Chapter 25
Ernesto
The condensation on my glass of water pools into a perfect circle on the dark wood of the table.
I watch it trail down, my mind full of logistic maps and threats.
Casimiro's whispers still felt like a film of grease over my skin, and the memory of Camilla's screams two nights ago echo in the quiet corners of my skull.
I chose this place out of habit because the walls don't have ears and the windows aren't lined with long-range lenses.
La Esperanza is a relic of a different Los Angeles.
Its low ceilings, heavy linen napkins the color of cream from years of service, and the scent of slow-simmered chiles and roasted garlic that clung to the upholstery.
No Michelin stars. No valet. No sharks in tailored suits waiting to see which way the blood was flowing in the Damos empire.
The bell above the door dings, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Alejandra steps inside, her silhouette momentarily washed out by the bright California sun.
She pauses, her eyes darting across the nearly empty room looking for the velvet ropes, the flash of cameras, or the polished marble she's grown accustomed to over the last few months.
Finding none, her brow becomes furrowed in confusion.
I stand but I don't pull out a chair for her—that was a performance I did for the public. I simply stand to acknowledge her arrival.
She walks toward me, her gait steady but cautious.
She wears tailored charcoal trousers and a silk blouse the color of a bruised plum.
Her hair is pulled back into a neat, clinical knot at the nape of her neck.
It's the uniform of a woman who has learned to blend into my world, and yet, looking at her, a strange pang of irritation strikes my chest.
I remember how she looked in that oversized t-shirt and tight frayed jeans, the way she stood out against the velvet backdrop of El Santuario. Now, she's become another polished stone in my collection.
She joins me at the table and slides into the chair in front of me.
"Well isn't this... cozy." She mumbles loud enough for me to hear. I ignore the dry edge in her voice and signal the owner. He doesn't bring us menus because I don't need them. I know it by heart.
"Nos da dos pescados fritos, ensalada de jícama, y bolillos. Oh, and tell Brayan to bring the white wine from the valley—the dry one."
Alejandra waits until the old man retreats before leaning forward. Her eyes scan the room again, noting the lack of a security detail inside the place.
"No security? No one standing by the kitchen door looking like they're about to invade a small country?" she asks jokingly.
"You don't need a wall of meat when there's no immediate threat. Besides, Hector and Felipe are outside in the SUV. If we need them, they can be here in seconds." I reassure her.
She folds her hands on the table, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "So, this isn't a pony show? I don't need to act like the perfect accessory today?"
"If I didn’t know any better I’d say you sound disappointed. I thought you hated the performances." I say taking a drink , watching her over the rim.
"I do. It's just…why here, Ernesto? It's a hole in the wall and you stick out like a sore thumb in your Gucci suit. I highly doubt someone like you hangs out in places like this." I cock an eyebrow at how she says 'this place' with a slight towards the restaurant.
She sits back, her shoulders tense as a flicker of what looks like hurt crosses her face before she masks it with a tight, defensive shrug.
"You don't have to hide me." Her accusation comes out soft, but the words hit me hard enough that I set my glass down with a deliberate click against the wood and turn my attention to her.
"What gives you the idea that I'm hiding you?" I ask her slightly offended.
"Look around. This isn’t exactly the kind of place you'd bring someone you want to show off. It's quiet and tucked away. Feels more like the kind of place a man takes a secret, not his wife."
I sit back for a minute and study her. She thinks I’m ashamed of her.
"You would have hated the other place," I explain, not ready to tell her the real reason.
"The other place?"
"The one I usually go to for 'visibility.
' The one with the cameras waiting by the curb.
Where the wives are expected to sit perfectly straight, speak only when they are spoken to, and look like they've never had a thought more complex than the color of their next gown.” Not being able to hide the irritation in my voice.
“The one where men like Casimiro spend the entire meal dissecting your every word, looking for a crack to shove a knife into. "
I close the distance between us until I can see the golden flecks in her brown eyes.
"So what if I didn't take you there. Did you stop to think I brought you to a place where I find myself at peace? This restaurant belongs to an old family friend and I come here because I can eat without someone analyzing my every move."
Checo, a man in his late sixties with salt and pepper hair, a face full of wrinkles, and a little waddle when he walks, comes back and sets a basket of warm bread between us.
“In reality, Alejandra, I brought you somewhere you could breathe."
She stares at me, her mouth parting slightly as the words settle. She looks down at the bread, then back at me, her expression shifting from defensive to something more vulnerable.
"You could've just told me that." She says, taking a piece of bread and butter.
"I'm not the type of person who explains my decisions. You should know that by now." A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
We eat in a silence that feels more intimate than any conversation we’ve had.
I watch her, I can’t help it, how she thanks the waiter by name, her eyes on the name tag on his vest, or when the wine arrives.
She doesn't just drink it; she smells it, tastes it, and gives a single, controlled nod of approval. Alejandra does what most people in my life don’t, she savors the little moments.
A group of white businessmen enter the restaurant, their voices loud and full of self-importance. Instinctively, Alejandra's spine straightens, she doesn't shrink into herself and she doesn't look away. She simply becomes aware, like a predator acknowledging others in the tall grass.
Whether she believes it or not she belongs in my world more than she realizes. The clothes and etiquette classes didn’t teach her that. It’s in her core—the steel that can’t be broken under the pressure.
Halfway through our lunch, she set her fork back down and caught me staring.
"I can feel your eyes on me, Ernesto," she says, sounding annoyed. “Am I being evaluated or something? Is this a test I'm supposed to be passing?"
"You're observant," I muse.
"So? Give it to me, Ernesto. Have I been 'Damos' enough this afternoon?" The way she uses air quotes around our last name almost has me chuckle because she still hasn’t realized, she’s been Damos enough even before taking my name.
"I don't waste time on people I don't consider useful, Alejandra. I’d hoped you would know that by now.” She narrows her eyes, the sass returning in a sharp, beautiful spike. “If you keep squinting like that you’ll get crows feet before you even hit thirty.”
"Well, aren’t you just so romantic? You should put that on a Hallmark card. 'To my wife: You clean up well and you tend to be useful. P.S. don’t make any faces or you’ll get wrinkles.'"
I can't help but smirk this time. It’s the sound of her voice, the way she refuses to let me have the last word. She’s quick and addictive.
"Se te va a enfriar la comida, come," I tell her, pointing towards her full plate. “Enough of the bread, eat the damn fish.”
"Como usted diga, Patron." She says it with enough mockery to make it clear she wasn't obeying anything but her own appetite.
After we finish eating, I pay the bill, and some, in cash. We step out onto the sidewalk as the afternoon sun is bright but lacking heat. The cool breeze of November whips through the streets, alive with the hum of traffic and the distant shouts of street vendors.
Alejandra quickly adjusts her coat. It may be a nice piece but does nothing to keep her warm.
"How long were you going to let me sit in my own head thinking you were embarrassed of me? You could have just said something."
I step closer, invading her personal space until she’s forced to look up. This time, I don’t care who’s watching us or filming.
"Get it through your head, Cabezona. I am not embarrassed by you." I don’t move away from her as I watch the way the sunlight catches the stray hairs that had escaped. "You misunderstand my restraint for rejection."
"Ernesto, if it's not rejection then what is it?" Her eyes plead for me to be honest. To tell her the truth of how every time she shows me how capable she is of being my wife, she crumples a piece of my walls.
"Control," I tell her, reaching my hand out, settling at the small of her back, pulling her in closer to me in an attempt to keep her warm. My palm is a firm hold against the fabric of her coat.
"If I take you to certain places, the wolves will look at you. They will try to measure you and try to find ways to use you against me." I hold her gaze, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.
"I don't allow people to measure what belongs beside me.
" She goes completely still as her breath hitches, a small, audible sound in the quiet space between us.
I feel the slight tremor in her body under mine as her eyes flicker down to my mouth, for a second.
A heartbeat of pure, unadulterated longing that mirrors the same ache in my own chest.
The tension stretches out like a thin wire ready to snap. I should kiss her, on a public sidewalk in front of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and for the first time, consequence be damned.
But then I remember how she saw me that night. The way I had broken down in front of her, the way she had seen the hollowed-out version of the man I pretend to be.
I pull my hand back and step away from her. A visible chill runs down her body as the warmth of my body leaves her side.
"Disculpa." The word feels like stones in my mouth, rough and hard to get out.
“What?” She blinks, her eyes widening.
"About what happened this morning." It’s not a gentle apology but it’s not warm either. It’s an apology of a man who doesn’t ever acknowledge he’s wrong.
She let out a breathy, surprised laugh. "That almost sounds like an apology, Ernesto. Are you feeling okay? Do you need us to drive to the doctor?" She asks as she’s setting her palm on my forehead.
"Quit being dramatic," I tell her as I grab her wrist and remove her hand from my forehead. I tighten my grip on her wrist, my thumb caressing her pulse point, for one heartbeat before releasing her.
"It’s a necessary correction on my behalf.” I turn and signal for the SUV. Hector quickly pulls up to the curb but Alejandra doesn't move. She stands on the sidewalk, looking at me with an expression that isn’t of fear or defiance. It's a realization.
I open the door for her, watching as she slides in. I climb in beside her, the familiar scent of her vanilla body wash and jasmine perfume, has made itself home in the small space.
For the first time since this contract began, I don’t feel like I’m managing a liability. I’m beginning to willingly choose Alejandra. And in my world, choosing someone is the most dangerous move a King can make. It gives the enemy the ammunition they need to take the entire kingdom down.
But as the city blurs past us, I realized I don’t give a damn who has the balls to target me. I only care about the woman sitting next to me and my baby girl.