Picturing Cristiano at the helm wasn’t that hard to do. He’d worked side by side often with my father and had sat with us at the family dinner table far more than anyone else in Papá’s business. “If that’s true,” I said, “then Cristiano probably felt he lost all that when he had to flee.”
Diego nodded. “And now he wants it back.”
Even if Cristiano hadn’t killed my mother, he’d been blamed for it. What did an accusation like that do to a person? He’d had eleven years to nurse his grudge. I’d never forgotten what he’d said to me before we’d descended into the tunnel: “Look what loyalty got me.” Those weren’t the words of someone who wanted to be accepted home. They were those of a man who felt he’d been wronged.
Certainly Cristiano’s definition of loyalty had changed that day.
And that made him dangerous.
Diego raised his voice as he ran the garbage disposal. “Do you know the real reason for the nickname El Polvo?”
The Dust. That was what some had called Cristiano when he’d worked for my father. “Because he arrives on a cloud of dust, delivering death before the dirt clears.”
“That’s what people say, but no.” He flipped off the disposal and washed his hands. “It’s actually because of how he executed his first kill.”
“How?” I asked.
“It’s gruesome.” He dried his hands on a dishtowel. “On second thought, maybe I shouldn’t say.”
At this point, I was in too deep not to ask. My curiosity was being stoked at every turn and fighting it just made my imagination run wild. “Tell me,” I said.
“He got a bucket of sand from the desert,” Diego said, rubbing his palms together. “Then tied up a man twice his age and poured it down his throat until he choked to death.”
I gripped my neck, suddenly unable to breathe. “No.”
Diego nodded. “I’ve seen him do it. No screaming that way. No blood. No marks. And the bonus of a slow death . . .”
My nostrils flared as I inhaled. I felt that sand in my throat, strangling me. Death by torture—that was worse than death itself.
“After the party, I started looking into the Calaveras more. I’ve heard all kinds of inhumane things.” Diego brought the plate of fruit to the table, removed his shoes, and sat across from me. “Apparently they have a soundproof dungeon where they keep one body part from each person who has betrayed them.”
I stopped the question on my tongue—why. Why was a dangerous word. I didn’t want to know. Dungeons and soundproof rooms and body parts could only mean bad things. Despicable, torturous things. But what was worse—to know the truth, or let ignorance leave me vulnerable? Where Cristiano was concerned, I never wanted to be in the dark again.
“What else have you learned?” I asked. “And don’t tell me not to ask. I can handle it.”
He shifted in his seat. “The worst, I guess, is abducting children to do his bidding.”
As horrifying as that was, my father had taken in Diego and Cristiano for similar reasons. They had food and a place to sleep at night, but also an obligation to the cartel that they could never escape. “Is that different than what you guys do?” I asked.
“The kids in our cartel are like family. Your father never treated us like slaves. I’m talking bigger stuff. The Calaveras have gone as far as to purchase an entire shipment of children for labor.”
I recoiled, clamping a hand over my mouth. What even was a shipment of children? And how did someone purchase one? Bile rose up my throat, and I pushed the mango slices away. “What . . . but how? How can he get away with that?”
Diego ran his sock along my inner calf. It was a small gesture, but still comforting. He lowered his voice, leaning in although we were alone. “Cristiano is powerful. He has even the most pious of government officials in his pocket and within Badlands’ walls are all kinds of businesses, big and small. From supermercados and hardware stores to drone security centers and freight shipping offices.”
“But shipping is your business,” I said. “Isn’t that stepping on your toes?”
“We own ports and plazas and have arrangements all the way from individual fishermen to fleet management companies, which reduces our risk.” He ate a piece of fruit. “Cristiano invests but also has solutions in-house—”
“Con permiso, señor.” A boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen stood in the doorway. “Hay un problema.”
Diego nodded as he wiped his fingers on his pants. “Speak.”
“Tepic is trying to reach you. It’s, ah . . .” He glanced at me with anxious eyes. “Es importante.”
Diego stood and kissed the top of my head. “I’ll be right back,” he said, taking out his phone. “Feel free to snoop around the kitchen—unless it’s not as much fun when you have permission?”
I stuck my tongue out at him as he left, then texted with Pilar to update her.
By the time Diego returned, I’d finished all the mango. “Sorry,” I said as he stayed in the doorway, typing something into his phone. “I guess I was hungry after all. Want me to cut another?”
He glanced up but looked past me, staring off as if he hadn’t quite registered that I was there.
“Diego?” I asked, sitting up straighter.
He blinked, and recognition crossed his face. “What?” he asked. “Did you say something?”
“What’s the matter?” I got up and went to him. “What was the problem?”
He ran a hand through his hair, then looked at his cell. “Ah, it’s nothing, but . . . I have to get back to work.” As soon as he stuck the phone in his pocket, it started to ring, and he took it back out. “I’ll have someone take you home.”
“I can get a cab.”
“Hmm?” He checked the screen and ran a hand over his mouth with a curse.
“You’re getting pale,” I said. “What’d Tepic say?”
“I have to take this, Tali. Don’t get a cab.” He kissed me quickly on the lips, then retreated. “Sit tight, and I’ll send someone in to drive you.”
“But—” He was already halfway out the door. “When will I see you next?” I called.
“Soon, mi amor. I’ll be in touch.” As he exited the room, he answered the phone with, “Jojo? There’s been a theft.”
Despite his unusual behavior, my shoulders relaxed with a small degree of relief. Stolen goods didn’t sound like much to be concerned about when a phone call could mean anything from a kidnapping to a RICO charge to the death of a family member.
I put my shoes back on and sat to wait for a ride, feeling slightly comforted.
As far as bad news went, I would take a theft over the alternative any day.
Diego
Our waitress looked between my brother and me in the low light of a steak restaurant, trying to decide which one she liked better. It’d been a while since we’d been sized up that way. Women had started comparing Cristiano and me once I was old enough to get female attention.
“Brothers?” she asked, placing Cristiano’s mezcal on the table.
Don Costa sat back in his dining chair, reveling in the show. “What gave it away?” he asked her.
She twisted her red lips at Cristiano, her eyes glimmering. Apparently, she’d chosen him, not that I cared. With a long nose and features that didn’t quite register as feminine, she was no Natalia. “The height,” she answered. “Dark hair. Same smile. You look a lot alike, but there’s also something very different about you.”
“What do you suppose that is?” Costa asked Cristiano.
Who gave a shit? I checked my phone for news from Tepic. We’d been in constant contact with the increasingly dire events of the past couple days, but it’d been a few hours since I’d heard anything.
I prayed that was a good sign.
“One of you is lighter.” The waitress returned her eyes to me as she served my tequila. “Must be the eyes.”
“Or Diego’s soul isn’t as charred as mine,” Cristiano said with a half-smirk. “Yet.”<
br />
She laughed. “Enjoy. I’ll be back soon to take your orders.”
When she was gone, Costa looked me over. “You like her?” he asked me. “We can send a chopper back for you tomorrow if you want to stay the night in the city.”
I bit my tongue to keep my temper in check. Anything to keep me from Natalia. I unfolded my napkin onto my lap. “No, thank you.”
“All right then.” Costa leaned his elbows on the table. All mirth drained from his features as he lowered his voice. “You have fucked us, Diego.”
We’d taken a helicopter all the way here, to an exclusive restaurant that topped the city’s tallest building, for him to say that. Two tables away, Mexico’s attorney general dined with his wife. At the bar sat a rep for one of Bolivia’s most pervasive cartels. Comandante Trujillo laughed with cronies across the room.
It was no accident that Costa, Cristiano, and I were showing our faces here tonight.
“Two stash houses were hit in two days,” Costa said. “Millions worth of product stolen. What do you have to say, Diego?”
No excuse would do. I hadn’t slept much and needed to return home to help prepare the next few deliveries, but instead, I was here, putting on a show. “It can only be explained as bad luck,” I said.
My brother picked up his drink. “Two direct hits less than forty-eight hours apart? Nothing to do with luck. You have a leak.”
“Unlikely.” A rat inside the walls would fall on my shoulders, and having a solid team I could trust was one of the things I prided myself on. “My men wouldn’t do that.”
“Until they would,” Cristiano said.
I looked to my brother. Over the last decade, I’d worked side by side with Costa to strategize and build a more advanced tunnel system, to secure long-term relationships with border agents, to arrange reliable shipping via land, air, and water in all corners of the Americas, and more. Cristiano hadn’t been there for any of it, so why was he here now?
“How much is gone?” Cristiano asked.
“We’re still within reach of what I promised the Maldonados,” I said, “but that means we have to be especially careful going forward. No hiccups at the border.”
“There are always hiccups at the border,” Costa said. “You know that better than anyone, Diego. When have you ever gotten every last kilo across? It can’t be done.”
Costa spoke with a smile for anyone who might be watching. Rumors were likely starting to circulate, and the first sign of trouble would only breed more of it. Our current clients would pull their cargo until they heard more. A broken link in our system would expose us to weakness. And most importantly—the Maldonados would start asking questions.
Questions they wouldn’t like the answers to.
We were here tonight to reassure those around us that we weren’t worried, and to crush any rumors that might start circulating about our business or our relationship with Cristiano.
“We have some leeway still,” I said, massaging my eyes as they burned from lack of sleep. “I just have to take extra precautions with the transport.”
“That’s not acceptable.” Costa struggled to keep his voice level, but anyone paying close attention would see the tension in his posture. “Failure to deliver means more than retaliation. It’s complete obliteration.”
That wouldn’t happen. If I’d thought there was a possibility of it, I never would’ve made the deal. I’d even accounted for bad luck. With the odds I’d calculated, doing business with the Maldonados had been a no-brainer. A little risk was good, but there was a point where it became reckless, and we hadn’t reached that. I knew my business in and out.
Still, I paired a long sip of tequila with a quick prayer. “I’ll handle it.”
“Did you see yesterday’s news?” Costa asked. “A potential witness in the latest case against Ángel Maldonado was found at the top of a pyramid.”
I frowned. “A pyramid?”
“Of human bodies,” he said. “Every member of his family from Chihuahua to Oaxaca.”
There was a time when that mental image would’ve made my stomach churn. Now, gruesome death was sadly routine.
“This happened while the witness was under twenty-four-seven government protection,” Cristiano added. “That’s not the Maldonados handling a problem—it’s a clear message to anyone thinking of flipping.”
I wasn’t flipping. I was costing the Maldonados money—equally bad if not worse.
With a vibration in my pocket, I put down my drink and read Tepic’s text: Emergencia.
Shit. What now? Forcing my shoulders down, I excused myself and dialed Tepic as I wound through the tables toward the windowed perimeter of the dining room.
“Diego,” Tepic answered breathlessly. “Have you talked to Jojo?”
“I’m still in the city with Costa.” I stopped at a floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the city. “What is it?”
“An explosion at the Juárez-El Paso tunnel.”
I closed my eyes and clenched a fist. What the fuck? That tunnel had been a million-dollar construction in itself, not to mention a crucial channel into the States. “Tell me that’s the only news.”
“No.” He hesitated. “Mike and Felipe were inside. And they didn’t make it.”
I looked down, massaging my temples with one hand. I was no stranger to losing people on my crew, but it never got any easier. It was personal. Mike and Felipe were more than workers—they were friends. I refrained from making the sign of the cross only so I wouldn’t draw attention. “This wasn’t an accident,” I said.
“No, patrón.”
“What happened? How much did they have with them?”
After some static on the line, Tepic said, “I’m finding out the exact amount—”
“How much?” I repeated.
“Jojo says they were mid-delivery. Some made it but not all. Five, maybe six containers gone.”
“Puta madre,” I said under my breath. “Make sure every border agent on our payroll knows we have no margins. Pay them more if you have to. And get every man we have guarding every stash house.”
“Some are en route to Guadalajara to meet with Nuñez’s guys.”
“Bring them back. We need all hands on deck.” I glanced at the table to find Cristiano watching me as Costa picked a cigar from a box the waitress offered. “Keep me updated,” I told Tepic and hung up.
The cityscape glowed against a starless night sky. I tried to figure out how to break this to Costa. This wasn’t human-pyramid bad, but now we’d hit our absolute limit. That was a serious problem in itself made worse by the fact that whatever was happening, it was calculated. And it was in front of Cristiano. Or because of him?
He’d been back less than a week, and things we’re starting to fall apart on the most important deal I’d ever made. Natalia had drawn the right conclusion—Cristiano had lost the only life he’d known when he’d been forced from the compound. A life he’d felt he’d deserved, even if it’d been built on betrayal. And now he was back—but I was the one who had Costa’s trust.
Was my brother here to earn it back?
And how would he regain it?
I didn’t doubt he had come home with a plan. Did the Maldonados somehow play into it?
I pocketed my phone and returned to the table. There was no use in drawing out bad news, so I resumed my seat at the table and dismissed the waitress.
“What is it?” Costa asked, puffing on his Montecristo. “I was about to order.”
I placed my elbows on the table, leaning in. “A tunnel has been compromised at the border,” I said.
Costa nearly choked. As he coughed, smoke billowed around him, shrouding his reddening face. As I sensed his temper mounting, I glanced around to remind him we had onlookers.
When he’d calmed, at least in appearance, he spoke. “We’re under attack.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Costa looked to Cristiano. “It has to be one of the Maldonado cartel’s many enemies who don
’t like the idea of us working together. Don’t they know fucking with us means severing ties to our network?”
“I can find out.” Cristiano spun his glass on the table. “But right now, you need a plan.”
“Damn right we do.” Costa scrubbed a hand over his face and pulled at his long chin. “What are you thinking?”
Why was he looking to Cristiano for guidance? How easily they fell into old patterns. After our parents’ murder, Costa Cruz had set us up at the ranch house on his compound, far enough away that gunfire wouldn’t draw attention, but close enough that the main house was only a short drive. At the ranch, Cristiano had been fed choice food, armed with the finest “toys,” and boarded in a private room while I’d shared everything with the others adopted by the cartel.
Costa and Bianca Cruz had favored Cristiano up until her untimely death. But now, I was the one who ate at Costa’s dinner table many nights. I had over a decade on my brother of unwavering loyalty to Costa. Of standing by his side to build a business with limitless potential—and profits. And of being there for Natalia whenever she needed me.
Failing the Maldonados could take all of that from me. And if my instinct was right—Cristiano knew it.
“I can still salvage the shipment,” I interjected. I couldn’t dwell on what was gone. I needed to protect what remained. “We won’t exceed the Maldonados’ expectations as I’d hoped, but we’ll still be within the percentage we promised.”
Costa raised his cigar to a comrade across the restaurant. A signal that we had things under control.
But over the past two days, we’d lost more than just control.
“How close?” Costa asked.
“Some of the drop was made.” I looked to the ceiling to subtract what we’d potentially lost and the containers that had made it. “If we move everything left, we’re likely still within a percent or two of what we guaranteed the Maldonados would make it across the border.”
“So you need a ninety-nine percent success rate for what’s left.” Costa set his jaw. “Not one seizure at the border. It can’t be done.”
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