Chapter 14

Rodrigo's POV

The following day after the call, I made my way to Mexico.

Right now I'm inside my Mercedes-Benz S-Class, moving through the rural roads of Tepito. The landscape outside is grey and waterlogged — cracked concrete, rusted iron gates, the kind of poverty that doesn't ask for your pity. It just exists.

All that's on my mind is Javier.

Getting those answers out of Javier.

And for once, I have a good feeling about this. Because this one — this one has something to lose.

A wife.

A son.

And yes, I will go that far. If he doesn't talk, they get it too. In this life, nobody has time for sentiments. You mess with my business, you pay for it. Hard. Simple as that.

The car halts in front of what looks like an abandoned warehouse.

My warehouse.

The exterior is deliberate — designed to blend into the decay around it, to avoid any reason for suspicion. And in a place like Tepito? A slum law enforcement barely bothers to drive through? It was the perfect place to disappear. Water puddles collect in the cracks of the concrete floor. The air is cold from what looks like days of unrelenting rain, that particular damp that seeps into everything and stays.

I step into the dark.

My men fall in behind me. The quiet efficiency of men who understand their place — the result of power properly established.

Walking deeper in, the reason I'm here slowly takes shape under the light.

My other men have formed a loose circle around him.

Tied to a chair.

Head hanging down.

His shirt soaked through and wrinkled, clinging to him like it's given up. He looks exhausted in the way that people look when they've spent days being afraid.

I step into the cone of light illuminating him.

"Remove the gag."

The order leaves my mouth and is obeyed before the words have fully settled. The cloth is ripped free. He coughs. Then the sound of my voice — calm, unhurried — forces his head up.

Javier Morales.

The fear in his eyes is immediate. Confusion right behind it.

"Please." His voice breaks on the first word. "I've done nothing wrong. Please don't kill me."

He's barely finished speaking before the disgust rises in me like bile. They always know how to beg. Never think before they act, but oh — the begging comes naturally enough.

Before I've even registered the impulse, my fist swings and connects with his face. Blood sprays onto the floor in a dark arc.

Now that's a sight more like it.

I extend my hand without looking. A towel is placed in my palm. I wipe my knuckles clean, then remove my suit jacket, draping it over the back of a nearby chair. I fold my sleeves up, methodical. Remove the gold Audemars Piguet from my wrist and set it aside.

Then I step closer.

He's delirious with pain already. One punch and he's barely holding himself together.

"Do you know why you're here?"

He shakes his head. "No."

I pull a chair directly in front of him and sit. Eye level. Close enough for him to understand that there's nowhere to look that isn't me.

"Remember your little escapade with Customs? The shipment you helped stop." I let a beat pass. "Ring a bell?"

The moment I say it, something shifts in his face. Like a light turning on behind his eyes — then immediately going dark with fear. His expression begins to crumble, slowly at first, then all at once.

He breaks into ugly, heaving sobs.

"Por favor, se lo ruego. No lo hice a propósito. Me pagaron para hacerlo. No busco problemas, señor."

(Please, I'm begging you. I didn't do it intentionally. I was paid to do it. I'm not looking for trouble, sir.)

"Pues definitivamente te metiste en problemas."

(Well, you definitely found trouble.)

I reach forward and grab his bloody chin, forcing his face up.

"Dame un nombre y más te vale no mentirme. ¿Quién te pagó?"

(Give me a name and you better not lie to me. Who paid you?)

He's shaking. His eyes dart from me to the men surrounding him, calculating, measuring, searching for something that isn't there. Then another ugly sob tears out of him.

"Me van a matar. Me van a matar si digo algo."

(They'll kill me. They'll kill me if I say anything.)

They.

Who the fuck is they?

Does this man genuinely believe whoever he's scared of is worse than what's standing directly in front of him right now?

I stand slowly. Press my palm to my face and drag it down. I'm pacing the perimeter of where he's seated — measuring my steps, searching for patience.

It isn't coming.

No words are exchanged. None are needed. My men read the room the way men who've worked for me long enough always do. A path opens, and there they are — steel trays arranged neatly beneath the warehouse lights. Surgical instruments. Pliers. Scalpels. Tools.

I didn't want to resort to this.

All he had to do was give me one name.

Some people simply prefer the hard way.

I pick up the pliers. Light in the hand. Comfortable. A chair is positioned beside Javier and I sit, unhurried, the way a man sits when he already knows how the evening ends. I take his hand in mine.

"Vamos a jugar un jueguito, ¿te parece?"

(Let's play a little game, shall we?)

His eyes go wide.

"Por cada pregunta que no contestes bien, pierdes una uña. Más uñas significan más respuestas correctas. ¿Está bien?"

(For every question you don't answer correctly, you lose a nail. More nails means more correct answers. Is that okay?)

He shakes his head violently. Protesting with his whole body. I don't care.

"First question." I tap one finger lightly. "Did you contact the Mexican Customs officers about my shipment?"

Confusion crosses his face. English isn't his strength.

"¿Contactaste a los de la aduana de México por lo de mi envío?"

He stills. Then nods.

Yes.

"Bien. Ya ves, ya empezamos con el pie derecho. No perdimos ninguna uña."

(You see? We're already off to a good start. No nails lost.)

I offer him a smile. The kind that doesn't reach anywhere near warmth.

"Ahora la siguiente pregunta. ¿Te pagaron para sabotear mi envío?"

(Now the next question. Were you paid to sabotage my shipment?)

He hesitates. Then nods again.

Yes.

"¡Súper! Ahora, pregunta extra. ¿Quién te pagó para hacerlo?"

(Wonderful! Now, bonus question. Who paid you to do it?)

The atmosphere changes.

He stares at me. The calculation returns to his eyes — running through every possible option, every consequence, every exit. Then all of it overwhelms him at once and he dissolves.

"Porfa, jefe."

Tears pouring freely. Mucus joining the portrait of a desperate man coming apart.

"Van a matar a mi familia si hablo."

(They'll kill my family if I speak.)

I click my tongue. Shake my head slowly.

"Esperaba que cooperaras. Pero bueno—"

(I hoped you'd cooperate. Oh well—)

The pliers clamp down and I pull.

The sound it makes is wet and final. The nail plate separates from the cuticle in a slow, agonizing drag — blood welling immediately from the exposed flesh. His entire body lurches against the restraints, a scream tearing out of him that fills every corner of the warehouse and echoes back.

"Me duele. ¡Por favor, ah! Me duele. Por favor, señor."

(It hurts. Please, ah! It hurts. Please, sir.)

I set the nail neatly on the silver tray beside me.

Then position the pliers over the second finger.

"Vuelvo a preguntar. ¿Quién te pagó?"

(I'll ask again. Who paid you?)

His eyes squeeze shut. Pain and contemplation fighting for control of his face. When they open again, he's searching my eyes for something — mercy, maybe. A door that isn't there.

He shakes his head.

"My famili. They kill my famili. Porfa."

I shake my head. The annoyance is genuine now.

"Más vale que me creas que si no me dices quién te pagó, te voy a matar a ti y luego a tu familia, y después voy a tirar sus cuerpos juntos al río. Así que, ¿quién te pagó?"

(Best believe that if you don't tell me who paid you, I'll kill you and then your family, and toss all your bodies into the river together. So — who paid you?)

Nothing.

My patience reaches its end quietly, the way it always does — not with a snap but with a door closing.

I stop asking questions.

What follows is a barrage — the rhythmic, wet clack of the pliers, the screaming that layers over itself, the smell of blood, the sound of a man discovering exactly how much pain a body can produce before it starts going somewhere else in the mind. I don't stop. I don't give him room to recover between nails. One after another until—

"DANTE!"

I stop.

Right at the pinky finger.

The warehouse goes silent except for his breathing — ragged, broken, barely functional. His hands are trembling so violently the restraints rattle against the chair. Blood coats his fingers, soaks the armrests, drips in a slow and steady rhythm onto the concrete floor. He's crying the way people cry when their body has run out of anything else to do.

"Es Dante. Dante Gambino. Él es el que me pagó."

(It's Dante. Dante Gambino. He's the one who paid me.)

I stare at him.

Dante Gambino.

Really.

I turn the name over carefully. Who would have thought one of the most prominent names on the High Table would have his hands in this. Then again — it makes sense. Dante and Don Hermes have been circling each other for years, both angling for the presidency of the council. Cripple me, and you cripple the Valdino name. Paint me as incompetent, and you paint my father as a man whose own house isn't in order. A neat political move. Elegant, almost.

I study Javier's face. Every ruined, exhausted inch of it.

"Are you sure?"

He nods immediately. No hesitation. He doesn't even have the energy for hesitation anymore.

I believe him.

A man like Javier Morales shouldn't know who Dante Gambino is. The fact that he does means they've met. Means business was done face to face. Means I finally have exactly what I came here for.

I stand.

"Patch him up." I address one of my men without looking back. "Give him water. Then send him home."

They nod. I take my suit jacket from the chair, drape it over one shoulder, and walk.

The warehouse exit draws closer with each step, the grey light of the Tepito afternoon waiting beyond the threshold — and then I hear it.

"Por favor, señor."

Javier's voice. Barely above a whisper now. Stripped of everything.

I stop.

"Van a matar a mi familia ahora que se lo dije. Él va a matar a mi esposa y a mi hijo. Por favor. Necesitamos su ayuda."

(Please, sir. My family will be killed now that I've told you. He will kill my wife and my son. Please. We need your help.)

I pause.

Just slightly.

My head turns back, enough to see him over my shoulder. He's sitting with nothing left in him — no more fight, no more calculation, no more options. Just his eyes. The eyes of a man holding out a hand toward the only door left in the room.

"Pues eso te enseñará a tener más cuidado con quién haces tratos."

(Well. That should teach you to be more careful about who you do business with.)

The shock moves across his face in stages. First disbelief. Then fear. Then something that looks like betrayal — which is remarkable, honestly, coming from a man who sold out a shipment for someone else's money.

I let him sit with it.

Then I walk out.

Dante Gambino started a war.

And I intend to make sure he pays every cent of what that costs him.