Page 160 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
“Marcelo,” Ramiro said evenly. “I know who you are.”
A brief silence.
“You can run, but I will still find you. And I will find your family. Everyone you care about.”
The words weren’t rushed.
They were placed.
Each one precise enough to be remembered.
“If you say a single word about Rafael’s marriage, you won’t be the only one who pays—everyone you care about will as well.”
A beat of silence.
Then, colder:
“Now get lost.”
The stool scraped sharply against the floor.
I flinched slightly at the sound, my hand tightening instinctively around the edge of the counter.
Marcelo had stood.
I could hear it in the movement of fabric, the way confidence returned in uneven fragments.
When he spoke again, his voice had no charm left.
Only greed.
“Instead of threatening me,” he said, slower now, like he was testing a different angle, “how about sealing my mouth shut with twice the money the Italians are offering?”
A low, disbelieving sound came from Ramiro.
“You are Spanish,” he growled.
The words carried something sharper than anger—betrayal, maybe, or contempt.
“How can you even think of selling your own people to the bastards Italians?”
A step closer.
I couldn’t see it, but I felt the pressure of it.
“Listen, Marcelo,” Ramiro continued, voice dropping further into something dangerously even, “you can’t blackmail Rafael Pérez. You should know that better than anyone.”
A pause.
The kind that feels like a blade being set down gently before being picked up again.
“You whisper a dime of this,” he added quietly, “and you will keep that silly mouth of yours shut for good.”
Silence followed.
The kind that makes people reconsider not just their words, but their survival.
Marcelo broke first.
