Page 36 of No Sweeter Poison

Where Dahlia is all shadows in her black ensemble, Lettie is dressed in phantom white from head to toe. Summer heat won’t ruin a good fashion moment for my baby sister—she lets a white fur stole hang limply around her shoulders as if she isn’t making people sweat just by looking at her. Under is a white satin sheath dress I recognize as being our mother’s.

“Don’t ruin that dress.” I tell her but even as I’m saying the words, she’s waving me off.

“I’m not an idiot, Alex!”

I grit my teeth and turn back to the car. Dahlia slides across the backseat and extends one leg first, planting it firmly on the asphalt, before extending the other. I offer a hand but she brushes me off and steps out of the car herself. It can’t have been easy in a dress as tight as that one but she’s determined.

I’ll give her that.

Sometimes I forget how tall she is. Her legs are long and beautifully shaped, neck high and graceful. A massive diamond collar around her throat extends over the slope of her shoulders in a series of swoops and dips, each one larger, wider, and more elaborate than the last. Lettie certainly had a good time turning Dahlia into her own personal life-sized Barbie doll.

“Why is coming here okay but not me going home?” she asks.

“Because this is my territory. No one enters or exits this province without my knowledge.”

Long, dark lashes kiss the apples of her blushed cheeks as she casts a skeptical look in my direction.

I place a hand on the small of her back. “Besides. I own this club.”

Gambling is what I like to call an indulgence.

El Rey is my precious jewel, the first business I ever opened when I came of age. Four floors of luxury and high stakes gambling catering to the 1% who like a taste of danger. The entire business is above water as Abuelo likes to say but I certainly capitalize on the infamy of the Narvaez crime family. Wealthy Americans in particular enjoy coming here.

They bet millions on simple things like the roulette tables so they can go home and tell their friends about it. Drinking champagne at El Rey, brushing shoulders with Alejandro Narvaez himself, and experiencing a rush of danger when a dozen men in black suits and guns at their sides all file into a backroom is all part of the experience.

This lifestyle is glamorous, deadly, and romanticized but it can also be commodified.

Built just under a hundred years ago, El Rey is a beacon of old-world glamour, the likes of which Hemmingway and Fitzgerald would’ve frequented and rubbed elbows with European elites; a place where, decades later, the stars of Hollywood’s Golden Age would’ve popped bottles of champagne to ring in the New Year. When I came into possession of the building, I gutted it from basement to attic, restoring it to its former glory.

Art deco columns, swooping arches, luminous emerald-green wallpaper, and opulent crystal chandeliers. A stained-glass dome ceiling overhead to shine light on the espresso wood floors and ruby red-carpet runners, and brass sconces on the wall drench the room in deep, golden light.

But it isn’t bright enough to fully cast away the shadows of night.

EL REY

Dahlia

T he first two hours pass by in a blur of alcohol and gambling, all of which hold little appeal to me. At least, not under these circumstances.

El Rey is an atrium with a central great hall at the focus of its architectural grandeur. A double staircase parts to the east and west ends of the second-floor mezzanine and there’s another floor above it, one more private and with windows.

At least a dozen different languages are being spoken at once which tells me El Rey isn’t just a local establishment but one with international renown. I find company in the first Americans I encounter, a couple from California, and something about them is familiar to me. Like I may have seen their faces on the front page of a magazine or something. I can tell they’re disgustingly rich by the diamond choker around the wife’s throat.

I’m bored out of my fucking mind standing around watching people gamble so I wander around and do some exploring. Diego’s off seducing a couple that swings, Lettie’s in a corner gambling with men old enough to be her grandfather and winning, and Alejandro is up on the mezzanine exchanging words with a security guard. At one point he lets out a sigh and shoves his hands in his pockets, the casual stance at odds with his formal attire. His eyes survey the ground level and when our gazes lock my heart catches in my throat. It isn’t until a woman bumps into me and apologizes do I realize I’ve been staring. Abruptly I turn away but can see still feel the weight of his attention on my shoulders.

Admittedly, I wonder how much longer my forced animosity will hold up. As time passes the sharp edges of my disdain continue to weather away, eventually revealing what was once underneath: attraction. Earlier when I was securing his cufflinks, my fingers brushed the inside of his wrists and my stomach somersaulted. I practically flew across the room trying to get away from him, praying that the tremor in my hands went unnoticed.

With his dark hair slicked back, face clean-shaven, body poured into a tux cut and sewn to conform to the shape of him, he’s more than just physically appealing. There’s something so imposing, so powerful, so…

So timeless about the way he looks. Elegant and lovely in a way so few men of this day and age are. And to think that man, up there on the mezzanine, wanted me? Perhaps at one point he did but it doesn’t feel that way anymore. Before, we actually spoke to each other. Our dates often went on for hours, usually past midnight and into early dawn. I have the very cadence and rhythm of his voice, the deep timber of his laughter, committed to memory.

At the villa we aren’t equals. I’m the voiceless princess trapped in the tower waiting to be rescued as if the prince who trapped me there hadn’t endangered me in the first place. Worse than being a prisoner or a burden I feel invisible to him. And I hate that I no longer want to be invisible.

Cheeks flushed with heat, I lift my drink to my lips and chew on a few chips of ice, hoping it’ll cool me down. By the time I dare another glance upstairs, Alejandro is being ushered through a set of doors and out of sight. My breath catches and a tightness settles in the pit of my stomach only I’m not sure why. I decide that boredom must be the reason behind my restlessness so I continue my exploration of El Rey.

Upstairs, the wrap around mezzanine is more of an open hall looking out onto the main floor. Within, are more private rooms, some for dining, others entertaining, but almost all of them have open bars and gambling, only on a more intimate level. The further up I get, the quieter it is. The third floor is full of smoking rooms but very few are occupied and most of the doors are close for privacy. I don’t dare open them lest I stumble into a bit of unwanted trouble. In fact, I almost go back downstairs when I notice a secluded stairway and head up to a hidden fourth floor.

The lights are midnight blue and galaxy purple, flashing across the luxurious furniture and reflective surfaces. My skin and purse glow. The area is arranged like a lounge with several private booths lining the perimeter of the room, large sofas and love seats surround round glass tables, and there are poles everywhere. Against the far-left wall is a glowing stage and adjacent to it, a bar.