Chapter 32
Alejandra
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes two, each sound a heavy, resonant blow against the suffocating silence of the house.
The fire crackles softly in the hearth across from me, its light dancing against the marble floors and tall walls, but the warmth never reaches my bones.
Camilla is finally asleep upstairs, guarded by one of the maids who refuses to leave her door.
It took two hours, a cup of warm milk mixed with something herbal from Consuelo, and my own whispered, broken promises that she was safe, that mommy was here, before the terror finally released its grip and allowed her to drift into a troubled slumber.
The entire house feels too quiet, too still, like it is holding its breath.
A sudden slam echoes somewhere down the hallway.
My head snaps toward the sound, my heart lurching violently in my chest. For one horrible second, I am back in the garden again, the explosion ripping through the air, the smell of smoke and gunpowder burning my lungs.
My body goes rigid as my mind races through every terrible possibility.
Someone got inside. They followed us. They came to finish what they started.
Footsteps approach, slow and measured, and I force myself to stand, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Then Consuelo appears in the doorway, a tray balanced carefully in her hands.
“Tea, mija,” she says gently, as if the house has not just shattered around us.
The tension leaves my body all at once, but the fear does not. Even inside these walls, even surrounded by guards and locked doors, the quiet no longer feels safe.
My body aches as a deep, blooming bruise darkens my ribs where the man's elbow connected, and my head throbs from its impact with the damp earth. But those pains are distant echoes. The only sensation that feels real is the hollow, vibrating fear in the pit of my stomach. Ernesto is not home.
Consuelo sits opposite me, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
She hasn't left my side. She tried to get me to drink tea and eat something, but the jasmine-scented steam only made me nauseous, and the thought of food was a foreign concept.
The Christmas tree, once a symbol of my naive attempts to build a home here, now stands as a glittering, mocking monument to my failure.
Its cheerful lights cast long, dancing shadows that twist into menacing shapes on the walls.
"He should have called," I whisper, my voice a dry rasp. I stare out the massive window into the inky blackness of the lawn, searching for a sign, for the sweep of headlights that will signal his return.
"Senor Damos knows how to handle himself, Alejandra." Consuelo's voice is steady, a rock in the churning sea of my anxiety.
I turn from the window, the firelight catching the tremor in my hands. "Handle himself? Consuelo, a man in a ski mask, put his hands on my daughter tonight. On Ernesto's daughter. What kind of 'business' is he handling that is more important than coming home to us?"
Consuelo's gaze falters. She looks down at her hands, at the worn, strong fingers that have cared for this family for decades.
"In this family," she begins, her voice low, "when a line like that is crossed…there are no police. There are no courts. There is only a response."
Her words hang in the air, heavy and sharp. I stare at her, the implication of a cold dread seeping into my bones. "A response?"
She looks up, her eyes filled with a deep, sorrowful wisdom. She opens her mouth to say more, to give voice to the secrets this house was built to contain, but she stops. Her lips press into a thin, resolute line. She shakes her head, a small, almost imperceptible movement.
"What?" I press, my voice rising. "Tell me. If you know what's going on, you have to tell me."
"This is not my story to tell," she says, her voice firm but kind. "You need to hear it from him. From your husband."
Frustration and fear of war within me. She is protecting him, protecting the family, even now. She is walling me out, just as Veronica did. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, broken only by the crackle and spit of the fire.
Then, I see it.
A pale, ghostly light sweeps across the far wall, a phantom arc that travels from the window to the door. Headlights. My heart leaps into my throat. I am on my feet before I even register the movement, the teacup on the table beside me rattling in its saucer.
"Alejandra—"
I don't hear the rest of what Consuelo says.
I run. My bare feet are silent on the thick Persian rug, then slap against the cold marble of the hallway.
The sound echoes in the cavernous space.
I race through the grand foyer, past the mocking tree, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
I reach the massive front door just as I hear the distinct sound of a key in the lock.
The heavy door swings inward, bringing with it a rush of cold night air that smells of damp earth and something else.
Something metallic and sharp. Ernesto stands on the threshold, flanked by Felipe and Hector.
The dim light of the foyer casts them in stark relief.
Their tuxedos are gone. They wear only their white button-down shirts, untucked and rumpled, the sleeves rolled up to their forearms.
And they are covered in blood.
Not a smear. Not a spatter. Felipe's shirt is soaked through on one side, a dark, wet stain that drips from the cuff onto the pristine marble floor. Ernesto's is worse. A spray of crimson covers his chest and stomach, a gruesome Jackson Pollock painting of violence.
The air leaves my lungs. My mind, the part of me that is a nurse, that is trained to see blood and think solutions, not fear, takes over.
"Oh my God," I gasp, rushing forward. My hands fly to Ernesto's chest, my fingers hovering over the drying blood, searching for a source, for a wound. "Are you hurt? Where are you shot? Let me see. We need to get you to a hospital. Felipe—"
My questions tumble out, a frantic cascade of medical urgency. I try to unbutton his shirt to assess the damage, but his hands close over mine, stopping me. His grip is firm, his skin surprisingly warm.
A slow, tired smile touches his lips. It is a terrifying sight, that smile on his blood-splattered face. It doesn't reach his eyes. His eyes are flat, empty, as if he has just returned from the surface of the moon.
"It's not my blood, Palomita."
The words are a quiet rumble, but they hit me with the force of a physical blow.
I freeze, my hands still trapped in his.
I slowly pull my fingers back, staring at them as if they are contaminated.
I look from my clean hands to his ruined shirt.
I look at Felipe, who stands watching us with a weary, grim expression. I look back at Ernesto.
"What," I say, my voice barely a whisper, "do you mean, it's not your blood?"
He doesn't answer. His gaze holds mine, intense and unyielding. He takes my hand, his blood-crusted fingers lacing with mine, and turns, leading me away from the door.
"My office," he says, his voice low.
He pulls me down the hall. I stumble after him, my mind a maelstrom of confusion and horror.
Felipe and Hector fall into step behind us, their heavy footfalls a funereal rhythm on the marble.
I glance back and see Consuelo standing at the entrance to the living room, her face pale, her expression resigned.
She follows us, her presence a silent, steady weight.
Ernesto pushes open the door to his office and leads me inside.
He doesn't turn on the main lights, leaving the room cloaked in the soft glow of the desk lamp I left on hours, lifetimes ago.
The atmosphere is intimate, confessional.
He releases my hand and walks around the large mahogany desk, sinking into the leather chair.
The same chair where I sat, waiting for him, my heart full of a righteous, naive anger. How small that anger seems now.
Felipe and Hector position themselves by the door, sentinels at the gate of this new, terrible world.
Consuelo remains near the entrance, her hands clasped, a silent witness.
I stand in the middle of the room, a lone island, my arms wrapped around myself.
The velvet of my robe feels thin, offering no protection.
Ernesto leans forward, his forearms resting on the desk, his hands clasped. The blood on his shirt is stark against the white fabric. He looks at me, and the mask is gone. There is no king, no CEO, no ruthless businessman. There is only a man, exhausted and burdened by the weight of his own world.
"Sol Industries," he begins, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, "is a front."
I stare at him, uncomprehending. "A front? For what?"
"My father didn't just build a tequila empire, Alejandra.
He built a kingdom. One with roots deep in the Sinaloa underworld.
The trucks that carry our tequila north also carry other products.
The warehouses that store our agave also store weapons and cash.
The money we make from selling alcohol is clean.
The money we make from our other… ventures…
needs to be laundered. Sol Industries is the washing machine. "
The words hit me one by one, each a stone dropped into the quiet pool of my understanding. Cartel. The word whispers in the back of my mind, a word from news reports and movies, a word that has nothing to do with my life, until now.
"You're a… you're a narco?" The word feels clumsy, absurd on my tongue.
A humorless smile touches his lips. "It is the family business.
" He leans back in his chair, the leather groaning in protest. "My father ruled for thirty years.
He kept the peace, forged alliances, and made everyone rich.
When he died, the crown passed to me. But not everyone was happy with the succession. "