The Mannequin

The day of the Gala arrived with a suffocating humidity.

I was standing in the center of the suite while a local tailor, hired by Catalina, adjusted the hem of my tuxedo trousers.

Catalina sat on the sofa, sipping an espresso, scrolling through her iPad.

"Higher on the break," she instructed the tailor without looking up. "He’s lost weight. He looks gaunt. We need the suit to give him structure."

"Yes, Señora," the tailor mumbled, pinning the fabric.

I stood still. I didn't speak. I had spent the last three days perfecting the art of being a mannequin. I ate when she said eat. I swam when she said swim. I took the "calming supplements" she gave me (which I cheeked and spat into the toilet later).

I was the perfect, broken husband.

"El Alcalde is excited," Catalina said, checking an email. "He has invited the press. Diario Libre. Listín Diario. This is going to be the front page of the business section tomorrow. 'Sterling-DeLuca Revitalizes the Colonial Zone.'"

"Fantastic," I said flatly.

"Try to sound alive, Max," she warned. "Tonight is performance art. You just need to smile, shake hands, and stand next to me while I cut the ribbon. Can you do that?"

"I can do that."

"Good." She stood up and walked over to me. She adjusted my bowtie, her fingers cool against my neck. "I know you're struggling, Max. But after tonight, we go home. Back to the penthouse. Back to safety. You'll thank me later."

She truly believed it. That was the scariest part. She didn't see herself as a villain; she saw herself as my caretaker.

"I'm going to the spa," she announced. "The hairstylist is coming at 4:00. Don't wander."

She kissed my cheek and left.

As soon as the door clicked shut, I moved.

I ripped the tuxedo jacket off and threw it on the bed. I reached under the mattress and pulled out the burner phone.

“Assets acquired. Yulissa got the chemical report from the lab. It confirms the sample is 80% resin, 20% stone dust. Highly flammable. But we still need the physical chunk of 'marble' for the demo. It’s locked in the site office.”

“I’m coming out. Is the team ready?”

“Ready. But... we had to bring in a specialist for the lock. You’re not gonna like it.”

“I don’t care who it is. Just get me out of here.”

I went to the balcony. It was a fifteen-foot drop to the alley, but there was a trellis covered in bougainvillea vines.

I looked at my hands. Architect's hands. Soft. Un-calloused.

"Not anymore," I whispered.

I swung my leg over the railing. The vines tore at my hands, thorns scratching my arms, but I scrambled down, landing heavily in the dirt of the alley.

I stood up, brushing the dust off my undershirt.

A black Honda Civic with tinted windows idled at the end of the alley. The passenger door opened.

"Get in, 007," Tony’s voice called out.

I ran and dove into the backseat.

Yulissa was driving. Tony was in the passenger seat with a laptop.

And sitting next to me in the back was Mateo.

He was wearing black, looking sullen, arms crossed over his chest.

"You," I said, stiffening.

"Don't start, Gringo," Mateo grunted.

"I thought you worked for the opposition," I said. "Why are you here?"

"Sofía called in a favor," Yulissa cut in from the front seat.

"And," Mateo interrupted, looking out the window, "Vila cancelled the sponsorship for my dance studio this morning. He said he’s 'reallocating funds' to the hotel project. So if you want to burn his investment down? I’ll hand you the matches."

I looked at him. It wasn't loyalty. It was revenge.

"Enemy of my enemy," I noted.

"Just get in the car," Mateo snapped. "Before I change my mind."

"Drive," I said. "We have four hours before the Gala starts."