Chapter 20
Ernesto
The blue light of my computer monitors cut through the gloom of the executive suite, casting long, skeletal shadows across the mahogany desk.
Outside, the skyline of Los Angeles glitters like a spilled chest of jewels, but inside, the air feels stagnant.
I rub the bridge of my nose, exhaustion setting into my bones.
These contracts don’t just represent money; they are the iron bars of the cage I’ve built to keep the Damos name from being dragged into the dirt.
A single misplaced comma in these distribution agreements could cost this company millions.
A single loophole could give my uncle the inch he needs to take a mile.
I don’t hear the doors open. The thick carpets of the office swallow the sound, but the sudden shift in the room tells me I’m no longer alone.
I didn't look up. I know the rhythm of my staff, the deferential knock of Felipe, the quick, rhythmic stride of Verónica.
This was different. This was a slow, oily intrusion.
Casimiro doesn’t wait for an invitation. He just strolls on into the center of the room, his expensive loafers clicking softly when he hits the hardwood border near the lounge area. He moves with a practiced, casual arrogance, as if the deed to the building already sits in his pocket.
"You always work too hard, Nephew." He simply says.
I keep my eyes on the screen, scrolling through a liability clause. "The office is closed, Casimiro. Unless you've suddenly developed an interest in logistics, get out."
He doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he begins to roam, running his greasy fingers along the spines of the leather-bound books on my shelves. He stops at the bar, picking up a crystal tumbler and as if he were inspecting it for dust.
"Tu papá used to say that a king who spends all his time in a war-room misses the revolution happening in the streets.
" Casimiro pours himself a finger of my private-label tequila, the amber liquid swirling with a sickening grace.
"But then again, my brother always had a poetic streak.
You? You're just a bookkeeper with a temper. "
I click the save button, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence. Still, I don’t grant him the satisfaction of my gaze. "My father is dead. And you're the last person who should be quoting him. What do you want?"
"I wanted to see the happy groom." Casimiro leans against the edge of my desk, entirely too close.
He smells of expensive cologne and old, rotting wood.
"The charity event at Pershing Square was a masterpiece of theater, querido sobrino.
The speech, the tradition, the...authenticity.
It almost made me forget that you bought your wife like a piece of livestock. "
My jaw tightened, a dull throb beginning in my temple. How the fuck did he find out? El Santuario is out of his reach. Seems we have a rat we need to exterminate. "Alejandra is my wife. Her origin is irrelevant to you."
"Is it?" Casimiro takes a slow sip, his eyes glinting with a sharp, predatory light.
"The board members could certainly find it relevant.
They like the idea of a family man. They love the optics of the humble nurse.
But we both know the truth, don't we? She's a desperate girl straight from the gutter.
The daughter of a man who spent his life picking fruit.
That little performance with her father in the concession area?
It was a bit much, Ernesto. Even for you. Really? Rubbing elbows with the help?"
That’s what finally gets me to look up. My eyes lock onto his cold, dead eyes. "He's more of a man than you've ever been. He built a life with his hands. You've spent yours trying to steal the one my father built."
Casimiro lets out a dry, rattling laugh.
"Oh, ever the protective husband. It's a charming act, sobrino, but it doesn't fit you.
We both know why she's here. She's a placeholder.
A human shield against a clause in your father's will.
But don't you think this is dangerous? Bringing that kind of.
.. desperation into the house? I saw the way her father looked at you.
Like you were the one who owed him. The audacity of these nacos is truly remarkable. "
He sets the glass down on a stack of files at the edge of my desk, leaving a wet ring on them.
"Imagine the scandal when she inevitably cracks under the pressure," Casimiro continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"A girl like that can't handle the weight of the Damos name.
Sooner or later, she'll slip. Alejandra will find some gutter-rat from her old life to roll around with your bed on the nights you stay working late.
Or perhaps her brother—the one you're so graciously funding his education—will find himself in a bit of trouble that even your money can't fix.
You've tied our family to a bunch of nobodies who will bleed us dry and leave you looking like a fool. "
The heat in my chest shifts from a simmer to a full-on boil of rage. It isn’t just the fact he’s insulting her, it’s the way he speaks her name, as if she were a stain he’s trying to wipe off his hands.
"You're done here," I said, my voice dangerously low.
"Oh, no, nephew, I'm just getting started.
That little girl of yours, too—what was her name?
Oh yes, Camilla. To think she's being raised like that by such an unsophisticated woman.
It's a tragedy, really. But then, she was always a tragedy, wasn't she?
A motherless brat and a father who's too busy playing king to notice his empire is built on sand. "
The world narrowed to the pulse in my neck. I don't think; I move by pure instinct.
I cross my desk before he can even blink.
Surging at him, my hand catches the lapel of his tailored blazer.
I drive him backward, his heels skidding across the hardwood.
The glass Casimiro had put down shatters against the floor, tequila spraying across the Persian rug, but I don’t stop until his back hits the floor-to-ceiling glass of the window.
The city of Los Angeles sits hundreds of feet below us, a distant, uncaring witness to the violence in this room. I shove him hard against the pane, the glass groaning under the impact, bunching his collar under my fist, pulling him close until I can see the burst capillaries in his eyes.
"Listen to me, you vile piece of shit," I hiss. "My father was always ashamed of you. He spent every day of his life making sure you were kept far away from the heart of this company because he knew what you are. A parasite. A man who will trade his own flesh and blood for a profit."
Casimiro tries to smirk, but it comes out as a pained grimace. "You're...ruining my suit, Ernesto."
I tighten my grip, my knuckles turning white.
"I'll hurt more than this gaudy suit. You think you can walk in here and talk about my family?
Do you think you can mention my wife or my daughter with your disgusting mouth?
Puerto del Sol and this company will never be yours.
Not today, not in fifty years. You are a footnote in the Damos history, and I am the one who will erase you from it. "
I lean in, my face inches from his. "If you want this chair, this life, you'll have to kill me for it. Think you have the stomach for that, Tio? Or are you going to keep hiring shadows to do your dirty work?"
Casimiro's eyes go dark, the polished uncle's facade finally stripping away to reveal the predator underneath. He doesn’t struggle, just waits, his breath smelling of agave and malice.
"You're nothing but a sentimental fool," Casimiro whispers. "You think you're protecting them, but in reality, you're marking them. Every time you show the world you care, you hand your enemies more ammunition."
He reaches up, his fingers like cold talons as he grips my wrist. With a sudden, surprising burst of strength, he shoves my arm back.
I let go, stepping back as he straightens his blazer with trembling hands.
He spends a long moment smoothing the fabric, his composure returning with a terrifying speed.
"Your death can be arranged, Ernesto," Casimiro says, his voice now conversational, almost pleasant.
"Make sure not to be surprised when it happens.
But the real fun will be what comes after.
That pretty little piece of ass you call a wife?
She'll be back in the dirt before your body is even buried.
And that snotty-nosed brat? Well, children are so fragile.
It would be a shame if there weren't enough left of either of them to put in a funeral plot next to you. "
He smiles, a grin full of teeth and crazed malice. "I'll make sure they don't have a body for your funeral service. It’ll save us the trouble of having to pretend to mourn you."
He turns on his heel, walking towards the door without looking back. "Goodnight, nephew. Sleep well… if you can."
The click of the door closing is the final spark igniting my ire.
The rage doesn’t just boil anymore; it exploded.
I grab the heavy leather chair from behind my desk and swing it with everything I have.
It leaves my hands and soars across the room, slamming into the wall of books.
The wood of the chair groans as it strikes the shelves, sending volumes of law and history cascading to the floor.
It hits a small, silver-plated frame sitting on the edge of the shelf.
The frame hits the floor with a sharp, crystalline crack. I stand in the center of the room, my chest heaving, in the silence of my office. My hands are shaking as I look down at the wreckage.
I walk over to the shelf and look at the floor.
The glass was shattered, a spiderweb of cracks across the image inside.
It’s the photo Alejandra had brought in a week ago—a candid shot of the three of us in the garden, Veronica took with her phone.
Camilla was mid-laugh, her arms thrown wide, while Alejandra looked at her with a warmth that seemed to bleed off the paper.
I was in the background, half-shadowed, looking at both of them with an expression I didn't recognize on my own face.
Your office is lifeless, Ernesto, Veronica said as she put it there. You need something in it that reminds you what you're fighting for.
I look around the room. The cold marble, the expensive art, the heavy silence. She’s absolutely right. It’s a mausoleum.
But looking at the broken glass, I feel a cold, sharp clarity wash over me. Casimiro is a snake, but snakes only bite what they can reach. Every piece of myself that I give to that woman and my child makes them a bigger target. Every moment of softness is a vulnerability Casimiro can exploit.
I simply can’t have a meaningful life. Not this way. Meaningful lives are for men who don’t have uncles like mine. Meaningful lives are for men who don’t have blood on their hands. To love them is to endanger them.
I kneel down and pick up the broken frame. The shards of glass bite into my thumb, a small bead of blood blooming against the silver. I don’t flinch, I just pull the photo out. The paper is torn at the edges, and I stare at Alejandra's smile. It’s a beautiful lie.
I crumple the photo into a ball and drop it into the trash can by my desk.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, my movements robotic and precise. I hit the speed dial for Felipe.
"Bring the car around," I said when he picked up. "I'm coming down."
"Everything alright, patron?"
"Fine," I snapped. "Just get the car."
I grabbed my coat and walked out, leaving the office in darkness. I didn't look at the empty shelf. I didn't look at the broken chair. I walked through the quiet halls of Rey del Sol, a king in a hollow castle, knowing that the war had moved from the boardrooms to the bone.
I would protect them. I would keep my promise to her father. But I would do it from the shadows. I would be the monster they needed me to be, because the man they wanted would only get them killed.
As the elevator descended, the reflection in the polished brass doors showed a man with eyes like flint. The softness was gone. The sentiment was buried.
Casimiro wanted a war. I would give him an apocalypse.