Falling With Grace

The razor wire on top of the wall glinted in the high-noon sun, and a slight electrical hum infiltrated the songbirds’ trills.

There is no escaping this compound.

This was worse than Andrés’ place.

15

Elias

Ihanded each man a second silver coin as I stepped into the dim basement, my footsteps echoing against the walls of my quiet house. The gun sat heavy in my waistband, the warm metal pressed against my bare skin.

It was a familiar, reassuring presence, an emblem of power in a world my papa had cultivated, reimagined, and grown.

If only he could see it today.

Javier followed as we ascended the basement steps, my hand clenched at my side.

The caretaker’s blood stained my knuckles, her brain matter fanning across the plastic-covered barrier, along with the guard who let Mamá slip through the walls.

“You did the right thing.”

I scoffed. “I know.”

It wasn’t impossible to take care of an elderly woman, even one as stubborn as her.

“You run a tight ship. Louisa should’ve known better.”

As we passed by, I snagged a towel out of the closet and wiped my hands. “She did.”

There was no room for incompetence in my employ and those who made even the slightest error were met with unscrupulous punishment.

Crinkling plastic filled the space at the bottom of the steps, and I glanced backward.

Edwardo and Luis carried her body, one at her head, the other at her feet, the blood pooling in the center as it escaped her tortured body.

Their laughter carried up the staircase, swirling me in familiarity.

There was no place for sentimentality and frailty in this merciless world.

The icy fingers of death brushed against one’s cheek, akin to savoring a glass of fine tequila alongside a meal.

Born into a world where harsh decisions were demanded and vulnerabilities exploited like ravenous wolves on wounded prey, one must either surrender or perish.

We hit the top of the steps, my men grunting at the bottom as they struggled.

Javier and I made our way to the heart of my home, a little sitting area where we’d had papers and photographs strewn about a tabletop with the perfect view overseeing the property.

I paused at the table, staring at the photograph of Joaquin.

Stubborn bastard.

“Any idea who Sophia Torres is?”

Javier sat down, taking the chair he was in before my men brought in Louisa, and hunched over the table, the papers and photographs furrowing his brows as he concentrated.

“Nada. It’s like she’s a ghost.”

I clenched my molars, grinding them together. “That’s unnerving.”