Page 8 of His Gilded Cage

Veronica backed out of the kitchen holding her coffee cup. “Just do this for me. I’ll hide in your bedroom.”

“Whatever you say secret agent,” I whispered, picking up a couple of stray liquor bottles and throwing them in the trash bin on my way to the front door.

I jogged in place for a few seconds then rolled my head trying to loosen up my neck. A big inhale, exhale, and I opened the door.

“Good morning,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

Carmella stood at the top of the stairs, her back towards me. “You are home,” she said, turning around and pushing her glasses up her nose. “I was about to go check the local jail for you.”

“I’m home. You’re here. Come in,” I said, ignoring her dig about the police. I reached for her hand but she swatted it away as she walked inside.

“So, where is Veronica?” She asked walking straight into the kitchen.

“Veronica?” I shrugged, not wanting to lie but also not wanting to betray my friend. Carmella and I had our share of problems, but I’d never lied to her. She could accuse me of a lot of things, but being dishonest was not one of them.

“It doesn’t matter,” Carmella said, waving me off. “May I have a cup of coffee? It’s been a long morning.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, pouring her a cup.

Carmella walked around the living room as if she were taking inventory of my possessions. She looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful to me. She wore a crisp white blouse, a tight black skirt and heels. It was the perfect mix of elegant and professional.

I handed her a cup of coffee. “Sugar, no milk. Just the way you like it.”

“Thank you,” she said. Her long black hair was pulled away from her face in a low bun. Her wide brown eyes looked sorrowful behind the glass of her spectacles. Carmella wasn’t traditionally pretty but to me she was perfect. She’d been perfect to me since the first time her lips has pressed against mine in a darkened corner of our courtyard.

Carmella’s mother had been a part of the kitchen staff at the house in Guadalajara. When Carmella was eighteen, she had taken on a job working part-time as a housekeeper there as well. That was the year we fell in love and the year I lost my mother.

“I drove straight through this morning. I need you to sign some documents.” Carmella put down her coffee and took a manila folder out of her leather purse dropping it on the countertop beside my half eaten breakfast.

“What kind of documents?” I asked, hoping she didn’t notice my all American breakfast plate.

“You will be happy to know that the owner of El Pescador has agreed to not sue or press charges after the incident . . .”

“Jesus Christ,” I said, running my fingers through my hair. “You know already . . .”

“Yes, I know,” Carmella said, her mouth a tight line. “The calls came in early this morning or should I say late last night. I’ve been on the phone with legal counsel and had to postpone most of your father’s meetings today so he could weigh in on this distasteful situation.” She shuddered.

“He’s one to judge,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?” Carmella said, eyes narrowing.

“Forget it. Let me explain,” I said.

“What you do and who you decide to . . .” Carmella cleared her throat, “have sexual relations with in a bar storage room is up to you Marco. Your poor choices are not my business; the health and longevity of Amador Industries is my business. I work for your father and am responsible for protecting our corporation.”

Our corporation. Even I didn’t speak of my father’s business with such reverence and loyalty.

“I didn’t know she was married,” I said. “It’s important you know that.”

“Didn’t know she was married. Didn’t know her name,” Carmella laughed. “None of that matters. What is important is the fact that you destroyed someone else’s personal property, including a rare bottle of tequila that the owner claims is priceless.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “I dropped like ten bottles, maybe twenty, some top shelf, but that is bullshit. El Pescador does not cater to sophisticates . . .”

“Which is why you were there to fuck a stranger I suppose,” Carmella murmured taking the paperwork and sliding it towards me. “Just sign Marco. I have work to do back in the city.”

I picked up a pen and held the paper. The owner of El Pescador had clearly decided to make my betrayal hurt and he’d figured out who I was somehow. “She didn’t even know my name,” I said.

“Another fact I am shocked you would share.”

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