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We arrive back atCastillo Katarína—our home in the mountains named after Mamá—ten minutes later. When we hop out of the Hummer, Isaiah, Jesús, and Ibrahim start whooping and cheering again. All of our men raise their guns and clap them on the back. They try to include me, since I’m the one who carried out the murder, but I’m not in the mood.
Ignoring them all, I walk through the front doors towards my room. Papá is in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea, but I don’t have the energy to do much more than give him an affectionate—but gentle—clap on the back before darting to my room.
He calls after me, but I ignore him as I shut my bedroom door and lock it.
* * *
One week later
The sounds of my footsteps on the polished marble floors ring in my ears as I walk down the long, dark hall to my father’s office. He told me yesterday morning that he wanted to speak with me, and I’ve been putting off the conversation until now because I already know what he’s going to say.
He wants me to officially lead the cartel, and I’m just not ready for that.
I’ve spent my entire life following in my father’s footsteps in preparation for this very moment, but I had no idea how hard it would be to come to terms with that fact until now.
Papá is dying. He’s had two massive heart attacks in three years, the second of which we weren’t sure he’d ever recover from. Couple that with stress, old age, and the depression from losing my mother... It’s a miracle he can even get out of bed every day.
When I reach the office door, I knock three times and wait for him to answer.
“Adelante,” he says, his voice sounding frail and quiet. I push the door open and step inside. Papá is sitting behind his desk, looking over some papers. He smiles when I take a seat across from him, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes tugging at my heart.
“How are you,mi hijo?” he asks.
I shrug, not wanting to show how much of a nervous wreck I am right now. “Okay, I suppose. What are you doing?”
He signs a few of the papers before putting them back in order and setting them on the desk neatly in front of him. “Rewriting my will.”
I crack my knuckles, irritation starting to rise in me. “Why?”
“To make you sole beneficiary of my estate.”
I stare at him in confusion. “I thought I already was.”
He nods. “It would make sense for you to assume so.”
“But?” I lift an eyebrow.
“But, you weren’t,” he says simply. “Until now.”
I grind my teeth together and fist my hands until my fingernails are digging into my palms. “Can you just spit it out already?”
Papá sighs and interlaces his fingers. “I had my doubts about you, Victor.”
“You doubted me?”
He nods. “I didn’t think you could handle being in charge after I’m gone, but the events of the past few weeks have more than proved me wrong. For that,mi hijo, I’m sorry. I’ve always known how smart you are, but you’re also capable, and I should have seen that a lot sooner.”
“Why are you dealing with your will right now, though? You have plenty of time to do that. What’s wrong?”
Papá chuckles. “Why do you assume something is wrong?”
“Because you only call me in here when something’s wrong,” I point out, now digging my fingernails into the soft leather of the chair.
Papá nods. “I think you know what we need to discuss, Victor.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and shake my head. “No. No, I can’t do this right now.”
“So, when would be a more convenient time for you, son?” he asks sharply, pinning me in place with those deep brown eyes. “Two weeks from now when I’m dead?”
