Lies at the Table

Carmela

"Pour the espresso, Carmela."

My father speaks without looking up from his gold cigar clipper.

"I have two hands," I say. "None of them serve coffee."

Hector Alveza pauses. The silver blade of his clipper snips the dark tobacco leaf with a crisp snap. He looks at me across the polished mahogany table. His dark eyes are flat pools of river silt.

"Sit down, Hector," Leandro says from my right.

Leandro does not raise his voice. He does not need to. His left forearm rests on the edge of the table, the black cuff of his shirt rolled once over thick tendons. The heavy platinum wedding band catches the low amber light of the chandelier.

Two yards to the exit behind us. Heavy oak doors. Six Castaneza soldiers in the outer corridor with submachine guns slung across their vests.

Across from us sits Don Tomas Castaneza, leaning back in a leather armchair. His silver cane rests against his knee. His eyes move between my father and me like an appraiser checking cracked porcelain.

Next to Don Tomas sits my brother Rodrigo.

Rodrigo is sweating.

The collar of his tailored gray shirt is damp at the throat. His thumbs hook into his belt, fingers twitching against the leather. He killed three men with a phone call last night at St. Jude. He thinks he buried his secret under five tons of collapsed mezzanine timber.

He thinks I died in the dark.

Instead, I sit beside my new husband. My spine is straight against the carved chair.

"The docks are paralyzed," Don Tomas says, his voice dry as parched parchment. "The harbor master refused clearance to four Alveza container ships this morning. The union halls are howling for blood after Pier Fourteen."

"My men lost four soldiers at Pier Fourteen," my father replies smoothly. "We bled just as much as you, Tomas."

"You lost four deckhands," Rodrigo cuts in.

Rodrigo leans forward, planting his palms on the wood. His knuckles turn white.

"Castaneza soldiers held the gates," Rodrigo says, venom coating every syllable. "Your men were supposed to secure the perimeter. Instead, Gantry Three comes down. Now we hear rumors about St. Jude depot getting hit last night. The truce is a joke. We should take our crews and wipe the southern piers clean before they hit us again."

I watch the tremor in Rodrigo's left wrist.

A tell.

Whenever Rodrigo lost at high-stakes poker in the marina clubs, his left wrist ticked before he shoved his chips into the center. He wants an all-out war before anyone traces the detonator back to him.

"War costs twenty million a week," Don Tomas says coldly. "Who pays for that, boy? Your father's empty accounts?"

"Mind your tongue, Tomas," my father warns, though his voice lacks teeth.

Hector Alveza knows our family's shipping lines are overleveraged. That was why he traded me for Castaneza concrete routes at Santa Teresa cathedral yesterday.

"We don't need a war," Leandro says.

The room goes dead quiet.

Leandro reaches into the inner breast pocket of his charcoal coat.

Metal clinks against the mahogany.

He sets a scorched cylinder of copper and brass in the center of the table.

The unexploded Valco Industrial booster casing.

The serial number on the rim is scratched, but the manufacturer's stamp is plain under the chandelier light.

Rodrigo freezes.

The color drains from his cheeks. His gaze locks on the copper casing like a man staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun.

"What is that?" Don Tomas asks, his silver eyebrows drawing together.

"Commercial booster housing," Leandro says. "Recovered from the St. Jude freight depot two hours ago."

"Who put it there?" my father asks, his cigar smoke drifting between us.

Leandro leans forward. The broad plane of his shoulders fills the space between me and Don Tomas.

"The Maritime Labor Front," Leandro says without a flicker of doubt. "A splinter cell from the north basin union. They used stolen commercial supplies from the rail yard."

A lie.

Smooth. Absolute. Lethal.

Leandro doesn't look at me, but his thigh presses against mine beneath the table. The heat of him seeps through the thin fabric of my dark trousers.

"The union?" Don Tomas frowns. "Dockworkers don't have the discipline for linear shaped cuts."

"They hired outside contractors," Leandro says. "Three ex-mercenaries from the border. I found them sanitizing the site at St. Jude."

"And?" Don Tomas asks.

"They're dead," Leandro replies simply. "I put them in the drainage canal under the rail yard."

Rodrigo lets out a breath through his nose. It sounds like air escaping a punctured tire. He thinks he is safe. He thinks the contractors took his name to the bottom of the muddy canal.

"So the Alveza family had nothing to do with it?" Don Tomas asks, turning his sharp, suspicious gaze toward my father.

"We gave you our daughter," my father says, spreading his hands. "Would I blow up my own shipping cranes on her wedding day?"

"You'd blow up your own mother if the profit margin was right," Don Tomas mutters.

"The union is testing the perimeter," Leandro interrupts, drawing every eye back to him. "They want the two families tearing each other apart so the city council revokes our joint port concession. If we start shooting each other in the streets, the mayor brings in federal marshals."

Don Tomas taps his silver cane against the floor.

Clack. Clack.

"He's right," Don Tomas says after a long pause. "A gang war now brings the coast guard into every shipping crate. We maintain the lockdown on the harbor. Leandro, double the patrols on the northern gates."

"Already done," Leandro says.

"What about the bride?" Don Tomas's gaze cuts to me.

My pulse jumps once.

"She was at the rail depot with you," Don Tomas says, his eyes narrowing. "Why drag an architect into a blast site, Leandro?"

"She identified the booster," Leandro answers instantly.

He reaches out. His large, scarred hand covers mine on the mahogany table.

His grip is firm. Unyielding.

"The Alveza girl knows structural demolition better than any sapper on our payroll," Leandro says. His thumb strokes the back of my hand with slow, heavy pressure. "She found the charge before it could trigger the second arch. She saved the line."

Don Tomas stares at our joined hands.

My father watches with a calculating squint, recalculating my market value in real time.

Rodrigo looks like he wants to vomit blood.

"She stays by your side," Don Tomas decides, pushing himself up from the chair with his cane. "If she proves useful, good. If she steps out of line, you know your duty."

"I know my duty," Leandro says.

The sit-down is over.

Don Tomas limps out of the council room, his two personal bodyguards trailing his steps. My father rises next, giving me a brief, cold nod before following Don Tomas down the hallway to finalize shipping schedules.

Rodrigo stays seated for three seconds. His glare could melt glass.

Then he stands and storms out through the double doors.

Leandro does not let go of my hand.

The room is silent except for the hum of the air conditioning.

"You're a very convincing liar," I murmur, looking at our intertwined fingers.

"It wasn't all a lie," Leandro says. His voice drops into that low, dangerous register. "You did save the line."

"I saved your life."

"Same thing, little architect."

He releases my hand and stands up, adjusting his coat. The casual dominance in every movement sets my teeth on edge.

"Wait here while I clear the motorcade," he says.

"I need some air."

"Corridor only," he says, his gray eyes pinning me. "Don't wander."

"I know how doors work, Leandro."

He gives me a flat look and steps into the outer foyer.

I walk out into the wide marble corridor of the Castaneza villa. The walls are lined with antique oil paintings and heavy bronze sconces. High arched windows look out over the private courtyard.

A hand clamps around my upper arm.

Hard.

Fingers digging into muscle through my silk sleeve.

I am yanked violently into the shadowed alcove beside the service stairs.

My back hits the cold wainscoting.

Rodrigo stands over me, his face inches from mine. His breath smells of stale espresso and peppermint. His eyes are bloodshot, wild with panic and venom.

"You think you're clever, Carmela?" he whispers, his grip tightening until my bone aches.

"Let go of me, Rodrigo," I say, keeping my tone ice-cold.

"You should have stayed in Madrid," he snarls, leaning closer. "You were supposed to be the sacrificial lamb that kept the old man quiet. Now you're playing detective with the Castaneza dog."

"You hired those men," I say plainly.

No hesitation. No question.

Rodrigo flinches.

Just a fraction.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he hisses.

"Fifty thousand dollars," I tell him, staring straight into his panicked eyes. "That was what you paid the cleanup squad at St. Jude. The lead contractor talked before Leandro put a bullet through his skull."

Rodrigo's jaw trembles. Fear flashes across his face, instantly replaced by vicious desperation.

"You won't tell anyone," Rodrigo whispers. "If you tell father, the Castanezas will butcher our entire family. If you tell Tomas, they'll hang me from Crane Seven."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you tried to crush me under five tons of steel."

Rodrigo pulls a small switchblade from his pocket.

The steel blade snaps open with a sharp, metallic click.

He holds the tip two inches from my collarbone.

"Listen to me, little sister," he whispers, spit flying from his lips. "You keep your mouth shut. If you bring another scrap of evidence to that table, I will make sure your next construction project is your own concrete coffin."

I don't flinch.

I look at the blade. Then I look back up into my brother's terrified face.

"You don't have the stomach for it, Rodrigo," I say softly. "You have to pay other men to do your killing."

Footsteps echo down the marble hallway.

Heavy. Deliberate.

The measured tread of an apex predator.

Rodrigo freezes.

In a fraction of a second, he folds the blade and shoves it back into his pocket, taking a hurried step back into the light of the corridor.

Leandro rounds the corner.

His gaze lands on Rodrigo, then drops to the red pressure marks on my arm.

The air in the hallway drops ten degrees.

Leandro stops three feet away. His hands remain loose at his sides, but the stillness in his frame is more terrifying than an unholstered weapon.

"Is there a problem here, Rodrigo?" Leandro asks.

Rodrigo forces a tight, oily smile. "Just catching up with my sister. Family business."

"She belongs to my family now," Leandro says. His voice is smooth, quiet, and lethal. "If your hands touch her again, I'll take them off at the wrists."

Rodrigo's smile slips. He swallows hard, nods once, and hurries down the stairs toward the courtyard without another word.

Leandro steps into the alcove.

He doesn't ask if I'm alright. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the fabric of my sleeve where Rodrigo grabbed me.

"Did he hurt you?" he asks.

"No," I say, stepping out of the alcove. "He made a mistake."

"What mistake?"

I look at my husband, feeling the cold fire settle deep in my chest.

"He showed me how scared he is."