say, my voice smooth. “Apparently, a family matter requires my immediate attention.”
In one fluid motion, I stand and make my way towards the opposite side of the room, unhurried. I give a slight nod to my head of marketing, indicating he should continue with the slideshow. “Please, walk Mr. Finch through the branding concepts for the European launch.”
I turn and walk toward the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks downtown Los Angeles, without a backward glance, my phone held tightly in my hand. As I reach the window, my phone buzzes one more time, but this time I answer, bringing the phone to my ear and back to everyone else.
“This had better be life or death, Veronica.” My voice is a low snarl, the anger I’ve been suppressing finally seeping through.
“Life or death? No. Humiliation? Abso-fuckin-lutely.” Her voice is sharp with indignation.
“What the hell is wrong with your credit card, Neto? Tell me the truth. Is this piece of shit metal just for show?” Then she whispers loudly, “Did the DEA freeze your assets!? Because I’m standing in the middle of Chanel con tu esposa y un chingo de ropa, and tu maldita tarjeta has been declined three times, Ernesto. DECLINED, THREE TIMES!”
My anger morphs into irritation. I turn slightly, my eyes scanning the room to see if anyone else heard Victoria’s shouting. Finch is listening intently to my marketing head, but his posture is tense.
"Do you have any idea how this looks?” she shrieks, her voice rising. "The sales associates are whispering. Que oso Ernesto, hosea que pedo?"
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose as I look at my phone's screen. A string of notifications from my bank with transaction alerts. All Fraud warnings from Rodeo Drive. Of fucking course. I’ve only ever used this card once, so it makes complete sense that the bank would decline it.
“I’ll get it handled,” I clip out, my voice irritated.
“Okay, pero like, ?cuándo?” she demands.
“I need to finish this meeting first, and then I’ll call the bank.
Go to brunch or whatever the hell it is women do in the middle of a workday.
” I hear her exasperated sigh through the phone as she tells the sales associate to put the clothes on hold.
“Matthew will have it resolved by the time you’re done with your food.
Then you two can resume terrorizing the sales associates. ”
There’s a beat of silence on her end and another huff.
“Fine. Brunch will be on me this time, but honestly, Neto, get your shit in order,” she says, as I hold my phone in a death grip.
“If you’re going to have a wife, the least you can do is make sure she doesn’t look like a walking charity case with a broken credit. People talk, you know.”
“Veronica,” I say, my voice icy. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Oh, Alejandra, is that a Hermes bag I hear calling your name?” Is the last thing I hear Vero say before she hangs up. I stand at the window for a moment, staring out at the beautiful L.A. skyline.
The world outside moves about, oblivious to the millions of dollars being traded in this room.
Behind these walls, a single loose thread can unravel everything I’ve built.
My image, the power, the seamless perception of control I have over my company.
I need to make sure Alejandra is taken care of when she goes out, so none of this happens again.
I return to my seat at the head of the table as Finch looks at me—an unspoken question in his eyes.
“I apologize,” I smoothly say, as if I’d just been discussing the weather. “Please let’s continue. As I was saying, we want to coexist with the legacies by joining ours into your market.”
All while the meeting continues, my mind is elsewhere. At one point, I make a subtle gesture to Matthew, my lawyer, who sits to my right. He notices and nods, his expression unchanging, but I know he understands.
Two hours later, the Europeans are gone, a noncommittal agreement to be in touch hanging in the air.
The moment the boardroom door closes behind Finch and his team, the tension in the room breaks.
My team collectively exhales a sigh of relief.
“Felipe, call for Ana and tell her to order lunch for the entire marketing floor.” Felipe nods and leaves the room to call his assistant.
Everyone else leaves the room in high spirits.
I, however, feel nothing but the lingering irritation of what happened with the stores and Alejandra.
I see movement out of the corner of my eye, and it’s Matthew. He hasn’t moved from his seat, his briefcase resting on the table in front of him. His hands are folded on top as he waits for me to tell him what’s on my mind.
“The marriage certificate,” I begin, my voice flat, devoid of any warmth towards the subject, “you will file it today with the court.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I thought the marriage wouldn’t be made legal. All we needed was the certificate signed by her in order for your father’s will to be completed.”
“It won’t be enough. It needs to be filed today.
Within the hour, if you can.” I stand and walk back to the window, my hands clasped behind my back.
“Another thing, Matthew. I want you to draft all the necessary documents so that Alejandra can legally be Mrs. Damos. Expedite it if you need to. I don’t care what it costs, just get it done. ”
Matthew watches me, his pen poised over his notepad. He doesn’t question me–never has–but I know he’s hesitating with this order.
“Once that’s done, you will have Alejandra added to every one of my accounts. She is to be issued supplementary cards for all my credit lines immediately. I want a Centurion card with her name engraved on it by morning.”
A flicker of surprise crosses Matthew’s face, the first crack in his professionalism I’ve seen in years of working together.
Adding a name to my personal accounts is unprecedented.
My finances have never been shared with anyone.
Not even my siblings. All my wealth assets are more heavily guarded than any of my properties.
“Ernesto,” he starts, his tone cautious, “to grant that level of access so quickly to someone you’ve just met, and without the usual vetting-”
“She is my wife, Matthew.” I interrupt him as I turn to face him.
My expression is so hard that it silences any further protest. “My wife will not be humiliated in public again. She will never be questioned, her purchases never declined, and when she presents a card with the Damos name on it, there will be no whispers or hesitation about who she is.”
After a few seconds, it finally hits him. This isn’t for Alejandra’s convenience. It’s about my authority over her and a reflection of my status in this world. Her power is an extension of my own. For her to be seen as anything less than is a slap in the face to me.
“She will have unlimited access to money,” I end, my voice leaving no room for argument. “No security holds either. Any transactions she makes are to be considered my own. Do you understand, Matthew?”
“I understand perfectly, Sir.” He rises from his chair and collects his items. “I’ll get it done right now.”
He leaves me alone in the silent boardroom. The bottle of Extra Anejo sits on the table, a monument to a billion-dollar negotiation that was nearly derailed by a piece of metal.