Dario Sava thought of the next thing on his to-do list and sighed. It was his least favorite room in the house, but different aspects of his business had different location requirements. His meetings with his lawyers, for instance, required a conference room. Merchandise transactions needed a warehouse. Dealing with disloyal employees necessitated a soundproof room.
Dario left the serenity of his terrace, walked across gleaming teak floors, and glanced out French doors with billowing sheer curtains. He glimpsed the pristine pool that sat unused and the orchards beyond. He paused briefly in the main room, regarding his prized Goya, Milkmaid at Eveningtime. The woman in the painting reminded him so much of his Tala. He sighed wistfully and proceeded to the back of the house. He navigated the maze of halls to the remote wing. If Tala were still alive, he would handle this business at another location, but that was not the case, and Dario found that increasingly, the violent and distasteful aspects of his profession bled into the beauty and rewards. So be it. The profits and the costs of doing business were inextricably linked.
At the far end of the hall, he pushed open a heavy fire door to find his men standing dutifully in the unfurnished cinderblock room, awaiting his arrival. The man strung up above a drain in the center of the space cried quietly. Dario approached him and the man looked up.
“El Callado.”
“You told someone my business.” Dario’s Spanish was so quiet, only the accused could hear him.
“No. Never. He’s just my cousin. He wants a job with you. We were playing cards. I didn’t tell him any details. I would never betray you, senõr.”
Dario sighed. The explanation did seem reasonable. This man, Juan-Pablo, had worked for him for nearly a year—a lifetime in this business. Nonetheless.
“Rest assured, I will not leave your children fatherless. Your wife without a husband.”
“Thank you. Thank you, El Callado.”
“I will kill them, too.” And with that Dario slit the man’s throat with a single stroke. He turned to his men. “Now see if this cousin of his still wants a job. There is an opening.”
As Dario was issuing further instructions while the dying man squirmed out his last moments, an urgent knock on the door interrupted him. A capable, broad-shouldered soldier opened the door but the nervous plea in his eyes as he watched Juan-Pablo dangle made a clear point: don’t shoot the messenger.
“The girl escaped.”
Dario calmly cleaned his blade on Juan-Pablo’s shirt and replaced the knife in its sheath. He did not speak.
“They are tracking her and will inform us when the matter is resolved.”
“The man whose services I engaged. Tell him I’m coming to fetch her myself. Perhaps his men will be able to handle the task without additional logistics to consider.”
“Shall I inform Rigo?”
“No. Rigo is occupied. That is all.” The man, relieved by his dismissal, already had his phone in hand as he turned to the door. The other men in the group shuffled toward the exit. The olive-skinned hulk the men all called El Roca, “the boulder,” was last in line.
“Miguel.” Dario stopped him.
“Si, El Callado?”
Dario stepped away from the dangling corpse, presumably because the blood, now trickling to the floor, was splattering his shoes.
“Come with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Miguel Ramirez, whose real name was Camilo Canto, kept his face visibly blank and followed Dario back into the main part of the house, praying silently that the reason he was following his boss into another wing of his estate wasn’t that the kill room was already occupied.