Twenty miles northwest of Saguero lay the resort town of Antigua, nestled in the tree-studded, waterfall-laced slopes of the Paisa.

With its alpine air and lofty elevation, Antigua afforded both wealthy residents and tourists alike a picturesque vantage from which to peer down on the mist-shrouded world below. Beautiful estates and resorts gleamed from the emerald facets of the mountainside. A posh town square boasted trendy boutiques and terraced cafes staffed with carefully curated locals.

The

Emmanuella slumped back in her chair. She seemed winded by what Fernando could only assume were many long years of unvoiced discontent. The worry lines in her face etched deeper with obvious distress at what she’d said. What Fernando had pressed her to say. It was like lancing into an old wound, delving into the past. He regretted causing her pain, but he’d expected that this interview would not be pleasant. Nothing about the case of Carmencita was ever pleasant to recall.

“My grandmother

Emmanuella nodded. Her eyes were soft with sympathy.

“Carmen died when you were very young.”

“Not so young as that,” Fernando said, his voice clipped and hard. “I don’t know her because she was seldom around.”

“It must have been difficult for her,” Emmanuella said gently, “caring for you on her own.”

Fernando’s mouth thinned. “She didn’t care for me. I cared for myself. Even when I was a baby, she pawned me off on others. She was always away singing at bars and carrying

When Fernando next returned to Chico’s junkyard home, he did so alone. Chico’s green roadster was not there, nor was Pedro’s truck. Banned from El Toro, their father Esteban was no doubt at Pepe’s uncle’s bar already drunk.

There were only the children and chickens about, the fixture of the old man dozing perpetually in his customary chair on the porch. The older girl Mercedes was sweeping around him when Fernando approached the step. Seeing him, she froze, clutching the broom handle

Mondragón rarely deigned to visit Cortez. But from time to time—more times than Fernando would have liked—he summoned him to one of his many choice establishments in Saguero and beyond. Choicer than The Red Room, but always with a sordid edge to them, no matter how posh of a front they seemed. Mondragón was not a trafficker per se, but he was an associate of traffickers. He lectured Fernando in his patronizing, grandiloquent way that it was vain naïveté for a rich man in this place and

The new establishment was called El Toro, and it was part pool hall and gambling den. Backed by Mondragón’s full support, Fernando saw the place finished out in record time.

El Toro appealed without pretense to all of Cortez’s most deeply cherished vices. Because of this, it was eagerly anticipated and well-received—not only by the locals, but by the rural region at large. Drinks and women were served on the side. Underground fights held there were advertised by word of mouth. No less

Fernando smiled. “Anyone who ransoms me is bound to be disappointed. My father’s wife holds the purse strings, and she despises me. She would consider my disappearance a blessing. Maybe she even half-hoped for it in sending me here.”

Of course, Juan Francisco’s pride would never suffer such a slight as to have his favored son kidnapped by backcountry lowlifes. The senator might not be a cartel man, but like any man of means in this country he had his dealings. This small-time mafioso would

Thanks to Fernando’s oversight, work at the job site had progressed without incident to the final stages of construction. And so he was surprised, as he made his way back toward one of the near-finished rooms the jefe had claimed for his office (in lieu of his afore-sold trailer), to find Pedro and his friend Pablo standing there. They flanked the closed door like they’d been plucked straight from the street to serve as bodyguards. Likely enough, they had been.

Both nodded to him as he approached.

Fernando dismissed his grandmother’s imagined concerns. He was confident that the success of his ventures would soon allay them. The goats were bringing in a bit of profit already. The exceptional quality of their milk at market outweighed the locals’ superstitious suspicions that the old witch had cast charms on the well water and hay to enrich them.

Fernando’s grandmother didn’t care much for money. He suspected she never much had, even when she was young. But she did like