ENRIQUE
I hated waiting.
I hated the stillness, the illusion of calm, the way my mind spun circles around every possible outcome until the world itself seemed to tilt.
My watch ticked out each second. He was ten minutes late. Not catastrophic by itself, but for a man like Manuel Rivas, ten minutes meant something. Rivas did not do anything by accident and him being late set me on edge.
I drummed my fingers on the linen-draped table, ignoring the glass of brandy sweating beside my hand. The private dining room was hushed and expensive with cream walls, glittering chandeliers, the scent of fresh roses suffocating in crystal vases.
I glanced at the door again. Nothing. Just the hovering maître d', with eyes politely downcast.
