CS Dark Fantasy

Felicia fidgeted with her cigarette, flicking ash onto the marble floor. “Would you like something to drink?”

Fernando inclined his head. She led him from the room, putting out her cigarette on the silk arm of a settee as she went. They walked across a cool foyer, then out onto a clay-tiled patio, bedecked with white wicker furniture, lounge chairs and a bar which bordered the gleaming pool that lay beyond. It was a muggy day, even at these lofty heights. The fragrance of the pale vining flowers

Twenty miles northwest of Saguero lay the resort town of Antigua, nestled in the tree-studded, waterfall-laced slopes of the Paisa.

With its alpine air and lofty elevation, Antigua afforded both wealthy residents and tourists alike a picturesque vantage from which to peer down on the mist-shrouded world below. Beautiful estates and resorts gleamed from the emerald facets of the mountainside. A posh town square boasted trendy boutiques and terraced cafes staffed with carefully curated locals.

The

Emmanuella slumped back in her chair. She seemed winded by what Fernando could only assume were many long years of unvoiced discontent. The worry lines in her face etched deeper with obvious distress at what she’d said. What Fernando had pressed her to say. It was like lancing into an old wound, delving into the past. He regretted causing her pain, but he’d expected that this interview would not be pleasant. Nothing about the case of Carmencita was ever pleasant to recall.

“My grandmother

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. “She didn’t care for me. I cared for myself. Even when I was a baby, she pawned me off on others. She was always away singing at bars and carrying

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 his customary chair on the porch. The older girl Mercedes was sweeping around him when Fernando approached the step. Seeing him, she froze, clutching the broom handle

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 a trafficker per se, but he was an associate of traffickers. He lectured Fernando in his patronizing, grandiloquent way that it was vain naïveté for a rich man in this place and