Emmanuella nodded. Her eyes were soft with sympathy. “Carmen died when you were very young.” “Not so young as that,” Fernando said, his voice clipped and hard. “I don’t know her because she was seldom around.” “It must have been difficult for her,” Emmanuella said gently, “caring for you on her own.” Fernando’s mouth thinned.

When Fernando next returned to Chico’s junkyard home, he did so alone. Chico’s green roadster was not there, nor was Pedro’s truck. Banned from El Toro, their father Esteban was no doubt at Pepe’s uncle’s bar already drunk. There were only the children and chickens about, the fixture of the old man dozing perpetually in

Mondragón rarely deigned to visit Cortez. But from time to time—more times than Fernando would have liked—he summoned him to one of his many choice establishments in Saguero and beyond. Choicer than The Red Room, but always with a sordid edge to them, no matter how posh of a front they seemed. Mondragón was not

The new establishment was called El Toro, and it was part pool hall and gambling den. Backed by Mondragón’s full support, Fernando saw the place finished out in record time. El Toro appealed without pretense to all of Cortez’s most deeply cherished vices. Because of this, it was eagerly anticipated and well-received—not only by the

Fernando smiled. “Anyone who ransoms me is bound to be disappointed. My father’s wife holds the purse strings, and she despises me. She would consider my disappearance a blessing. Maybe she even half-hoped for it in sending me here.” Of course, Juan Francisco’s pride would never suffer such a slight as to have his favored