It’s quiet now as I look up, turning with the rifle high so that I’m between my mother and these assholes. They’d have to kill me to hurt her, and in that same spirit, I point the barrel toward the general.
There’s a bit of surprise on his face, maybe even a touch of respect as he holds his hands up to stop his men from shooting me where I kneel.
“Put the gun down, Alejandro. Let’s not be messy,” he says, taking a step closer but stopping when I pull the trigger again. This time, I lodge a bullet into the shoulder of the man holding my father’s battered body. He lets him go, staggering back as my dad’s chest hits the floor.
He’s not getting up but is breathing, and that brings a bit of relief to me. Not that I show it; if anything, I’m more focused now.
“Get out of my home. Now.”
“Disrespect me again, culicagado...” the smirk on his face as he takes a puff from his cigar pisses me off “...and I’ll personally kill your mother.”
“Threaten her ever again, and the next bullet goes between your eyes.” My response makes him laugh, but I fire again. This time, to his left and hitting the soldier holding my brother by the hair in his chest. He drops Emiliano who is less hurt, just a split lip and swollen eye, falling back and onto his ass. My brother moves too, crawling toward me at a slow pace and with the now dead soldier’s weapon. “Mamita, leave.”
“She stays—”
“I didn’t ask you, General. She leaves.”
“You insolent güevon,” he sneers, looking toward my father’s banged up form and then back at me. The dislike in his expression can’t be missed, and yet, I don’t know this man. Other than the ranking badge on his uniform, he’s a stranger to me. To us. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“And you, my patience.” From behind me, I sense movement and tilt my head just enough to see my mother exit with my sister in her arms. Our nation’s military doesn’t stop her or complain, which I’m thankful for, and I only hope she leaves through the underground bunker on the other side of the house. It’s a passageway my grandfather installed when he sat at the head of Cafe’ Paisa and the Finca was raided by thieves looking for money and jewelry. “Why are you here?”
“We’re here to take possession of this plantation and all assets within, by decree of President Almendra after Jose Quintero brought forth evidence of your father’s misdeed. Your family’s cartel operations are finished, Alejandro.”
“What the hell did you just say?” I hiss out, confusion coloring my tone as the gun slips a bit in my hold. Before it falls, though, I tighten my grip. “Are you crazy? Cartel? We’re coffee growers.”
“Not according to the Colombian government, Alejandro. As the order signed by the current president with the help of the future leader of the republic states, we are to destroy your family’s operations and apprehend your father, exposing him for the low-life criminal he is.”
2
Four months ago...
“PATRON, WE’RE HERE,” Geronimo says from behind the wheel of my armored SUV as he parks in front of a popular club in Bogota. The capital city is alive tonight, busy with an idiot or five laughing—celebrating the end of a long, grueling workweek.
It’s the Friday-night ritual that every country has: get paid and get drunk.
To forget. To live. To fucking breathe.
In and out like a revolving door, they slip inside of restaurants and bars like tired sheep in this busy intersection at the heart of our colorful capital. Many of them look my convoy’s way. Many of them wonder who’s inside and if I’m famous.
Moreover, being curious is a stupid habit. A manageable trait if a person applies itself.
Because the curiosity that humans must feed at all costs—even if it ends with their fearful gaze staring at the barrel of a gun—is avoidable.
Many of them ignore that we’re born with two very dominating responses to danger, though. They pay no mind to their fight or flight instincts; to that nagging little voice inside their heads screaming—blaring signals to run and hide.
It’s there for a fucking reason.
It’s there to warn. To save you.
Because true evil doesn’t hide. It doesn’t cower. A killer will expose himself without a second thought or remorse because he knows most will never pick up on the cues. They understand how a soft smile and pleasant demeanor are far greater weapons than any knife could ever be.
And I am the definition of the wrong person to cross. The monster that plays from the shadows and rules in the light.
“Thank you.” My eyes shift to his in the rearview mirror, and I hold back a chuckle when his gaze drops immediately. But then again, he’s always been a very respectful man who takes his job seriously. It’s the reason why he’s been around almost as long as my second-in-command. “Please have all vehicles moved to my private parking area for the evening, and then join me inside.”
“Si, señor,” he responds immediately, and I nod before opening the car door. Tonight he’s my right hand while Chiquito, the owner of that title, travels to Barranquilla on a retrieval assignment.
Exiting, I stretch my neck from side to side while adjusting the weapon hidden beneath my suit blazer. It’s nestled within a custom leather holster, a favorite within my collection for a very particular reason. This Cabot 1911 Sacromonte is a beautiful piece with a story to match, but more than being a one-of-a-kind gun, its accuracy and handle make it my favorite go-to weapon.
I’m not one to waste bullets, and this makes me what I consider to be a conscious killer.
Good for the environment as each bullet within its magazine equals a body.
Doors open and close following my lead as I look up at the marquee. Codicia is a large building—unavoidable as it sits at the center of this busy intersection.
It’s an upscale establishment. Ostentatious and seductive. An undercover whore house without technically serving women to the lowlifes that frequent this restaurant/bar. It’s the owner’s business plan to draw out those with lower morals and deep pockets, a smart move in most instances by the son of a foreign leader—an ally of Colombia—that resides here instead of his native Venezuela.
Signio Cortez has immunity to play, and play he does with members of both sexes.
It’s also common knowledge that the young and corruptible go out in droves each weekend after studying all week. Those that attend prestigious universities with never-ending cash flows are his favorite clientele, especially if you’re a beautiful woman.
It’s his draw. The lure for most men.
Because you only get into a place like this via two options: personal invitation or blackmail.
The clientele here is sexually liberated. Ambiguous. Depraved. And more importantly, they love to host the corrupt of this nation for a fee under the protection of the owner’s political attachments.
It’s the product of one hand washing the other as the two pompous presidents hope for a union between children.
Blind eyes are turned. No questions asked.
Walking up the steps, I’m greeted by a large man holding the door open for my group. He’s tall, bald, and full of homemade tattoos that remind me of the jailhouse style many convicts get while serving time.
“Buenas noches, Mr. Lucas,” he says, but I don’t reply. Instead, I nod and head for the lobby, pausing at the podium where a voluptuous woman in a carnival-themed outfit stands. Her tanned body is on full display, her curves accentuated by the shiny fabric of her sequined bralette and minuscule skirt.
“Good to see you again, Guapo.” Her voice is meant to be sultry, a seduction to all that enter, and I find myself giving her nothing more than a blank stare. “Room three is ready, and your guests are seated.”
“Gracias.”
“Do you need an escort?” she simpers. The implication is there, and it’s not to walk me toward my reserved seating. At my nonresponse and lack of interest, she arches her back a bit so the barely-there fabric of her top stretches across each ti
t, exposing the very edge of her areola. “I’d be more than willing to take on any role you wish tonight.”
“No.” It’s a cut-and-dried response, one she doesn’t seem to like by the slight narrowing of her eyes, and as I turn to walk through the main floor’s main entrance, her arm shoots out. Those long, fake nails grip my arm. A no-no, and I make it a point of setting my gaze on her hand, then her. “Watch it.”
“Don’t be so grumpy.” She giggles as if this is a game while cocking her hip to the right. An act to draw my attention but is useless on me. One of my soldiers, though, releases a low whistle behind me, causing her smile to widen before I hold a hand up to silence him. I don’t care who of the four made the unwise decision; they’ll all suffer if it happens again. I also don’t need to look back to know the point has been made. “Those men can wait a moment or two. There’s no need to rush in, Patron.”
The bottom half of her outfit is nothing more than a band across her hips to cover the split between her thighs. And more importantly—a fact she’s missing in her forwardness—it does nothing for me. She does nothing for me, not so much as a cock twitch, and I smirk when her attempt at a coquettish smile drops.
It’s also not lost on me that she called me boss.
Like her, many have tried, and all have failed. I’m not a relationship kind of man.
I do not need sentimental attachments.
“Señorita, I suggest you keep those hands to yourself. Understood?”
“I’m just being—”
“A holdup,” I finish for her, taking her hand off my arm none too gently and letting it drop at her side. “Hagale, and open the door.
“Alejandro, I...” she trails off then, lips snapping shut when I part my jacket to show her my personal escorts. Her face drains of all color. Her fear becomes palpable and I breathe in deeply, enjoying her terror.
I let her see a glimpse of the demon that resides within.
An enemy she should never meet.
“I’m going to pretend the last few minutes never happened...” my voice is low, but in the calm lies the threat “...that you never took liberties that aren’t yours to take. Don’t do it again.” The woman has gone mute, eyes wide and with a slight shake. “Do you understand? Nod your head if you do.” She does, and I snap my fingers; one of the men traveling with me walks past us and opens the door leading to the dining room’s main floor. “Now, have yourself a pleasant evening.”
My men follow as I walk down a dimly lit hallway that leads to a large circular space at the center of the building with five doors. This locale has three floors; each one pays homage to a different kind of need, from fine dining to themes. From music to age. There is a segregation of tastes, but one thing doesn’t wane…
Sex is a unifying factor. A mutual appreciation.
There’s no shame within these walls.
No moral code.
It’s the perfect place for the meeting about to take place; a good amount of space between each private dining room that secures privacy. No one comes in without you requesting their service unless you’re a guest.
The one I’ve reserved for the night is the largest.
No noise can be heard. Not even the servers can be seen.
And more importantly, it has a private exit.
Coming to a stop in front of the third door, I tap the card reader with the key and the light blinks green, letting me push the large wooden structure open. The room’s lighting is dim, but my eyes take in the three faces sitting in my direct line of sight.
Three men. Two strangers. And all sitting silently on one side of the long table at the center of the large room.
They are here for me.
Because my poppy and marijuana plantations across four countries dominate several markets across the globe, from pharmaceutical companies to large cartel organizations south of the United States border. From morphine and codeine production to the harsher and illegal forms, I control ninety percent of the world’s supply.
I’m a privatized general with a personal army to match, but more importantly, the citizens of Colombia are loyal to those that feed and take care of their own.
I do both, and fairly. I reward their devotion.
Something the government hates me for, but will not rise against an armed enemy.
An asshole with no remorse and his own militia. An anti-establishment movement whose sole purpose is to bring forth the demise of the Quintero family’s reign and corruption. Two generations have served as president—served themselves to the country’s riches—and while I’ll never be a saint, I do plan to destroy them.
“Is the Jurado ready to deliver their verdict?” the judge asks the jurors sitting to the left of him. There are not many here. Just five people: three women and two men, and they’re each older than dirt.
I also don’t like the way they look at us.
At my father.
As if we’re scum. Criminals.
There’s judgment in their eyes—it’s been there since before the opening statements were heard. Not that Dad’s pro-bono lawyer did much to help him. The guy had no witnesses, no proof of this being a setup, or much of a defense. Nothing.
The malparido didn’t even let my father take the stand to defend himself.
The slightly younger of the grandpas stands. His frail frame shakes a bit as he clears his throat. “On the charges brought forth by the country of Colombia for the production, sale, and trafficking of cocaine...” my mother grips my hand hard, fingernails breaking the skin there while my older brother sits forward to grip my dad’s shoulder “...we find the defendant to be guilty.”
There’s a wail from beside me. It’s gut-wrenching and breaks my heart, but more than that, it cements the hate that’s been brewing within. My veins turn ice-cold with each hurt-filled cry my mother releases. With the way my father’s shoulders drop and he shudders with his anguish.
At that moment, I vow to kill every person who had a hand in this.
“On the charges of blackmail and attempted murder of President Quintero, we find the defendant...guilty.”
“Oh God,” Mom whimpers, and it’s taking everything in me to stay right where I am. To not jump over the short divider they have in place to separate the attorneys and defendant from their family and break each of their necks.
“Mamita, controlece. Dad needs us to be strong,” I whisper low, taking my hand from hers so I can wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her tightly against my side. “We’ll fight this. Do whatever needs to be done, but he will come home.”
She nods, choking back her pain. “Okay.”
That okay has been my driving force since that day. It’s the reason why there’s a bullet in my house for each male member of the Quintero family and a mass grave where they can rot. A death sentence Jose Quintero himself brought down upon his family’s head the moment he stole and destroyed mine.
That hijueputa will be the last to die. He’ll watch his son and brother take their last breaths.
“Q’hubo, Lucas? Where have you been hiding?” Daniel says the moment I fully step inside, and my guards take their place in front of each closed entrance and exit. He stands from his seat after placing his drink down on the table where there are a few bottles of rum, vodka, and Aguardiente open, the latter being my first drink of choice to start my evening. “Where’s your shadow?”
The shadow would be my general, Chiquito Salazar; an ex-military operative for the state that’s been under my employ for a decade working his way up the ranks, and also married his cousin, Mariana, without the family’s knowledge. He’s forty-five to her twenty-four, something that didn’t sit well with Daniel, especially since they met through him when she moved back from Tampa less than nineteen months ago.
Since he knows Chiquito’s been a womanizer in the past and this is his third marriage due to infidelities.
And while I trust both men, they know better than to bring discord to my operations. Those familial arguments are best
saved for holidays and reunions.
“On his way back from picking up a new business partner.”
“Are you taking them out for a game of soccer?” The asshole smirks, understanding the meaning behind the words, and extends his hand out while those sitting to his left await my response. To show their amusement or run. Because while I don’t know them personally; they know me. Know of my no-patience reputation.
Of my cruelty. Of my shoot-first policy.
I keep my expression neutral. “Something like that.”
“By the way, the kiddo’s been asking about his uncle Nando.”
Taking my time, I leave him hanging while pulling my two 1911s out and place them down atop the table, the barrels facing Daniel. He doesn’t flinch. My guests don’t so much as breathe.
“Tell him patience is a virtue.”
“You try telling that to a spoiled five-year-old.” He laughs, and I let out a chuckle of my own before taking the offered hand. One tug, and I pull him half over the glass tabletop and slap his shoulder. I’ve known him since primary school, and when my family fell from grace and my father was arrested, his parents took us in without a second thought.
No questions asked. No rebukes.
It’s why I brought him along with me after establishing my business. It’s why he can joke with me, and I’d never kill the fucker for it. I’d shoot him, but never end his life.
Daniel Armando is the head of my transport division in Cali and is loyal. A brother.
“You’re just jealous he thinks I’m the coolest person alive.”
He pulls back, the grin on his face letting me know he’s about to say something stupid. “That little shit has bad taste and doesn’t know any better, güevon.”
The men at this table don’t know our past. They’re here because I need someone with their specific skill to do a job for me, and it’s comical how their eyes widen. How they move back in their seats, their chairs scraping against the floor roughly, screeching as they do.
“Relax.” One word and they ease up, the tension in their bodies less prominent. “We’re all friends here tonight.”
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