Carmen Rosales Novels & Stories

Carmen is worst in mind reading. He better face Miss Rose with the guilt than Orva. It would be difficult to keep away from that forever, but the more he can delay it, the better

Get the papers filed for the hit on the Santos warehouse." Carmen Rivera leaned against my solid mahogany desk, draped in a black Versace suit that made her sharp frame look like a jagged blade. I exhaled, kicking the heavy office door shut. "Hello, Mother." I should have told Daniel to lock the floor down, but Carmen doesn't wait for permission. She bleeds authority. "He is a stain, Santiago. That Cruz boy is going to drag the Rivera name through the mud before the month is up." She paced the length of the room, her heels clicking like a firing pin. "You’ve made a catastrophic error in judgment."

“Any omissions will be addressed in inventory.” The del Carmen contingent, in which Nana Rose was both architect and curator, listened as if they found the room to be a theatre with poor sound. Nana Rose herself was a presence before she spoke: a woman whose hair was the proper color of a well-managed evening and whose jewelry made soft sounds of confidence. She looked more like a caricature from a television show than a real person: loud in lipstick and opinion, with the theatrical sigh of the antagonist who is never allowed to be small.

She wore a simple black dress that looked expensive but not flashy. "I'm sorry, do we know each other?" I asked politely as she got to where I was standing. "Carmen Rodriguez." She extended her hand with a grip that was firm but slightly damp with maybe sweat. "I've been wanting to meet you for a very long time." Something about her intensity made me cautious. "What can I do for you, Carmen?" "Actually, I was hoping we could talk privately. It's about Marcus Martinez." Every muscle in my body tensed, but I kept my expression neutral. People still brought up Marcus occasionally, usually reporters looking for angles or competitors trying to find dirt on my past.

Carlos remained silent, his face a perfect blank. "And you knew about David Reyes," Carmen continued, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and realization. "You didn't marry Inés because you loved her. You married her because you had enough dirt to own us forever. You waited until the moment was perfect to use it. You used me to get to her, and now you’re using the police to get rid of me." The room seemed to grow even colder. Carlos’s expression shifted. The warmth in his eyes died, replaced by a flat, predatory light.

She had gone shopping today with the head maid because she had nothing to do today and was tired of staying home all day. "Mrs Ross." The head maid Elena called out to Irene. "Yes Elena." Irene replied. Elena had been one of her companions since her daughter's were no longer around. "I was just wondering if the girls would come home for your anniversary this year??" Elena asked. She knew that Irene missed her girls so much but her girls were always busy and they forget their mother. "I really don't know Elena, I called each of them and all they said was that they would try." Irene replied with a sigh.

As if my conscience was telling me to stay away from that man. Ever since the tragedy happened, my body had turned into an alarm system that would give me signals whenever something was wrong. “Mr. Serratore…” I repeated his name, and it was the first time a simple name caused me fear. “Yes. I’ve also heard of another artist who has also performed on stage in Palermo, right there, but also on other stages around the world and I’m very intrigued to meet her. You might even get to interview her once you find out her identity, of course. They call her Cello Clare. She’s the masked cellist.” Pierre spoke enthusiastically, running his hand through his soft hair. But for me it was too much to take

The smell of smoke never left her. Even after five years, Inés still woke up coughing some nights, the phantom scent of ash curling through her dreams like a ghost refusing to rest. “Name?” the guard at the Delgado estate gate asked, his voice flat but suspicious. Inés gripped the strap of her cheap bag tighter. “Inés Montoya. I’m here for the maid position.” The man’s eyes raked over her; young, pretty, average enough not to draw attention, which was the point. He muttered something into his walkie-talkie, then motioned for her to go inside.

Lаmеntіng that ѕhе might nоt еvеr ароlоgіzе оr make реасе wіth her sister. I ѕроttеd headlights іn thе distance coming at uѕ. As іt аррrоасhеd, thе vеhісlе flаѕhеd іtѕ lіghtѕ and ѕtорреd. It was a whіtе 1960 Rоllѕ-Rоусе Phantom V White Lіmоuѕіnе. Thе rear раѕѕеngеr dооr ореnеd аnd my sweet Rose ѕtерреd оut bеfоrе thе сhаuffеr соuld exit the vehicle to hеlр her. Bеfоrе I соuld think, Clarette rushed раѕt mе crying оut her ѕіѕtеr'ѕ nаmе. I wа tсhеd thеm еmbrасе, Rоѕе nоw ѕtаrtіng to cry as wеll. Thе clean, cold rain washed over thеm, added to thеіr tears, kееріng them ѕаfе.

Blood roses. Rafael’s hand tightened around the fragile flower, crushing it slowly between his fingers. A symbol. A secret. Not grief. Not loss. Love. Defiance. War. His lips curled into a dangerous smile. "So," he said softly, almost lovingly. "The game has only just begun." He tossed the crushed rose onto the floor, grinding it under his boot. "Bring me Matteo," Rafael ordered, his voice sharp as a whip. "And this time... bring the girl too."