I refuse to accept how clearly salty I am.I’mnot the problem here.It’s them.
Something must be done. I can’t deal with this for one more second. I’ve been on the verge of a killing spree for months now, and something’s got to give.
I’m not jealous, okay?? I don’t get jealous, especially of sexy little daughters of Irish mob bosses.
Finn Jameson has been under my thumb since I blackmailed his daughter into working for me, but he’s still getting his licks in, isn’t he? Having his girl wave her vagina in my officer’s face…
No. Fuck that.
We’re done here.
I’m on a mission to get back to the island so that I can resolve this issue. It’s what I do, after all. Like with Sinaloa, like with the Irish in Boston, or the Russians in Brighton Beach…
When people need a spanking, I give it to them. And when they need to be redirected to something else, some vices to keep their minds nice and fuzzy and more susceptible to my control…Well, baby,thatis where I thrive.
Years.
So many of them spent waiting for the right moment. For the time to come when it would all pay off.
Learning, training, preparing. Revenge is a long game, and I have honed my patience into a perfectly crafted weapon…Like that butterfly knife my father’s father had made just for him.
There’s a reason they say patience is a virtue. It’s an extremely difficult skill to master. Unlike the physical training, or mental sculpting. Patience falls somewhere between the two, though more on the mental side, being that it issoeasily affected by emotion.
Excitement, thrill, desire… Rage. Even boredom. They can all chip away at your impulse control, thus turning that eagerness to have what you crave into action.Patience no more.
If patience is an art, then I’m like Picasso. I’m a master of perseverance.
That said, it takes a while to get good at it.Patience takes patience, go figure.
But I’m not just inflating my own ego here. It’s beenfifteen yearssince the night my family was stolen from me. And every moment since has been dedicated to this singular objective.
I started training when I was seven years old. Strengthening myself physically in any way possible. Running, swimming, and hiking. Practicing martial arts—Taekwondo at eight, Jiujitsu at twelve and Krav Maga at fourteen. Yoga and meditation, which certainly helped fortify the bridge between my body and my mind.
Education was equally important. Learning anything and everything I felt might be helpful. Broadening my scope of education, because a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease.
Sun Tzu. The Art of War.
Yea, that’s right.
I perfected my English by the time I turned ten—a real feat, considering I didn’t speakat allfrom age three to seven. But that didn’t much matter, because I listened.A lot. And I didn’tjustlisten… I heard. Iabsorbed, andretained.
I would play nothing but memory games. My entire childhood, growing up in Bogota with my aunt, I was never without a puzzle or a matching game.I’m the undefeated Simon champ.
Reading everything I could get my hands on, building physical strength, and then the knowledge of the streets.
I would people-watch, and I would hunt—animals, not people. I learned to track, and how to slink around undetected. How to make myself invisible. It wasn’t all that difficult, seeing as how I spent more of my time alone.
I knew how to make friends, how to be charming and interesting and funny. But I only everpracticedthose things, to make sure I had the abilities, should I need them. Friends would only slow me down, in reality.Relationshipswere a frivolous distraction I didn’t need.
What Ineededwas to focus. And to be patient.
Like everything else, the patience grew over time. When I was younger, my emotions would take over, and I would break down. Scream and cry and smash shit. The rage in me wassostrong, the anguish of knowinghewas still out there, living and breathing while my parents weren’t, was like a million tiny slices to a part of me I couldn’t soothe.
But I never let it divert my path. I channeled it into more motivation, and I just kept pushing. Past the trauma, the hopelessness, and the isolation. The never-ending river of despair that flows through my body, in my bloodstream, I diverted into the path of my revenge. And I let it fuel me.
At this point, I’m so fucking zen I’m practically floating.
Which isperfect, because all of my hard work is about to pay off.
