Falling With Grace

The rich and hearty Pepián that the chef Alphonse crafted for dinner lingered in the air, infused with swirls of onions and cinnamon—a Guatemalan dish rivaling any stew my mother had ever made.

I stood at the top of the stairs leading down into the basement. The muffled voices reverberated through the shadows like a macabre symphony.

My feet moved as though something had lured me down the straight staircase.

Marble continued to weave its pattern throughout the basement.

A room to the right unveiled an entertainment haven featuring a movie screen as wide as the wall it graced and a U-shaped sofa decorated with throw pillows. Adjoining it, a full bar beckoned its half wall with shimmering lights that mimicked diamonds twinkling in the sun.

Yet, with the closed door, the room at the end concealed the agonizing cries.

A vile acid climbed up my throat, my stomach pitching and tumbling, my heart wild and chaotic.

What would Elias do if he caught me?

“Soy solo un distribuidor.I’ve never met him.”

A distributor?

Andrés spoke to each of his distributors before they joined his ranks. It was his way of maintaining control over who had access to his product.

“Please, I beg you. No sé nada.”

A chilling shiver raced through me, the air thickening. My hand pressed against my mouth, my fingers trembling against clammy skin.

That voice…

Where have I heard that voice?

My perspiring hand wrapped around the frigid metal knob, a shock of cold that bit into my skin.

I gulped, steeled my spine, cracked it open, and then peered inside.

Air hissed through my nose as I sucked in a breath and sealed my lips shut. Iron flooded my mouth as I gnawed on my inner lip.

Elias loomed over Carlos, a small distributor, a knife pressing against his throat. A trickle of blood meandered down his neck, merging with the slashes across his bare chest. The left side of Carlos’s face was swollen, and the absence of his two front teeth marred his once-intact smile.

Despite his affiliation with Andrés, Carlos was a kind man—always treating the women he encountered with kindness. Yet, it didn’t hold much significance now, given that they were all deceased.

Javier stood beside Elias, his bleeding knuckles clutching a ball-peen hammer.

Five other men loitered off to the side, their faces devoid of emotion as if they were robots, mechanically taping up the walls with plastic sheets.

Javier raised the hammer above his head.

My feet moved inside the room, my brain short-circuiting. “He’s telling the truth.”

Seven men turned their attention toward me, two of them drawing pistols and aiming them at my skull. My hands shot up into the air with a mouse-like squeak.

“Baja las armas, pendejos.”Elias raised his hand to his men.

The two men complied, tucking their silver-crusted guns back into their waistbands, their stances wide like Ringo or Billy the Kid—ready to draw at any time.

My head swam, and bile bit at the back of my throat.

“What are you doing down here?” Elias’ eyes darkened and narrowed, and his brows snapped together as he glanced behind me. “Where are your guards?”

I lowered my hands to my sides, swallowing the golf ball-sized lump in my throat. My gaze drifted past Elias, taking in the sight of Carlos’ battered and abused body.