“TheHalconeshave an update.” He parks on the chaotic street and exits the car. “They’re the eyes and ears of the streets, Tommy. That information is worth more than the cash you’re stashing in your backpack.”
I pull the zipper closed and swing the straps over my shoulders. “Is Papá coming?”
We cross the busy road, him strolling ahead and me trotting behind to keep up with his long strides. Sunlight glints on the custom gold-plated handgun tucked near his hip. I fucking love that gun. One day I’ll have my own. Just like his.
“Nah. Carlos should be here already. My men are waiting for us outside the bar, and a few guys from across town are coming to hear the news.” His voice booms over the cacophony of city life and engines. “I’ll speak with your Papá when I drop you home later. Apparently, your baby brother has a fever.”
“Babies.” I roll my eyes and reach for his hand when I catch up to him.
Matheus is the newest addition to the Souza family. That makes four sons. Three of which would have to die before Matheus ever has the opportunity of ruling. He most likely never will.
“Yeah, I ain’t got time for things that can’t answer my questions.”
Angelo squeezes my fingers and glances down at me. The sardonic grin stretching his goatee isn’t missed. I’m probably the only person alive who sees the softer side to the kingpin of Colombia’s Souza cartel.
“This afternoon, your job is to listen. I want to know if you think they’re bullshitting me or if what they say is true. Use your gut, Tommy. If something doesn’t feel right, I’ll kill the fuckers, and we’ll go for a milkshake.”
I nod, unsure if my instincts would work like he wants them to. I’m only eight years old. “What if my gut lies to me?”
He lets go of my hand to open the glass door of a swanky bar. “The last person who will ever lie to you is yourself. In this business, instincts are gold.”
Angelo looks back over his shoulder and acknowledges the trio of men who join us. I instantly recognize his right-hand guy and two burly bodyguards. Together we enter the unusually quiet establishment. It’s not unheard of for meeting venues to be vacated ahead of time. It’s a safety measure and keeps uninvited guests out of the loop.
The barman nods to a metal staircase as we approach. “Go on up,” he adds, drying a pint glass with a tiny towel.
Angelo takes the lead as usual and I fall in behind him. The higher we climb, the odder I feel. It’s not dizziness or nausea, more of a queasy uncertainty. I’ve never met the lowest ranks of our cartel before, and after today, they’ll put a face to Angelo’s protégé.
“Where the fuck is Carlos?” Angelo strolls through the cramped mezzanine. His shaded stare hunts for Carlos Blanco, my father’s best friend, and the second man who had wanted Nico’s throne. “He said he’d be here.”
Rowdy chatter dwindles. All eyes land on the six-foot tower of authority dressed in ripped jeans and radiating a volatile mood. From the pensive hush, a bearded guy by the window speaks up. “He’s running late.” He tips his glass in a greeting.
I sense my uncle's aura shift from wise mentor to quick-tempered drug baron. “I don't have all fucking afternoon. We’ll start without him.”
Instinctively, I stay close to his hip, my short steps double his assertive pace. When he weaves around the lacquered tables, cutting through a haze of cigarette smoke and sits among the men, I do the same. When he flicks his ankle to the opposite knee, I mimic him. Some kids my age look up to role models like cops or Marvel superheroes, whereas I idolize the most savage man in Colombia.
“Who’s the kid?” A hollow-cheeked guy with a mustache, twisted at either end like Ape Hanger handlebars, scoots his chair adjacent to our table. Close enough to speak with us, but far enough away to show respect for my uncle’s invisible boundaries.
Angelo taps out a cigarette from a half-empty pack and bites the butt between his front teeth. Flint sparks and the tobacco catches fire. Slowly, in his own time, he inhales. Before answering, he mouths out a series of smoke rings. “He’s the baddest motherfucker in this city,” he mutters on the last of a smoky exhale, his face deadpan.
Mustache smirks. “Oh yeah? I thought that title belonged to you.”
Angelo rakes his fingers through choppy hair, throws his foot onto a neighboring chair, and pulls a compact knife with a glossy bone handle from his boot. I recognize the weapon—the very one he had handcrafted after his first kill. To some it would seem barbaric to save such a trinket of death, but to Angelo it’s a small reminder that our enemies walk beside us.
When he straightens, he calmly sets the pocketknife on the table and flicks the polished handle so it spins.
“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.” Angelo laughs, low and husky. “He’ll cut out your heart when you're sleeping and serve it to your family for breakfast while it’s still pumping.”
I draw in my lips to stifle a smile. He knows I’ve only ever fought my twin brothers, André and Giovanni. Even then, I had to hold an ice pack on André’s mouth after I accidentally busted his lip open.
“That’s if you are a threat. Which you aren’t, right?” Angelo slides his frames up and over his forehead, so they rest on top of his mussed-up hair.
Mustache pauses, his wide eyes jumping from the blade to my boyish face. Nothing feels as good as being a Souza, or a Souza with an uncle who’d quite literally murder a whole room of bad guys if they looked at me the wrong way.
“No threat here, Angelo. I’m not the one you need to worry about.”
I bristle at the statement. Danger is never too far away in this business, and the longer a drug lord rules his kingdom, the more assholes gather in the shadows.
“I’m glad we’re on the same page. I like you, Davi.” Angelo declares, staring him down. “So let’s cut to the chase. What fucker thinks he can take on the Souzas and survive?”