No sweeter poison, p.1
No Sweeter Poison, page 1
COPYRIGHT
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 Leonora Mendez Castillo
Editing & formatting by: Amy Briggs, Briggs Consulting, LLC
www.editsbyamy.com
Cover Artist: TRC Designs : https://trcdesigns.ca/
CONTENTS
Foreword
1. A Spanish Guitar In Barcelona
2. A Gentleman Pursues
3. Code Word
4. Montaner’s City
5. The Morning After
6. Witnesses To A Murder
7. Intelligent Women
8. No Sweeter Poison
9. Captive
10. The Villa
11. Silence Is A Weapon
12. Shadows Of Night
13. El Rey
14. Twice In One Summer
15. Kill For Me
16. The Whole Kidnapping Thing
17. The Patriarch
18. By The Beach
19. Old Friends
20. Wade Through Blood
21. Kill For You
22. Hit From All Sides
23. Murder In A Two-Way Room
24. The Twelve Apostles
25. One Mistake Too Many
26. The Birds And The Bees
27. The Difference Between Yes And No
28. Death By Water
29. Than That Of True Love
Epilogue
About the Author
Contact the Author
Other Books By Leonora Mendez Castillo
Acknowledgments
A pandemic may have gotten in the way of some of our adventures but rest assured.
Our literary counterparts are living the mafia dream.
Love you, Prima.
FOREWORD
A NOTE TO THE READER:
First and foremost, I’d like to thank you for reading! However, before beginning, there are a few things you should be aware of:
This is an adult novel exploring mature and explicit themes including but not limited to: sex, violence, criminal activity, etc. No Sweeter Poison is for readers 18+ only.
Throughout the novel, certain characters will switch between English and Spanish without any follow up translation. This is intentional. Dahlia, our protagonist, is not a fluent speaker and therefore, she is a step removed from most conversations as a result. It wouldn’t be logical for there to be translations if she’s struggling to understand them and in the way that Dahlia is trapped behind a language barrier, I hope for the reader to have the same experience. This way, the reader is plunged further into her perspective and given a deeper understanding of her struggles throughout the novel. And for my fluent speakers, I suppose you are in for a treat and have the added advantage of being in on certain conversations!
Although the novel is set in Spain, the Narvaez family is not Spaniard. They are a family of Caribbean and South American origin, therefore, the dialect of Spanish that they speak reflects where they were born and raised.
There is no “mafia” in Barcelona, Spain and the one that exists in this novel is completely fabricated for storytelling purposes.
Some of the locations in the novel are real places: the Gothic Quarter, Vallvidrera, and Besalú in Girona where the Narvaez Villa is. I have strived to make these places as accurate as possible and many of the buildings the characters frequent are real. However, other places like the Narvaez Lounge and apartment are fabricated for the purpose of the novel. To my Barcelona natives—I have nothing but love for your beautiful city and can only hope I did it justice!
Lastly but certainly not least, I hope you have as much fun reading No Sweeter Poison as I did writing it! Sometimes a girl just wants to be kidnapped by a gorgeous mafia Don and swept away to his villa in the Spanish country where she doesn’t have to think for a few months. Just soak under the sun and be waited on hand and foot! I pray you have such luck ;)
A SPANISH GUITAR IN BARCELONA
Dahlia
“If I’d known it was going to be this hot in May, I would’ve saved this trip for the fall.”
Karina examines the map in her hands, dark brows pushed together as her gaze follows a narrow street line. “It’s an adventure. Try to have fun.”
I bring a hand up to my face to dab away the droplets of sweat gathering along my forehead when I remember I put makeup on this morning. I purse my lips, irritated all over again. “We’re lost and it’s ridiculously hot out here. Not exactly my idea of fun, Kay.”
“Oh, don’t be such a baby.” She teases. “It’s not hot—just humid!”
“Same difference,” I huff. “It feels nastier than New York in July. I can practically feel the sticky, putrid subway air smacking me in the face.”
With pursed lips, she turns the map completely upside down in search of a street she likely won’t find. Cobblestone roads stretch in every direction around us, some twisting and curving, others straight and narrow. Her cheeks are slightly red and flushed with heat, eyes a light shade of brown in the sun. Karina looks up, stares at the cobblestone road ahead of us, and announces, “That way to the hotel.”
I stay behind as she soldiers on into the brutal Mediterranean heat, fearless under the unrelenting sun. Karina waves a hand over her shoulder. “Come on, Prima!”
With achy feet I follow, making a mental note to never let Karina plan our annual cousin trip ever again.
Barcelona is beautiful but I’d much rather be enrolled in a summer course to get ahead in my graduate program. We usually take our trips over the Christmas break, but Karina and her fiancé Brent (fucking Brent) want a “wedding to remember” which means taking their vows as the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve. Hence, our annual two-week-long trip turning into a three-month-long-European-excursion starting in hot-as-fuck Barcelona, Spain.
I hate Brent. Always hated Brent. I’ve hated him since I was a freshman at Columbia and walked into his junior English class by accident. After figuring out I was a freshman, he waited until our third lecture to tell me I was in the wrong class. Don’t ask me how I hadn’t put two and two together myself, I was a naïve and trusting eighteen-year-old at the time, but he got a good laugh out of it. When he tried to apologize to me about the whole ordeal, insisting it was tradition for upperclassmen to play pranks on incoming freshmen, he locked eyes with Karina as she pulled up in her bright red Kia and the rest was history.
They’ve been together ever since.
Reaching for the camera in my purse, I snap a few pictures as we walk. Earlier today we went to Gaudí’s La Sagrada Familia and Karina, ever the adventurer, insisted we break away from our tour group to do more exploring. Despite living in the age of iPhones and GPS, she’s a badass with a map and a compass.
I stop at the corner of a curved street and lift my camera to catch the light as it moves over the building in front of me. Four stories high and about a quarter of a city block wide, bright floral designs on the white walls are at odds with the dark skull and bones balconies at every set of windows. I count about a dozen of them.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’d known I wanted to be an architect. My first introduction was during fifth grade religion class when we discussed cathedrals around the world and their historic significance. The history was interesting but not nearly as much as the cathedrals themselves. Those beautiful stained glassed windows, high stone arches, elaborate gold altars, and flying buttresses. From there, all manner of architecture fascinated me. Old Victorian houses, eighteenth century English estates, Russian palaces, German villages. I’d go home and build things with Legos, attempting to mimic the pictures I saw online, before drawing them in my sketchbook. I’ve never wanted to do or be anything else.
Karina spins in a full circle in search of street signs. “Okay never mind, sorry. That way.”
“Do you even know where we’re going?”
Karina ignores me. We walk in silence for about five minutes and as I’m taking pictures of a heavily decorated waterfall, I bump into her, nearly dropping my camera.
“Kay!”
“All right.” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “I think we’re officially lost.”
I stare at her, unable to manage words for a few seconds. “Didn’t I fucking tell you we should’ve stayed with the group!”
“I know, I know, I know! Don’t yell,” she whines and covers her face with the map. “I’m hot and sweaty!”
I gesture toward my long sleeves and heavy polyester skirt. “And I’m not?”
“I was afraid of sun-poisoning,” she justifies frantically. “We have to cover up or else we’ll get burned.”
“Karina,” I do my best to control my temper. “We’re Latin. We don’t burn, we tan!”
“You did that one summer in Puerto Rico!”
I throw my arms up. “That wasn’t a sun burn it was poison ivy.”
“Ugh!”
Karina collapses to the ground, right there in the middle of the street. We’re surrounded by heavily restored gothic buildings with gabled roofs and stone walls, nary a vehic le in sight. This isn’t New York—I can’t just hop on the subway or hail a taxi. Plus, I can see the water over the horizon and the sun is behind us which means we’re losing light. We have another two or three hours before total darkness and who knows how long it’ll be until we find our way back.
Turning on my heels, I assess the area and try to come up with a game plan. What to do when your cousin gets you guys lost in a foreign country? I wish I knew.
Then it hits me. The shore.
“Come on,” I extend my hand and pull her to her feet with ease. “Let’s head south.”
Karina frowns. “By the water—?”
“Exactly. And what’s by the water, Kay?” I tear open a granola bar and bite into it. Then immediately spit it out. Note to self: in addition to no longer allowing Karina to plan our annual trips, she is forbidden from packing healthy snacks as well.
She cuts me a look. “Stop wasting food.”
“It tastes like dirt.” I hand off the granola bar and she takes a bite. “There are people by the water. Businesses, attractions, hopefully someplace with WiFi where we can get directions.”
We upgraded our phones before leaving but those international plans are unreliable at best. Directions only ever load halfway and to change locations is nearly impossible. If we end up going the wrong way or need to reroute, we may as well give up and call it a day.
Karina and I don’t make it far before we spot a restaurant offering free Wi-Fi. Squinting at the sign, I try to read it, but Karina does instead.
“El Aliciente.” She reads aloud. “How very mysterious.”
“I have no idea what that means.” I seize hold of the door handle and pull it open. “Do you think we have to buy something to sit in here?”
The modest tan exterior of the building is a deceit. Inside is structured like a riad with columns supporting an upper mezzanine. A stained-glass dome overhead allows late afternoon light to shine down on the wrought iron tables and chairs in a kaleidoscope of color. Already my brain is picking apart the design and structure, noting the Arabic influences, arabesque settings, and intricate tile mosaics. The floor beneath my feet looks original to the building—at least mid-nineteenth century. To the right is a stage and elevated landing leading to a twirling staircase that disappears into nowhere. To the left is an old but well-maintained bar and behind it, a wall of antiqued glass. It feels like stepping into a dream.
Karina admires for only a moment before taking a seat and I follow suit. A waiter appears from behind a set of double doors near the bar and once he catches sight of us, makes his way over.
“Damn,” I say. “We do have to buy something.”
“That’s fine,” She checks the time on her phone. “We should eat anyway.”
I look around and notice how...empty everything is. Which is strange. In fact, not all of the chairs have been flipped right side up and set down next to the tables. Is this place not open yet?
“Perdón, señoritas, pero estamos—”
“Joni!”
All three of us look back at the man who just appeared by the bar. He’s drying a wet glass and shakes his head. “Están bien, déjalas.”
The waiter—Joni—nods and steps away to grab a pair of menus. Karina orders drinks first in flawless Spanish and when he asks if we’re interested in any appetizers from the dinner menu, Karina waits for me to respond but I expertly ignore her inquisitive gaze. She refuses with a polite smile and then Joni disappears.
“I thought part of why we decided to start in Spain was to help you work on your Spanish?”
I keep my eyes glued to the menu. “First of all, I do speak Spanish. Nuyorican Spanish.”
Karina can’t help herself; she laughs.
“Besides, I don’t even like the way they speak Spanish here. It drives me crazy.”
Joni returns with our drinks and I thank him with a smile. Sensing we may not be ready to order yet, he graciously leaves us to our own devices. A band descends from the stairs in the far-right corner and begins to set up the stage. While the others unpack their equipment, a girl with short, dyed-blonde hair starts playing on the guitar.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
“Oh, Dee,” she tells me. “You’re so funny.”
I look at her and smile. I really do love Karina. She stresses me out sometimes but as an only child, my cousin is the closest thing I have to a sister. Even though she’s a few years older and our relationship went through an awkward phase when she was a teenager and I was still a kid, nothing changed between us. Aside from her, I’m otherwise estranged from my father’s side of the family. It’s nice to have her in my life.
We even look alike too as she’s the only person with whom I share a familial resemblance besides my father. It makes me feel less alone, less like an outsider when I see her amber eyes and round face. We have “Rosario” noses as my mother liked to call them; narrow at the bridge and pointed at the tip, the kind people pay their plastic surgeons thousands of dollars to replicate. It’s one of the very distinctive traits of our family.
That’s where our similarities stop, though. Karina has shoulder length black hair and a caramel complexion whereas I’m more olive in complexion. My roots are chocolate brown and fade to a beautiful, rich auburn red, a token from my Titanic phase when I wanted to be Kate Winslet.
“Hey.” Karina wiggles her brows over her glass of Coke. “That guy is looking over here.”
Of the two of us, I’m the only one who can manage being inconspicuous, so I cast a casual glance over my shoulder. Pretending to reach into my bag, I spot them, the man at the bar talking to someone who just exited the double doors. My breath catches in my throat, and I spin back around.
Karina grins like a Cheshire cat and I take a sip of my sangria. “Right?”
“I’ve never seen a man that pretty in real life before.”
She cranes her head to get a better look and I kick her under the table. “Ouch!”
“Make it more obvious, why don’t you?”
“Maybe they’re checking you out, Dahlia,” she sing-songs. “You could leave Spain a not so single woman anymore.”
Doubtful. Whenever I’m with Karina, I always get the feeling looks of admiration are sent in her direction. Not because I’m insecure, but rather, I’m very well aware of the fact my cousin is thin and adorable. She’s a notch over five feet, pixie-like, with pretty dimples, and a delicate frame. Next to her, I look and feel enormous. I’m half a foot taller, not to mention twice her size.
She likes to joke that she came out a with a small chest and tiny butt because God gave all those genes to me. I know she means it as a compliment, but I think she’s secretly insecure about it. After all, stereotypes about Latin American women dictate that we are these big, bombacious, voluptuous women, with tiny waists, big breasts, and round asses. She doesn’t look like that but then again, neither do I. I have flaws just like everyone else.
“Man, if I wasn’t engaged,” she muses.
“You don’t have to be.” I cast another look over my shoulder. “Brent’s an asshole.”
As if on cue, her phone vibrates. I don’t need to ask her who it is when she hits the side button and turns it over, screen first on the table. It’s the seventh time he’s called today, impressive, considering the time difference. I’m tempted to address it but know it’ll provoke an argument between us and I want to avoid a confrontation at all costs. Instead, I return my attention to the men by the bar.
The first man is either exactly six feet or just under it and fit like a body builder with a mass of thick, tight, beautiful black curls he keeps tied in a bun atop his head. Tattoos run up and down his brown arms and his eyes are blue, something I’m deathly envious of. When he grins, a dimple on his left cheek reveals itself. He’s the kind of guy Karina would’ve lost her mind over in high school.
