In the foyer, two of Papa’s men were already standing there like they had come out of the walls.Not the overly obvious kind. They wore dark jackets, ordinary faces, extraordinary bodies. One of them, Diego, a man in his forties with a small scar near his chin, looked at my sandals with an expression that was both deeply professional and deeply pained.“Señorita.”“Don’t.”He shut his mouth.I took a car key from the marble bowl by the door. Not the most expensive car in the garage, and not the fastest either. A low black SUV normal enough not to make everyone on the road immediately think cartel princess, though the plates probably still screamed I have family problems.The Medellín night air touched my skin as soon as I stepped outside.Warm. A little damp. Smelling of earth, exhaust, night-blooming flowers, and a city that never really slept.I got into the car, started the engine, then looked in the rearview mirror.One black car came to life a few meters behind me.At the far end
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