Dinner on Friday

48. Dante

THE END

My unease grew each day I remained separated from Carla. Whispers of betrayal and danger filled every corner of the mansion, making falling asleep at night difficult.

Days passed, and Alonzo was never found. I knew that Mathias was behind his disappearance because the memory of him in my bathroom that night haunted me. I remembered his cold eyes and chilling words warning me that Anna would pay dearly for contacting Carla on my behalf.

This ploy was yet another way to keep me under his thumb.

If I killed him, Anna would never get her son back. And watching her cry every day for the past week was beyond difficult.

I didn't have a child, and therefore, I couldn't relate, but all I had to do was replace Alonzo with Carla to know that her pain was tremendous.

Today, I had my first meeting with a guy connected to the sale of Mx. He was a new hire, and his loyalty had me questioning my decision to meet with him. A meeting that was going to cost me three thousand euros in cash.

Walking into the coffee bar in broad daylight, I didn't know if this was a setup or not.

The man, whose name was Martin, turned out to be a tall, blond American.

"You got my money?" he asked as soon as I sat beside him in the booth furthest from the door.

I nodded and slid the small bag over. Leaning back on the uncomfortable bench, I watched him as he took his time to count the money.

The coffee bar was one I had never been to. It was located less than fifteen minutes from our house, close to the hair salon Carla often visited because it was the only place capable of treating her natural curls. Carla said it was because the stylist was African, and their knowledge of Afro hair was better than any Spaniard's.

I believed her because before meeting my wife, I was clueless about black haircare. Being with her had taught me so much.

"What are you drinking," Martin asked once he was satisfied with his count.

"I'll have a coffee. Black, one sugar."

Martin ordered a cappuccino, thanking the waiter when he came back promptly with our drinks.

"I don't know the recipe for Mx," Martin began after sipping his coffee,"but I can tell you how the operation works."

"Good. How long have you been working there, and what exactly do you do there?"

"I'm a cook." He laughed when he saw my unamused expression. "Not that type of cook. I have a masters in physics, and I cook up two of the six ingredients that make up Mx."

"Any of the ingredients natural?" I asked, letting his missing answer about how long he worked there slide.

He shook his head. "Nah. All synthetic, and the exact ingredients are unknown but to the ten people who do the final mix. We have three kitchens, and we work in shifts, never meeting each other."

"I see. Have you met Diablo?"

"Nah. He was around once, but I didn't get to meet him."

"What else do you know?"

He smiled. "That's going to cost you. What's your deal with Mx anyway?"

I smiled back, but not as friendly. "I'm a businessman, and Mx is a good business opportunity."

"It's a dangerous drug."

"Something I'm sure a qualified physicist can fix without tweaking the euphoric effects that make Mx Mx?"