RaΓΊl was, truthfully, as sinless as any GarduΓ±a man could be. He alone managed the syndicateβs finances, sprawling his ledgers across the courtyard at any hint of Andalusian sunshine β and so long as the orange blossoms were not in season, to which he was allergic.
It had become a ritual for RaΓΊl to cheerfully fire olive pips across the courtyard at passing lieutenants as he worked, and for them to waggle their rapiers derisively back at him. RaΓΊl always hoped to coax the lieutenants closer, so that he might launch into a sophisticated defense of the racketβs latest protection levies, but he hadnβt the talent for even this simple subterfuge.
Of the GarduΓ±a revenues, RaΓΊl had never taken a coin beyond his salary. It is widely accepted that every criminal booksman partakes in some level of customary embezzlement β a villa purchased in a profitable year and the record burned, or a shipment of cordobΓ‘n leather paid for and lost at sea. Such indulgences were expected, and overlooked provided they did not trespass into insult.
But RaΓΊl was, truthfully, as sinless as any GarduΓ±a man could be. He was entirely content to loll about the courtyard with his papers, spitting olive pips at the lieutenants and basking in the warmth of the sun on his neck. In the end, RaΓΊl proved so trustworthy as to be suspicious, and for this cardinal error he was shot in the back of the head at dusk.