Ricardo

In the room at one of our hideouts, I sat alone, consumed with grief and anger. We didn’t have many across the city, and we preferred them to be out of sight, but in Chicago, it was pretty hard to have hideouts in a city full of apartment blocks. So, we used one of the businesses we owned for cleaning money. The typical crap every mob king had, from restaurants to men’s clothing stores. A casino could have been added to the list, but then the damn feds would be on it like leeches. We preferred restaurants because there was nothing more satisfying than beating the crap out of someone and then having a good meal afterward.

As much as I tried to erase the picture which kept flashing in my mind, I couldn’t even if a whole week had passed by, it still felt like yesterday. No amount of food, time, or drink could ever get rid of it. I stood as if a shot of lightning was being directed at the chair. I recalled Pa’s lifeless body lying in his bed. The man I loved more than myself was dead, and I didn’t know or even care if I would ever feel the same way ever again.

Today marked one week.

One week since the day I lost him. I couldn’t remember the last time someone in our family had died of natural causes; it was rarely heard of in our business, our lives were always fucking under threat. I’d sent many to their grave without blinking an eye. I’d had others try the same thing on me, and didn’t hesitate in repaying the favor.

Booze.

Sex.

Women.

These vices made everything we did bearable, as we played Russian roulette with our lives; it was clear we would cross the line one day and miss. The day I found Pa dead, it changed everything for me. I felt numb as I reflected on it, as I had every fucking day since then.

Could I have done something differently?

If I’d known something was up, then somewhere along the line, I could have stopped it. The million-dollar question that must run through everyone’s mind when they lose a loved one.

I was born with a gun in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other. My Mexican grandpa raised me and any time we snuck across the border into the States, it felt like a fucking luxury.

Now, it felt like a necessity, which didn’t sit too well with me at the best of times. When Wall Street crashed, my family and the rest of them chipped in to save America’s fucking economy. We weren’t known as criminals then, but saviors.

When it suits them, we’re criminals so much so that their president is talking about building a damn wall to divide us. They should build the fucking wall and see how long they last without our sucio dinero. Our money’s so fucking dirty when they need it to help them survive the economic crisis banging on their doors. The politicians and even bankers come and beg us for dough; they’re interested in keeping us in the country, but the rest of the time, they treat us like we’re animals. As if we’re the ones who should be locked up in cages and thrown into the ocean.

Pa always said we had to scratch their backs because one day, they’d scratch ours. It was a fucking joke because, at times, it felt as if they were scratching ours and leaving fucking scars.

There was no break-in to the house, no sign anything was up, apart from one little detail. Pa wasn’t up at six. Sometimes, he got up a little later… six-ten or so… but by six-thirty, I gathered something was up.

So, I went in to check on him. I knocked on his door. Nothing. “Pa! Despierta!” I laughed as I thought about him having a little too much to drink, and needing a little sunlight to come into the room. This would wake him up for sure, I thought as I drew the curtains. My eyes glanced back, and he was peacefully sleeping in his bed. Or so I believed…

It wasn’t until I looked at him closely, while he was sleeping in his bed. I froze, not wanting to disturb him. But something looked off. He was so still and pale, unlike his usual tanned complexion, so I leaned closer to him, intending to kiss his forehead. His skin was cold. I gasped, rocking back on my heels.

He wasn’t breathing.

I threw back the covers, but they stuck to his body.

Gagging, I stumbled backward. Someone had carved him up like a fucking butcher.

My Pa.

The paramedics and police turned up; they were too late. The fucking pigs laughed, and I even overheard them, saying someone saved a few thousand people by killing Pa.

What few thousand people?

We killed, sure, but they were killing innocents, politicians putting families on the poverty line, but we were the animals. And no one’s innocent in this world.

No one.

I told them to put Pa in the fridge. He wouldn’t be buried, and he couldn’t be put to rest until I found out who killed him. I would put everything to the side. Nothing was more important than seeing justice served.

Juan, my right-hand man, a former boxer, walked into the room and said, “Listo, jefe.” His eyes were dark, and he had no hair. He shaved it a long time ago when he started to go bald. It made him appear a lot younger than his years.

“It’s time, Juan. Time to learn what the mark knows.”

Juan narrowed his eyes and nodded in agreement.

“Someone, somewhere, knows who did this to Pa, and I won’t rest until I find them.” No fucking sleeping, eating, or anything which could be deemed as a luxury. I could still feel Pa’s cold body against mine. Someone did this to him. Forensics said most of it was done when he was alive. I’d make whoever did it pay, and anyone involved suffer the same fate.

I sprung up with a spurge of energy, ready to beat the shit out of the mark. “Let’s see what he knows.”

Juan nodded, and I deliberated about the number of times I’d done this in my life. The figure was nowhere near how many times I’d done it this week already. I stopped counting after the fifth. I needed to find Pa’s killer, and most of all, I needed to make them pay.