The wine was untouched.
Not because it was poisoned no one would dare but because no one at the table trusted what would happen once it was finished.
The courtyard was dim now, lit only by a dozen low candles and the fading gold of a dying sun. Cicadas had started their chorus. Somewhere in the house, a piano played a single scale up, down, like someone testing which notes still worked.
Abuela sat at the head of the long table. Still. Composed. Dressed in an ivory silk tunic that caught the light like bone.
Sofía was seated two places down, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
Nico stood behind them, one hand on the back of a chair, like he wasn't sure if this was a family meeting or a funeral.
"The man came in with Arturo," Nico said. "No other possibility."
"You're sure?" Abuela asked, calm.
"The plates matched. So did the time stamp. The car came through on Arturo's clearance. He entered with two... left with none."
"Where's the driver?"
"Gone. Likely disposed before the gate."
"And the courier?"
"Vanished."
"And Arturo?"
Nico hesitated.
"Still breathing."
"Hm," Abuela said. "A missed opportunity."
Sofía's fingers traced a slow circle around the rim of her glass.
She hadn't spoken since she entered the courtyard.
Now she did.
"He's been sniffing around too long. Like a mutt that thinks the leash is off."
"And the Italian?"
"Didn't even knock. Sent amateurs to do the listening. Watched from a distance. Classic predator move."
"But effective," Abuela said.
"Not here," Sofía replied. "This house doesn't bleed without permission."
The silence tightened.
Abuela set her fork down with care.
"Then maybe it's time El reminded the world how permission is given."
Sofía looked at her now. Not with surprise but with warning.
"No one summons El," she said. "Not even you."
Abuela's gaze didn't flinch.
"I don't summon him. I expect him."
"Expectation is a dangerous habit."
"So is silence when the house is on fire."
"And what makes you think he isn't already inside the flames?"
That silenced the entire courtyard.
Even the wind paused.
Abuela leaned back in her chair.
"Is that a yes?"
"That's an observation."
"From who? You? Or him?"
Sofía tilted her head. The candlelight caught on her cheekbone like the glint of a knife drawn partway from its sheath.
"Do you really want to know?"
Abuela stared back.
And said, quietly:
"Yes."
A beat.
Then:
"Then listen closely."
Sofía set her glass down. Not loud. But enough that it made the entire table feel smaller.
"Arturo will not be warned again. He will be... remembered. The Italian will believe he's winning. Because that's how you trap men like him by letting them taste confidence before you crack their teeth on it."
She stood.
"And as for El..."
The way she said it like a prayer you weren't meant to hear.
"He doesn't come back. He never left."
Abuela didn't speak.
But her eyes gleamed with something almost like approval.
Nico didn't move. He knew better.
Sofía turned to go, already disappearing into the gathering dark.
Then paused at the edge of the table.
One hand on the wood. Her voice softer now, but deadly in its clarity:
"If the family needs a reminder of who protects this house... it won't come in words."
She looked at Abuela.
"It will come in funerals."
And then she was gone.