Chapter 2 - The Red Line on Jorge Juan
Javier lunged across the table to snatch the device, but I pulled it back with effortless grace.
“Are you in immediate danger, ma'am?” the operator inquired, the background chatter of the emergency center buzzing through the speaker.
“He is across the table, attempting to seize my property,” I answered. “The staff have witnessed it. Please send an officer.”
“A patrol car from the Policia Nacional is being dispatched to your location now. Remain calm.”
I ended the call, set the phone back on the linen, and folded my hands.
Javier’s complexion had drained of its flushed, wine-fueled color. His smirk had vanished, replaced by an ugly, twitching grimace. “Are you out of your mind? Calling the police over a dropped glass? Do you know what this will do to my family’s name? To my position at the firm?”
“You didn’t drop the glass, Javier,” I said, my tone as quiet as a surgeon’s scalpel. “You threw its contents directly into my face after issuing a threat of extortion.”
“You insolent peasant!” Mercedes spat, her polished veneer cracking completely as she abandoned her royal posture. She leaned forward, veins visible in her frail, powdered neck. “You dare disgrace us like this? In Cazorla? My family has dined here since before your father laid his first brick!”
Before I could reply, the maitre d’, a tall, silver-haired man named Don Mateo, hurried over with two floor managers flanking him. His expression was a tight line of controlled mortification. Behind them, two private security guards took up positions by the entrance archway.
“Señora, por favor,” Don Mateo began, bowing slightly toward me before his gaze landed on my ruined clothes and the crimson puddle pooling near my plate. “Is everything alright? We heard an altercation.”
“No, Don Mateo, nothing is alright,” I replied, addressing him with absolute civility. “My husband threw a glass of wine into my face after I refused to pay this bill. I have already called 112. The Policia Nacional are on their way.”
Don Mateo’s face paled. In a venue where bankers, politicians, and diplomats conducted discreet affairs, the arrival of blue emergency lights outside the glass doors was a death knell for discretion.
“Clara, stop this madness!” Javier hissed, suddenly standing up and attempting to grab my arm. “We are leaving. Now.”
The security guard immediately stepped between Javier and me. “Caballero, do not touch the lady. Please remain seated.”
“Get your hands off me!” Javier snarled, his voice breaking into a shrill pitch. “Do you know who I am? My uncle is on the municipal advisory board!”
“Your uncle does not pay my salary, sir,” the guard answered without blinking. “Sit down.”
May you like
Outside, through the heavy frosted glass of Cazorla’s exterior windows, the unmistakable flashing glow of red and blue lights painted the rain-slicked pavement of Calle de Jorge Juan.
***
