Chapter 6 - The Red Carpet and the VIP Box
The Teatro Degollado was bathed in dramatic golden uplighting as the limousines and luxury SUVs pulled up to the marble entrance.
I arrived with Nicolás in our beat-up 2005 Ford service van, parking it four blocks away behind an open-air market to avoid having the parking valets sneer at the faded *Frío Norte Servicios* stencil on the door.
I wore a dark blue suit I had rented from a bridal shop in downtown Guadalajara for three hundred pesos. The sleeves were a half-inch too short, revealing the calloused skin of my wrists, and the shoulders pinched whenever I lifted my arms. Nicolás wore a crisp white shirt and a black tie he had borrowed from our neighbor, looking sharp, dignified, and impossibly young.
As we walked through the grand colonnade of the theater, the sheer wealth of the crowd hit me like a blast of cold air. Diamond necklaces sparkled under the crystal chandeliers; men in bespoke suits sipped champagne from delicate flutes; television crews with heavy shoulder-mounted cameras pushed through the throng.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the chatter like a glass shard.
"Well, well. Look who managed to find the front door."
It was Emiliano.
He looked stunning. He was thirty-four, trim, with a tailor-made charcoal suit that cost more than six months of my shop's rent. Beside him stood a stunning young woman in an emerald silk dress—Adriana Luján—and behind them, an elderly man with silver hair, an iron jaw, and a cold, measuring stare: Don Ernesto Luján himself.
My parents were hovering right behind them, my mother draped in a fox-fur wrap despite the warm evening, my father checking his gold wristwatch with an air of aristocratic boredom.
Emiliano stepped forward, completely ignoring me, and threw an arm around Nicolás’s shoulders. "There’s my boy! You look fantastic, Nico. Adriana, darling, this is the young genius I was telling you about. Takes after his father, doesn't he?"
Adriana smiled warmly, extending a soft, manicured hand. "It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Nicolás. Emiliano hasn't stopped talking about your work. My father was very impressed by your white paper."
Don Ernesto grunted, taking a step forward. His sharp eyes flicked from Nicolás’s face to mine, lingering for a second on my rented polyester suit and my scrubbed, scarred hands. "You did the thermal dissipation equations yourself, young man?"
"Every single one, señor," Nicolás said politely, extending his hand. "With guidance from the only man who ever taught me how heat actually moves through metal."
Emiliano chuckled smoothly, clapping Nicolás on the back while shooting me a look of pure, toxic warning. "Always modest! That’s a Salvatierra trait."
He leaned close to my ear as the women turned to look at a passing photographer. His breath smelled of expensive peppermint and scotch.
"Don't cause a scene, Tomás," he whispered, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp hiss. "You got your tickets. You sit in your seat, you shut your mouth, and you let the real men run the world. If you embarrass me in front of Don Ernesto tonight, I swear to God I’ll hire an audit firm to comb through your business taxes until you’re in a federal cell. Take your seat."
He pulled away, his face instantly rearranging itself into an expansive, dazzling smile for the cameras that suddenly flashed around us.
"Emiliano! Over here! Give us a shot with the young inventor!" a society photographer called out.
Emiliano pulled Nicolás into the frame, posing with one hand inside his jacket like a statesman. My parents stepped into the shot, smiling proudly.
I stood three paces back, outside the light of the flashbulbs, an invisible ghost in a rented suit.
Nicolás looked across the heads of the photographers, right into my eyes. He didn't smile for their camera. He gave me a slow, deliberate nod.
May you like
The stage was set. The trap was armed.
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