But here we are.
I’m leading Humberto and a group of guards through the barracks down to our version of Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors. It looks straight up medieval down here. Some of the shit down here dates back to when myabuelowas a child. Sinceit’s rarely used, it’s still in good shape. We’ve added other things over the decades to keep the place more modern than it looks.
“Ponlo en el potro.” Put him on the rack.
Medievalandeffective.
I watch the men hoist a struggling old man onto the table then strap him on. It takes little effort on their part, but he’s panting and sweating—more than he was as the men basically dragged him down here. I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash if he’d tumbled down the fucking stairs since he flailed his arms and kept trying to yank free.
Dumbass.
Once he’s attached to the table, I signal the men to leave. I retrieve a knife that’s magnetically attached to the wall. I exaggerate my examination of the blade. I whirl around and slice across his belly. It’s deep but not deadly. He howls as blood splatters my shirt and pants.
“You’ve been nothing but a shit stain for this family since you were born. Your father couldn’t kill you even though you were worthless from the start. Your brother took pity on you. Myabuelogave you chances to prove yourself worthy of the family name. You proved you were always worthless. He looked out for you while you were both growing up. He protected you from mytatarabuelo.” Great-grandfather.
I slash his left thigh.
From the stories I heard, myabueloused to take the blame for shit Humberto did when they were growing up because he was always small for his age. He felt duty-bound to protect Humberto from their father’s wrath because he wasn’t a benevolent man. Perhaps it spoiled Humberto because he thought it entitled him to whatever he could get his hands on.
He tried to get his hands on mychiquita.
For that, I stab just below his right ribs. His blood sprays across my face. Disgusting but not unprecedented. I notice, butI don’t bat an eye at it. Not the first nor the last time I’ve worn someone else’s blood.
He wheezes as he continues to talk, not unaccustomed to pain and being forced to account for himself, even when he’s bleeding.
“My brother was weak. Maybe he should have taken after our father more.”
Benevolence is lost on me.
That’s not the man life raised me to be. I was a lot likeAbuelowas when I was younger. I took the blame for crap Juan did despite him treating me like shit. There was a year when we were the same height. He had a massive growth spurt early, so despite me being two years older than him, he caught up to me. Then I hit fifteen and filled out to nearly the size I am now. I knew I could never outright beat the shit out of him because my parents wouldn’t forgive me, but I made sure I was the one who trained him to fight. He took a lot of punches he didn’t need. I broke his nose once. Oops.
My strength and detachment didn’t go unnoticed byTíoEnrique,TíoMatáis—Alejandro’s father—orPapá. Alejandro’s bigger than me now, but he’s a couple years younger, so it wasn’t until he turned seventeen that his shoulders broadened wider than mine. For years, I was the biggest of my generation. My size and ability to compartmentalize led me down the path to being our top enforcer. I’ve seen and done shit I could never have fathomed as a kid. But I do my duty.
I pick up a hammer and circle it through the air like a baseball player warming up. Then I toss it up and let it spin clockwise before catching it. I tap his left shin once as I walk toward his head.
“Weak like this?”
I bring the hammer down on his left kneecap. He howls.
“Or weak like this?”
I swing the hammer sideways and slam it into his pisiform—one of the two most fragile parts of the hand. It’s the bone on the outside of the hand that’s above the knobbly one at the bottom corner before the wrist starts. I ignore his wailing as I turn the tool around in my hand and bring the claw down on the flesh between the thumb and index finger. The other most sensitive part of the hand.
“Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll kill you before I pour the acid on you and set you ablaze. Make me work for the information, and I’ll inflict more pain than you imagined the human body could withstand.”
He stares at me, and he knows nothing I say is exaggerated. He’s heard of my reputation. So have I. It’s understated if anything.
“Bien.” Fine.
“How did Domingo Aguilar wind up indebted to you?”
“I knew he liked to gamble. Usually, it was racing his cars, but he played some cards. He was in Monte Carlo when I was, and we chatted at a baccarat table.”
“How very James Bond of you.”
I loved playing as a kid because it was a simple game with two cards a player. Each one tries to get close to nine without going over. If the value is in the double digits, then you only count the second number. If it’s sixteen, then only the six counts. My cousins and I would bet M&Ms. Our parents taught us various card games because we own casinos and run underground gambling rings. We visit places like Monte Carlo, where wealth and skill make you powerful.
“He was a talker when he drank too much. It took me hours to get him liquored up enough to share how badly his father needed him to marry mysobrina. His father picked a fight with Josue he couldn’t win. He thought he could edge my brotherout and take over Bogotá and eventually run Colombia. Fucking delusional.” Niece.
