Chapter 3 - The Cold Exile
The rain came down in gray, heavy sheets as the armored Suburban tore through the traffic toward the northern industrial limits of Mexico City. Inside the cabin, the only sound was the rhythmic, soft thud of the windshield wipers and the low hum of the climate control.
Victor sat in the rear captain's chair, holding Annie tightly against his chest. He had wrapped her in his own bespoke cashmere suit jacket, which swallowed her small frame completely. Her hands, still dark with the soot of the hotel’s loading dock, were tucked inside the sleeves.
"Are you warm enough, Annie?" Victor whispered, pressing a kiss against her damp hair. It smelled of cheap soap and old grease—the distinct scent of poverty that he had spent his entire adult life trying to outrun.
"Yes, Dad," she murmured, her voice tiny. She hadn't let go of the metal tray of sweet bread; it sat on the leather floorboards between Victor’s custom-made leather shoes. "Will Grandma be mad that we left? The cake looked really pretty."
Victor’s jaw tightened so hard the muscles in his cheek bunched into knots. "Grandma will never be part of our lives again, Annie. You never have to worry about what she thinks or says ever again. I promise you."
Brian drove with an intense, focused precision, navigating the flooded avenues of the Northside district. The landscape changed rapidly, leaving behind the gleaming glass towers of the financial center and entering a world of rusted corrugated iron roofs, unpaved alleyways, and low-hanging electrical wires that sparked in the wet wind.
"It’s just past the old grain silos, Mr. Williams," Brian said, looking at Victor through the rearview mirror. "The street isn't paved. The truck might have difficulty getting all the way to the door."
"Drive over the sidewalk if you have to, Brian," Victor said. "Just get me to my wife."
The Suburban bumped violently as it turned onto Calle de la Amargura. It was a dark, narrow passage squeezed between a heavy machinery repair shop and a concrete wall covered in faded political graffiti. Number 44 was a two-story structure made of hollow cinder blocks, its green paint peeling away like dead skin. A single yellow bulb flickered above the communal entrance.
Before Brian could even park the vehicle completely, Victor had his hand on the door latch. He stepped out into the freezing downpour, carrying Annie beneath the shelter of his arm, his expensive shoes sinking into three inches of gray, muddy water.
The interior of the building smelled of damp concrete, gas leaks, and fried onions. A group of men standing near a communal sink turned to look at Victor, their eyes widening as they took in his tailored clothes, his raw, commanding presence, and the massive chauffeur who followed closely behind with a heavy tactical flashlight.
"Which room is Catherine Williams in?" Victor demanded of a man holding a plastic bucket.
The man pointed a trembling finger toward the end of the dark corridor. "Room four. At the back."
Victor walked down the hall, each step feeling like an executioner’s march. He reached a warped wooden door with a rusted padlock fixture that had been left open. He didn't knock. He pushed the door inward with his forearm.
The room was no larger than the walk-in closet in his Lomas de Chapultepec penthouse. A single gas burner sat on a small table next to a stack of plastic plates. In the corner, under a ceiling that was actively dripping water into an old paint can, was a single mattress supported by wooden pallets.
A woman was lying beneath a thin, gray wool blanket. Her hair, once a rich, chestnut brown that Victor used to love running his fingers through, was dull and streaked with premature white. Her face was hollow, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut, her skin a translucent, sickly gray.
"Catherine," Victor breathed, the word dying in his throat.
May you like
The woman on the bed stirred slowly, her eyelids fluttering open with an immense, visible effort. When her eyes adjusted to the light of Brian’s flashlight, she didn't scream or cry. She simply stared at Victor as if he were a ghost she had grown tired of dreaming about.
"Victor?" she whispered, her voice dry and rasping. "Am I... am I having the fever again?"
