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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.
