"Quién eres?"
"I don't know. Poisoned my fate."
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Screws tighten deep into the soft wood, the table taking shape, firm. Four deck chairs, one to each side of the square, slide in under the wide eaves. One deck is set in the center by white gloves.
"You have called in unprofessional men to do skilled work," Oscuro speaks dryly, settling himself down into his seat.
"I had need of their fortitude, or, more importantly, fanatical indifference to personal harm."
"You accomplished nothing for it."
"No?"
"And what of that one? He walks on your land, unharried. He who stole from us, killed our allies, but there he is, enjoying your sunny garden. I think you try our patience," Oscuro continues, his attentions sharp on the Spanish matador closing to them, all in black on a hot day.
"I think you presume more than your master would admit you to."
"You wager your own knowledge of him over mine."
