My eyes were closed for a bit to escape the sight of where I was. But even then, I still perceived the disturbing, heady smell of my immediate environment. I hated hospitals. I opened my eyes again and took in the sight of the room before me.
The room was spacious and dominated by a massive floor-to-ceiling window that flooded the space with natural light and offered a high-altitude view of the skyline. It had white polished tiles with subtle gray veining, creating a seamless, sterile yet upscale look.
I unbuttoned my jacket for more comfort. I looked around again; the bathroom door was adjacent to my sitting position.
Finally, my eyes rested on the man lying on the bed. My heart sank. To see Meteo lie so still felt unreal. He had been here for weeks.
A few weeks ago, late one night, it happened. I was called by one of my high-profile suppliers abroad about a batch of goods that was meant to have been dispatched at an earlier date but was delayed due to some unforeseen circumstances. I remembered perfectly well how shady it sounded. I shared my suspicions with Meteo, and he advised me to stay back and that he'd go with some guys to the location.
Then, while I was having dinner with my kids that evening, a call came in. The report was that an argument had ensued and someone had tipped off the police. I immediately put the pieces together and realized that it was a trap meant for me. I had successfully escaped, but it was Meteo who got hit. He was stabbed in the chest with a bottle.
Meteo had been my right-hand man for years—loyal and honest, right from the first day. The day Meteo accepted the role, his family disowned him. That was why the doctor had called me instead of his relatives.
They had accused him of betraying everything respectable and of being unreasonable, mad even. They were aggravated that he had chosen me over them. Meteo never spoke of them again. I had asked him once if he ever regretted it.
"I choose to serve you willingly, Peso pesado," he had simply put it.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
The doctor came in and nodded to me once, a simple form of greeting. I regarded his presence for a while before getting up to shake his extended hand. He was a middle-aged man with a bald head and glasses. He also had a few wrinkles on his face, a telltale sign of the height of his tiredness.
"So? How is he?" I asked, going straight to the point.
"Mr. Montoya, we'll need to remove him from life support," he declared.
"Why would you? If you do that, he'll die, right?" I asked, calming my voice.
"He's dead anyway. It's a complete waste of time. He won't make it. He's a lost cause, sir. I'm so sorry," he said, with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets.
I regarded the shrunken man on the bed. I had failed him. The doctors had failed him. I quietly considered my options for a while.
"Make arrangements for a befitting burial. Wrap him up nicely," I instructed. Normally, that instruction was meant for my right hand. But there he was, as good as dead, leaving me incapacitated and at risk if I didn't find a competent replacement soon. I walked out of the hospital without looking back. Lingering equaled memories, which were dangerous things. And that's why I don't linger.
Today, being Thursday, meant my weekly dining with the snakes and hypocrites I call business partners and associates. It was a simple illustration of keeping my enemies closer. Attendance was mandatory for some, optional for others, but always observed. These gatherings were not about pleasure. They were about presence. About reminding people who held the center of the web.
I arrived home at the same moment that the sun spilled over the horizon. I came down from the car and looked up at one of the building's windows. Two faces with different expressions stared back at me. I gave a small smile and waved at them; then Serena blew me a kiss.
I entered the building and immediately retreated to my study to work off the negative energy from the hospital. I brought out some shipment files that needed reviewing and spread them across my desk. I opened my drawer and pulled out financial statements and summarized security reports as well. After going through them all, I made some notes and checked the time. A few minutes more to go.
I packed all the documents, files, and notes and put them away. Then I took out my cigar from my desk drawer and lit it. Pulling out my phone, I made a call.
"Hello, how are the children?" I asked.
"Apart from Serena missing you dearly, they are both good," the older woman's strong voice filled my ears and heart. "They've eaten dinner though and they are on their way to bed," Doña Esperanza said.
"And Alex?" she called.
"Yes? Still here, Doña," I said.
"You should spend more time with your kids; you of all people should know this. Their mom's not around, and you're all they have. They need you now more than ever. They're growing fast, and it won't be wise to miss it. They kept asking about you during dinner. Well, Serena was asking; Carlitos is just different."
I paused for half a second and then sighed. "I've been busy lately, but I'll make time."
"Good boy, now go show those pieces of crap who's the boss."
That single statement takes me down memory lane—one I wish to forget so badly but still cherish. Doña Esperanza has always been my substitute mom for as long as I can remember. Puffing on the cigar, I look out the window and see some of my guests arriving.
"Doña Esperanza," I said, checking to see if she was still on the line.
"Still here, dear," she answered.
"The doctor's going to pull the plug on Meteo. He said he's dead anyway. I'd like a funeral service to be held for him here," I reported to her.
"Oh, Gordito," she said, pitifully. "Want to talk about it?"
"Yes, but not now. I'll come to you."
"Okay, dear, don't let it weigh you down, alright?" she advised, and I grunted my reply.
I changed into a sharp, all-black ensemble that blended formal wear with rugged, industrial accessories for the party. The outfit signified status, confidence, and power. And that's why, when I made my entrance into the hall, blasting with music, laughter, and glass clinks, everyone turned to me and fell silent. Then, as if on cue, side whispers began.
I passed through the path made for me to my seat at the head of the table like a king, nodding to greetings. I spotted a few servant supervisors at their stations and three female newbies. One in particular caught my attention. I instantly knew I had seen her somewhere.
"Don, a very good evening to you," a man's voice interrupted my memory search. He was all beams and smiles. It was Richard, one of my dad's allies. He had a younger, beautiful woman by his side tonight. Could be his newest trophy wife. We were discussing old and new business ideas when a commotion at the far end of the room caused me to look away from Richard.
It involved a newbie maid and a male guest. The newbie maid, the one I swore I had seen before, was swearing and insulting him, calling him all sorts of things in Spanish. She looked fierce. She walked away from the scene as if to flee the hall, but one of her supervisors stopped her.
Then she seemed to be explaining what had transpired. My eyes were fixated on the scene. Some of my guests were stealing glances at her and whispering. I caught the eye of her supervisor and signaled to send her over. Then, dismissing Richard, I watched as she hesitated to come.
Finally, she turned my way and approached, her steps calculated like a model's.
"Good evening, sir. I hope you're having a good time. What can I get you tonight?" she says grimly, as if she were about to puke.
She didn't remember or recognize me. I slowly regarded her appearance. She possessed deep, dark eyes that held remnants of her earlier anger, framed by thick lashes. Her gaze had a certain directness that wasn't a challenge but rather one that carefully observed. Her skin was quite pale. She had high, delicate cheekbones with freckles on the inside of her face. Her lips were full and colored coral pink. Her short, midnight hair fell above her slender shoulders.
The pink dress she wore did nothing to hide her curves or her skin.
I looked into her dark eyes and asked, "You don't remember me, Alice?"