Chapter 18 #2
I speak about our beloved Mexican traditions, our roots, and the importance of preserving them and progressing together for our people.
But my eyes keep drifting to the side. Alejandra stands in the shadows, the ruby necklace on her throat glowing like a wound under the stage lights.
She looks luminous, poised. Looks every bit the part of Mrs. Damos.
After my speech is over, I reach my hand out for her, and she walks to stand beside me on stage. We wave for a few seconds and exit the stage together as a united front.
The sounds of applause follow us into the VIP enclosure behind the stage area. This is the arena I know best. High back leather chairs, crystal tumblers, and men with smiles that never reach their eyes.
“A magnificent speech, Ernesto,” a local developer says, shaking my hand while his eyes wander over to Alejandra. “And a magnificent addition to your family. Truly, the Damos name has never looked better.”
“Thank you, Miller.” I move Alejandra closer to my side. Not liking the way this man is eyeing my wife with a distinct hunger.
“It’s so refreshing to see a company be so dedicated to preserving the authenticity of the culture it’s rooted in,” a woman in a designer suit adds, her pearls clinking as she sips her drink. “Most just use the aesthetic to fill their pockets, so this really makes your company stand out to people.”
Alejandra, who has been playing the silent, supportive wife, shifts. I feel the change in her before she even speaks.
“Standing beside them in spirit is one thing,” Alejandra says, her voice clear and calm.
“But those profiting from our traditions rarely stand beside the families who actually preserve them when it comes to compensation. Most of the artists who built the ofrendas tonight will go back to neighborhoods where the businesses we sponsor are attacked and racially profiled every day. Yet, none of these corporations seems to worry about the people who consume their marketed demographic.”
The silence is immediate. It’s the kind of silence that is usually preceded by a gunshot. Miller blinks, his smile frozen. The woman with pearls actually looks like she swallowed one.
Julian, who is standing nearby, masks a smirk behind his glass while Veronica’s eyes sparkle with something akin to what I suspect is triumph.
I feel the eyes of the room pivot to me, waiting for El Rey to correct his unruly wife. I take a slow sip of my tequila, the burn familiar and grounding.
“My wife is right, of course,” I say, the words echoing in the sudden vacuum of the tent. “Authenticity isn’t a marketing buzzword; it’s a debt. Rey del Sol will be doubling its donations to the community arts initiative by morning.”
The tension breaks, replaced by a flurry of forced nods and ‘of course, Ernesto.’ Alejandra glances towards me, her eyes searching mine. I don’t look away. It’s a calculated move on my behalf, and the most reckless thing I’ve done all night.
Then, the temperature in the tent plummets.
The crowd near the entrance parts as if cut by a blade. Casimiro Damos strolls into the VIP section, uninvited and entirely composed. He wears a suit that costs more than most of the attendees make in a year, and a smile that makes my skin crawl.
“Sobrino,” Casimiro says, his voice like velvet over gravel. “Such a beautiful event your team has put together. Truly admirable.”
“Tio. I don’t recall seeing your name on the guest list.”
“Family never needs to be on some silly list, do they? He ignores my coldness, his gaze drifting over to Alejandra. He studies her the way a butcher studies a prime cut of meat. “And this must be my new sobrina. Alejandra, if I’m correct. The one woman who finally brought El Rey to one knee.”
“Yes, I’m Ernesto’s wife,” Alejandra says, her voice much steadier than the death grip she has on my arm.
“For now,” Casimiro whispers loud enough for Alejandra and me to hear.
He looks past us, toward the concession stands where ordinary families sit on the grass, eating tamales and laughing.
“She brings a certain…authenticity to your family. A touch of simplicity. It’s actually quite charming, Ernesto. You made a good choice.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a low, lethal whisper. “Solo recuerda, sobrino. Reyes, han caído por menos que el amor de una mujer. Women are beautiful pieces on a board; they make the most exquisite leverage.”
I feel the rage coil in my stomach. Casimiro doesn’t realize what I’m capable of, and threatening my wife in front of all my guests and me was the wrong move.
“Let me be clear, Tio,” I say, my voice as loud as I need it to be to grab the attention of everyone around us.
“Any threat directed towards my wife, any shadows that fall in her path, will not be handled in a boardroom. I will not negotiate anything; I will simply eradicate the problem. Entendido?” I whisper the last word with the weight of a death sentence to him.
Casimiro’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes narrow in anger. “So much passion, nephew. Remember, emotions tend to make us vulnerable, Ernesto. One I’ll be watching with pleasure.’
He retreats with a shallow bow for show, melting back into the crowd. Alejandra is trembling now, her breathing coming in short, jagged bursts.
“Ernesto–” she starts, but her phone buzzes in her hand, cutting through the tense moment. She looks at the screen, and her face goes from pale to radiant in a heartbeat.
“My dad is here,” she breathes in deeply, an attempt to calm her growing anxiety. “He’s at the entrance.”
I don’t hesitate as I lead her out of the enclosure, a move that doesn’t go unnoticed by the vulture we leave behind. We walk away from the silk-lined tents and the premium tequila stands, toward the concession area where the air smells of fried dough and woodsmoke.
Jesus Carrillo stands near a paper-covered table holding a cardboard tray of nachos.
He looks modest, his clothes clean but worn, his posture is that of a man who’s had a hard-working life.
A man who has worked the earth for decades, and looks completely out of place among the tailored suits and flashing neon lights.
“Apa!” Alejandra breaks into a run, her dress flowing behind her, throwing herself into her father’s arms. The older man catches her, his face crinkling with a joy so pure it feels like a physical weight in the air.
He holds her as if she were still the little girl who followed him through the very fields he’s worked.
I approach the scene more slowly, giving them their moment. As I reach them, her dad looks up. He doesn’t look at my suit or the security detail hovering ten paces back. He looks me straight in my eyes. Something not many people dare to do the first time they meet me.
“Senor Carrillo,” I say, emphasizing my Spanish accent. I offer him my hand, and he takes it. My grip is firm but respectful, as his is firm but challenging. I don’t use my usual commanding voice, but one of a man standing in another man’s home.
“Senor Damos,” he replies. He doesn’t look intimidated one bit by my presence; if anything, he looks as if he’s measuring me up to his standards. “Thank you for the invitation, and for…helping mi hija.”
The way he says the word “help” has it landing like a lead weight. He knows. Maybe not all the details, I doubt Alejandra would tell her father about El Santuario, but he knew this was no fairy tale either.
“She is my wife,” I simply say. “It’s my duty to take care of her and her family.”
“Duty is a heavy word,” Mr. Carrillo says, stepping back to look at his daughter, who is hovering between us, her face full of hope and terror.
“Sofia has always carried more burdens than she should. Since she was a little girl, she has put the weight of our world on her shoulders so her brother and I could live a happy life.”
He turns back to me, his gaze unblinking.
“Estoy eternamente agradecido por el tratamiento y la escuela de Miguel.” He pauses, side eyes Alejandra, and continues.
“Pero yo soy su padre y he visto a mi única hija sangrar por la gente que ella ama. Esperó, don Ernesto, que usted no fuera una de las cosas por las que ella tuviera que derramar su sangre.”
It’s not a threat, it's more of a boundary. A man who has nothing to lose but his pride is a far more dangerous opponent than Casimiro’s jealousy ever could be.
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen, sir,” I respond with the utmost respect, and for the first time in my life, I want that promise to be true for reasons that have nothing to do with strategies.
Behind us, near the edge of the shadows, I catch a glimpse of Casimiro.
He’s watching us, watching as I leave the center of the most powerful people of Los Angeles to stand in the dirt with a man who sold his labor by the hour.
He sees the way I have lowered my head and listened to this man who is nothing to me.
The protectiveness in the way I stand between the crowd and Alejandra.
By the time the last firework fades over Pershing Square, the celebration appears to have gone flawlessly. The press will herald it as a triumph of cultural unity, and the board will see stock prices rise.
But beneath the marigolds and the music, the war has begun.
Casimiro has found his leverage. Mr. Carrillo has placed the weight of a promise that I know deep down in my bones will eventually end in bloodshed.
As Alejandra and I make our way back to the car, her hand is tucked firmly into mine. I don’t think she realizes how hard she’s squeezing me, but if it makes her feel protected, then so be it.
I don’t need to look back as we leave the event, I know exactly what lurks in the shadows that follow behind us.
The kidnapping attempt, when it comes, won’t be a surprise. I know the dirty tricks and nasty plays my uncle has up his sleeves. Casimiro has started a war, but he didn’t fire the first shot. The shot was fired the moment I chose her family over my company.
And my uncle has yet to miss a shot at the person he aims at.