It was one of Lalo’s guys who first alerted him to the trouble. Fernando followed him downstairs, weaving after him along the broad path he cut through the seething torrent of the crowd. Fernando went out back to find himself pitched headlong into a scene of scandalous turmoil. In addition to Lalo, Fernando saw that Chico, Pepe and Tito were already there, along with several others of Mondragón’s crew—and a straggling contingent of gawkers which was growing by the second.

Smoke rose from the dirt lot where a cherry red sportscar had smashed into at least two other vehicles parked there. In the clamor and confusion of the milling throng, it was difficult at first for Fernando to spot the culprit. But in one glimpse he recognized her—as surely and swiftly as he’d recognized the car she’d crashed.

It was Felicia. She sat crumpled on the ground, sobbing hysterically while Chico, Pedro and another of Mondragón’s men loitered near her. They seemed stuck in a limbo of indecision, as wary of approaching her as of leaving her unattended. She was barefoot, wearing next to nothing—just a twisted scrap of silk negligee baring half her chest. Fallen into her face, her shoulder-length black hair was a teary, tangled, snot-sticking mess. The eyes that gleamed through this tangle were glassy and huge, utterly unfocused.

She was completely shitfaced, drunk out of her mind. Wrecked as Mondragón’s car and then some. But amazingly unharmed, it seemed. How she had gotten all the way here from Antigua without driving off a cliff was nothing short of a miracle.

Or perhaps the inverse of a miracle.

“She’s been crying for you,” Tito muttered to Fernando, side-eyeing him.

Frowning, Fernando made his way over to her. The others around her drew back, eyeing him as well.

“Felicia.”

Out of it as she was, it took her a moment to gather enough focus to recognize him. When she did, her weepy features contorted into an expression of agonized elation. Lurching up, she threw herself at him, trying to thrust her fuming wet face into his. Fernando flinched back, repulsed. He caught hold of her by the arms merely to steady her. She clung back to him in blind, senseless desperation.

“I’ve left him, Fernando…I don’t love him anymore…I only love you…”

She continued moaning and sobbing in this dissolute way until Fernando gave her a brisk shake. “Stop it, Felicia. You don’t know what you’re saying. You need to calm down.”

She gazed up at him blearily, wretchedly. “Fernando, mi amor…tell me you love me…”

“I don’t love you,” Fernando said coldly.

She stared back at him, glazed and uncomprehending. Her pinched face went slack. Her throat worked, faint and fluttering. Fernando steered her over and around at the last second as she vomited a stream of reeking bile into the dirt.

Combing her curtain of clumped hair back from her face, Fernando closed his eyes briefly. Under his breath he said, “…You fucking fool.”

With the last contents of her stomach swirling in the dust, Fernando picked her up. He put his jacket around her shoulders. Cutting a glance to Pedro, he told him to take her home. Pedro nodded. He took her stumbling off.

Issuing a few more terse instructions, Fernando returned to El Toro. He shut himself up in his office. He picked up his half-drunk tumbler from the desk and hurled it against the wall to shatter in a mirrored splash. From the cart by the desk he seized the bottle of whisky by the neck and tilted it down his throat.

Behind him the door wrenched open. Chico entered, slamming it shut behind him. Fernando glared at him. Chico glared back.

“What the fuck was that?”

Fernando took another swig from the bottle. Chico strode over to him, shoving him by the shoulder into the wall. Fernando shoved him back. Chico staggered into the desk, still glaring daggers at him.

“God damn it, Fernando. What the hell were you thinking? Of all the women, you had to fuck around with Mondragón’s?” Chico shook his head in disbelief. “You’re the smartest guy I know. How could you be such a fucking idiot?”

Fernando had already berated himself as much. To Chico he said, “It’s not what it seems.”

Chico looked at him, hard and disbelieving. “You need to get out of here. Take the roadster. Get the fuck back to Bogotá.”

Fernando set the bottle down beside him. He swept a hand through his disheveled hair as he made for the door. Back to the floor, back to business.

Whatever came for him, let it come.

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La Gorgona © CS Dark Fantasy