Page 76 of No Sweeter Poison

I turn off the faucet and Lettie hands me a towel. She stands at the threshold of the bathroom, awaiting my answer.

“Walsh and Collins aren’t clever enough to come up with a plan like that. And if they ever rubbed together two braincells and did, they’d have killed Beauchamp as soon as the job was done.” I drag the towel across my face, washing away droplets of blood. “Not Sandro. He’d have kept Beauchamp alive as insurance in case Walsh and Collins ever turned on him. I know because it’s what I would’ve done.”

My brother nods his understanding. “What do we do with the body?”

“Leave it at Sandro’s?” Lettie suggests.

I shake my head. “Aside from being out of practice, I want Beauchamp’s current state to serve as a warning. I want it on Walsh’s front stoop by morning.”

Diego gets to his feet and heads to the door. “On it.”

We follow him into the office where Oscar and the others are waiting.

“Ready?”

“Just a minute.” Oscar holds up a hand and the other is pressed against his ear. “We might have—”

He stops. Listens intently. Then turns away and whispers. “She’s back?”

Alarm bells immediately go off. “Dahlia?”

Lettie takes off. The last thing I need is Dahlia getting lost when the twelve fucking apostles are under the same roof.

Oscar looks at me and shrugs. “She went to the bathroom and it was crowded. They lost sight of her for a second but she found her way back to the Fitzgerald Room on her own.”

One of these days she’s going to send me to an early grave.

Oscar passes me on the way to the door and I grab his arm, lifting the mouthpiece hidden in his suit jacket sleeve to my lips.

“Do me a fucking favor, Dimitrio, and don’t let her leave the God damned room.”

Oscar clears his throat awkwardly. Listens for a second. “He says it won’t happen again.”

I’m half-tempted to run back to the Fitzgerald Room myself to check on her but Lettie is already on her way there and I can’t afford to be late to this meeting.

The families are waiting.

T he name Twelve Apostles is from my grandfather’s time. No one knows where it really came from or how or why it stuck. But it’s often used to refer to the twelve families who control the gateway to Europe: Spain.

In attendance is the new head of the Garcia clan, Beto Junior, taking over for his father and freshly eighteen. Then there’s the Betancourts, Lopezes, Torreses, Cacereses, De La Vegas to the left. To my right, the Arroyos, Falcons, Sevillas, Villamizars, and lastly, the Sandovals. All seated around a table like the apostles at the last supper with me at the head.

Rubin Caceres gestures toward the room. “Vamos a comenzar.”

Everyone takes their seats.

Along the edges of the room are security details for each family in addition to a few scattered pages, typing away on typewriters. It’s archaic and old fashioned but some of the old timers prefer it that way and I have no objection.

We go through the formalities of attendance, noting the date, time, and location of this meeting, and confirm that everyone in attendance is here to represent the interests of their family in good faith and of their own volition. A few times my gaze flickers to Armando Sandoval who’s here on Sandro’s behalf. I find it odd Sandro would send his younger half-brother to such a serious affair but in order to understand how his brain works, I’d have to cut half of mine out. It isn’t worth the trouble.

“All right.” Don Rubin scribbles something in his notepad and gives a nod to Don Alfonso Torres and Don Alfonso goes to close the door, a ceremonial sealing of the tomb.

It’s extraordinarily performative.

“Let’s begin—”

“Wait.” Armando Sandoval lifts a hand, interrupting Don Rubin. “The representative for my family hasn’t yet arrived.”

I try not to let my irritation show. Diego meets my gaze from across the room and his almost imperceptible quirk of the brow tells me everything I need to know—I’m doing a terrible job.